Remy Haring Archives - the bird on fire

My Favorite Eastern European Bands

December 14, 2022 by szachik@pvs.org Leave a Comment

By Junior Remy Haring

We’re embarking on Winter Holiday. It’s a good time for sleeping, holiday gathering, and exploring new music. Feel like listening to some Eastern European bands? Remy’s got some bands to start with.

Since quarantine, I have delved into the rabbit hole that is Eastern European bands. Originally, it started off as a curiosity and a way to find sad music from another part of the world and gradually evolved into about half of my taste in music. The following, in reverse order, are some of my personal favorite bands from Eastern Europe. Try them; expand your repertoire; you might like them.

4. Padkarosda (Bench Seat)

Hailing from Budapest, Hungary, Padkarosda is a nihilist punk band. It is a trio consisting of Gergő Vitéz, Rómeó Veréb, and Viktor Böcskey (discogs.com).

With shrieking vocals, frantic guitar and drums, and dark lyrics, I would recommend this band for anyone who enjoys emo or punk. My personal favorite albums are Sötét Végek (Dark End), Visszatérő Rémálom (Returning Nightmare), and Tétova Lelkek (Hesitating Souls).

3. Chernikovskaya Hata

Little is known about Chernikovskaya Hata. All I can find about them is that they are based in Ufa, Russia; they do post-punk covers of old 80s pop songs; and that the “band” seems to consist of one person by the name of Ryan Shpirtz. That being said, I think their covers sometimes surpass the original in terms of quality. Shpirtz has a deep, melancholic voice and is a talented guitarist and synth player. My personal favorite songs are “Chio-Chio San,” “Nazhmi Na Knopku” (Press the Button), and “Belaya Noch’” (White Night).

2. Moy Drug Magnitofon (My Friend Tape Recorder)

Hailing from Saint Petersburg, Russia, Moy Drug Magnitofon is an odd little experimental electronic band that consists of Nikita Savra for the vocalist and guitarist, Artem Morgunov, as the bassist and Ira Lapteva as keyboardist and vocalist (rateyourmusic.com).

All of their songs have a great beat and backing track and… interesting vocals. My favorite songs have to be “Obosranniy Geroy” (Crap Hero), “Mërtviy Vecher” (Dead Evening), and “Petlya” (The Loop).

1. Kino (Film)

If there is anything you know about me, I love this band. Kino was a rock band that was popular in the 80s and was also based in Saint Petersburg. To give you an idea of how big this band was, it was like the Soviet version of Nirvana. The songs deal with a variety of themes from love and freedom to war and wanting change. The headman, Viktor Tsoi, wrote all of the songs himself and even at the height of his band, still worked in a boiler room.

Personally, I recommend his songs “Gruppa Krovi” (Blood Type), which is about a man fighting in the Soviet-Afghan war, and “Khochu Peremen” (We Want Changes), which is about life in the Soviet Union and the desire for it to change. Viktor Tsoi had a very distinctive voice, was a really talented acoustic guitarist, and his lyrics remain very poetic. Viktor Tsoi died in 1990.

I hope you enjoy this little list and hope that you check out these hidden gems. There is truly a massive treasure trove of music that I have only scratched the surface of.

I have found all of these bands through YouTube. Kino and Moy Drug Magnitofon are on Spotify; Padkarosda is on Bandcamp, and Chernikovskaya Hata is only on YouTube as far as I am aware.

Encantos De Moçambique*

December 1, 2022 by szachik@pvs.org Leave a Comment

By Junior Remy Haring

Portuguese East Africa (Mozambique) – Deutsch Mittelafrika Border

In a series of stories told from multiple perspectives from all over the world– collectively known as the Kaiserreich Files (inspired by the titular mod for Hearts of Iron IV), blogger Remy Haring explores an alternate history, one in which the Central Powers won the First World War.

April 15, 1937

It was a warm, humid dawn. Insects were chirping, and you could see the stars. There was no civilization for miles–only the dense jungles of this far-flung Portuguese colony. The golden crucifix on my uniform glistened in the glaring sunlight. I could hardly breathe behind the mosquito mask. I missed Lisbon: the salty air, seeing the magnificent royal palace towering over the city and the beautiful churches and, most importantly, I missed peace. I didn’t want to be fighting a brutal bush war. My thoughts were broken by distant gunshots. The Germans were out there. My commanding officer João looked toward the source of the gunfire and shouted, “We will attack the enemies of Christ and Duarte II! To arms!” It’s time, I thought, quiero ir para casa, I want to go home. We were launching an offensive against the Germans. I drew my rifle and joined the rest of the squad. We advanced north into Deustch Mittelafrika.

We were marching in a single-file line through the treacherous forest. Who knew what poisonous insects or apex predators could be lurking here, or, worse, we may even be walking straight into a German ambush. I heard João whisper a prayer that we would defeat the German heathens. We wandered the forests for who knows how long when we stumbled upon a small local village deep in the jungle. It was a series of small, circular huts that formed a ring. When we entered the village, we were met by a group of locals. None of them spoke Portuguese, and none of the troops spoke Ngoni. While João was searching for Germans, I sat down leaning against the huts. A little boy, about five or six came up to me with a big smile and gave me a pineapple. I smiled at him, and he skipped away. Back home, I was always told that the colonies were filled with savages who did not recognize the one true faith, but when I looked around, they just seemed like people. I saw two guys working together to build a hut, a child trailing his mother, maybe what I’ve been told since birth is wrong…

My introspection was interrupted when a German soldier was found hiding in one of the huts. He was forcefully grabbed by João and interrogated.

“Where is the rest of your squad!?” João barked.

“I-I don’t know, I vas part of a lost patrol und the people–” he stuttered.

“–harbored a protestant heathen,” João finished for him. “We have ways to make you talk, heretic.” He turned to us with unfeeling eyes. “We must show the natives here what happens when they harbor heathens.” He gestured to the ring of thatched homes and ordered, “Burn. It. All.”

When I turned to the soldier next to me, he had struck a match with no expression on his face. He tossed it at a thatched hut–and another, and another like a storm of embers. The fire began consuming the village. Madly, my platoon cheered. I froze. I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak; all I could do was watch as the village structures collapsed in on themselves and burned. I heard screaming, a screaming I sometimes still hear when I wake late at night.

*Charms of Mozambique. A Portuguese colonial song.

Соколови, сиви тићи*

November 10, 2022 by szachik@pvs.org Leave a Comment

Lojane, Serbian-Bulgarian Border

In a series of stories told from multiple perspectives from all over the world– collectively known as the Kaiserreich Files (inspired by the titular mod for Hearts of Iron IV), blogger Remy Haring explores an alternate history, one in which the Central Powers win the First World War.

January 24, 1937

“Za Kralja I Otadžbinu, Sloboda Ili Smrt! For King and Fatherland, Freedom or Death!” The entire platoon shouted as General Draža Mihailović was giving us orders for our fight against the Bulgarians. He was about fifty years old, had small, circular glasses, a big, bushy beard and the gray uniform that all Serbians had in the army. I always chuckled to myself whenever I heard that phrase: “For King and Fatherland, Freedom or Death!” Since the Great War we were technically a kingdom, but given that we do not have a monarchy in place, a military dictator by the name of Drogomir Vlasić has taken power. For the peace treaty, we lost our southern lands, the Greeks lost their northeastern land, and the Romanians lost their coast. With the founding of the Belgrade pact, all three nations vowed to fight against the Bulgarians and reclaim their lost land.

Our camp was overlooking a picturesque flatland on the foothills. There was no sign of Bulgarian troop movements, just an open grassland with snowy mountains towering over. Shame I got assigned to the artillery squad because my job will be to blow it all up. My position was up on the foothills with two other soldiers: Dejan and Nikola. We had a great view of the plains that stretched south down to Macedonia. But there was no time for sightseeing. The Bulgarian army could charge at any moment. Immediately the soldiers down in the plains began digging a trench and laying out barbed wire and landmines. It’s 1918 all over again, I thought.

January 25, 1937

I woke up to the sounds of shouting and gunfire. Nikola shook me and shouted,

“The Bulgarians are here, get to the gun!”

It was the crack of dawn, and the first thing I saw was a wave of Bulgarians charging across the field and the Serbians firing from the trenches. The next five hours were all the same: I load; Dejan aims; and Nikola fires. Load, aim, and fire; load, aim, and fire. It felt more like a factory job than anything. I didn’t even bother to look up to see the follow-through explosions because of the sheer adrenaline. By the end of the day, the formerly pristine meadows were a blasted heath. My ears were ringing from the gun, and the smell of smoke and gunpowder filled my nostrils. The first day of the Battle of Lojane was over. The Bulgarians didn’t manage to break our trenches, but this was only the beginning.

January 26, 1937

Nikola was searching for Bulgarian positions. When he slowly lowered his binoculars, he looked like he saw a ghost and all he said was “oh god…” A tank was rolling onto the battlefield like a lumbering bear. This wasn’t anything like those shipping containers with treads that the British had back in the Great War, this was a modern, German-made, tank that was approaching the trench followed by infantry. I loaded the shell; Dejan aimed; and Nikola fired. The shell whistled through the air, and for what felt like minutes, my heart skipped a beat. The blast engulfed the tank, but just as we began cheering, the tank continued its march across the field. The turret slowly turned to our position, and with a thunderous crack, fired. Debris burst into the air, and all three of us were coughing up dirt. The shell hit just below our position, and the artillery gun was now just fragmented, metal scrap that dotted the hill. A tide of men launched from the trenches–charging the Bulgarians as a last resort. The tank shot once, and again, and again. I… I don’t even want to describe what I saw on that blasted heath.

*Falcons, Grey Birds, a Serbian monarchist song

Every Man a King*

November 8, 2022 by szachik@pvs.org 1 Comment

San Francisco, USA

By Junior Remy Haring

In a series of stories told from multiple perspectives from all over the world– collectively known as the Kaiserreich Files (inspired by the titular mod for Hearts of Iron IV), blogger Remy Haring explores an alternate history, one in which the Central Powers won the First World War.

November 3, 1936

A deeply unpopular president, two economic crashes and new, extremist parties that could very well win the election–What could go wrong? I muttered while on the way to the ballot box. The sky was a deep gray with the Golden Gate Bridge towering over the great city. On those Victorian-style apartments that San Francisco was famous for were signs and banners for the various candidates. One banner read, “Every man a king! Huey Long ‘36” and another read, “Join the one big union! Bill Haywood ‘36.” Everywhere I went, I saw signs promoting every candidate but Herbert Hoover – our Current President. I even saw a few signs promoting the far right Old Democrat Party (ODP).

With the Great Depression and the subsequent Black Monday, both the Democratic and Republican parties have been competing with new, rising radical parties. The America First Party, led by Huey Long, has developed a stranglehold in the impoverished Midwest and promotes everyone having the basic goods they need. It’s a party that wants to enforce a wealth ceiling. However, they have been criticized for their populist, authoritarian rhetoric. The Socialist Party led by Bill Haywood wants to make America a Syndicalist nation not unlike the UK or France. They are really popular in the Rust Belt. The far right ODP led by William Murray preaches agrarianism, ultranationalism and white supremacy. For the most part they are popular in the Deep South. “Yep…” I thought to myself, “…our country is screwed.”

Outside the ballot box, there was a fist fight between two campaigners: one loyal to Huey Long, and the other was for Bill Haywood. A middle-aged man who looked like he just left his job as a day laborer spat on the Huey Long campaigner before entering the building. As I approached the building, there were campaigners desperately trying to make people change their vote at the last minute. Some teenager wearing a French beret basically forced a pin for the Socialist Party in my hand. The pin had the red and black anarchist flag with the One Big Union motto. Unsurprisingly, there was no one campaigning for Hoover at all.

As I was filling out my ballot for Huey Long, I heard a massive crash followed by the twinkling sounds of shattered glass. Looking up, there was the syndicalist campaigner with a broken bottle in hand standing over the crumpled body of a campaigner for the ODP wearing a stereotypical cowboy outfit. God save America, I muttered while making my way out of the voting station.

*A slogan commonly associated with Huey Long

Hej Slaveni!*

October 26, 2022 by szachik@pvs.org Leave a Comment

By Junior Remy Haring

In a series of stories told in multiple perspectives from all over the world–collectively known as the Kaiserreich Files (inspired by the titular mod for Hearts of Iron IV), blogger Remy Haring explores an alternate history, one in which the Central Powers win the First World War.

Vienna, Austrian Empire

September 23, 1936,–the day I will never forget:

“We are Slavs, and we are angry. For over 800 years our people have been under the boot of the Austrians. Our languages are being replaced by German; we aren’t allowed to wear our traditional clothing, and now Orthodox Christianity has been banned. The new prime minister Jörg Lanz Von Liebenfels openly calls us a “lower species.” Every one of us–Czechs, Slovakians, Polish, Ukrainians, Serbians, Bosnians, Croatians, Slovenians and Montenegrins– needs to come together to throw that fossil out of parliament. We make up 47% of the population. Imagine what we can accomplish when we work together!”
Professor Lazar Palić

This is the speech my professor delivered to the crowd before we began marching on Vienna. We were waving pan-slavic flags of blue, white and red stripes. Some protestors were holding up signs that said, “Justice for Gavrilo Princip!” It was he who killed the heir to the Austrian Throne and started the Great War. The Austrians see him as a terrorist, where we Slavs view him as a martyr for the slavic people.

The school band and choir were playing Hej Slaveni! The crowd was chanting “Ujedinjenje ili smrt! Unification or death!” I was flying the Croatian flag and chanting. I felt so much hope then for a future where us slavs were free, but I also felt fear for how the government would respond, and then I felt pride for my people uniting for our survival and justice–justice against the empire that had oppressed us for far too long.

But, my roiling emotions were overshadowed when we reached the Vienna Parliament. Police dressed in full riot gear lined up in front of us. Machine gun emplacements were set up around the street. However, the riot police did not fire upon us. That is, until we saw Prime Minister Jörg Lanz von Liebenfels himself. He was a short, old, balding man with small, circular glasses. The only thing that really stood out about him was his white, priestly robe with a bright red cross on his chest. He didn’t address us. Without any sound of conviction or emotion, he ordered the police:

“Clean the streets of this human filth.”

… I don’t remember what happened after that.

*Hey Slavs! A pan-slavic patriotic song

Fünfundfünfzig Tage in Peking

October 25, 2022 by szachik@pvs.org Leave a Comment

By Junior Remy Haring

In a series of stories told from multiple perspectives from all over the world– collectively known as the Kaiserreich Files (inspired by the titular mod for Hearts of Iron IV), blogger Remy Haring explores an alternate history, one in which the Central Powers win the First World War.

Hong Kong, German East Asia

June 23, 1936

First it was Black Monday, then Poland left the German Empire, next a civil war in the Qing Empire breaks out, after that a crazy guy seized power in Mongolia–Roman Von Ungern-Sternberg–while claiming to be the reincarnation of Genghis Khan, and now there’s a revolution in Indochina; ach, mein Gott! What is even happening?

I was on my routine patrol of the waterfront. The night was clear, no clouds, no birds, not even the sound of a foghorn; it was just the stars. It made me forget that there was a massive civil war going on just outside the walls of Hong Kong and that my family had to wait in bread lines back in Frankfurt. My nightly patrol revealed streets covered in sewage and trash, water a greenish-black color, and houses diminished to little more than ramshackle piles of brick and tarp. Rats and cats scuttled all over the dingy streets. Towering over this squalor was the battleship SMS Hohenzollern; with all the lights and whatnot it almost looked like a city skyline itself. My patrol that night was pretty uneventful. No one was out. The most action I got was humming 55 Tage in Peking while smoking a cigarette. Unfortunately, there was no way I was getting the smell of sewage and trash out of my uniform.

June 24, 1936

The next day I was patrolling the urban part of the city. There were sightings of a skirmish between the Qing Dynasty and the socialist Left Kuomintang (KMT) not far from the city, so now the military high command was on high alert. The urban center was crowded with street vendors hawking. The streets were filled with pedestrians, donkeys, bikes, etc. The patrol here was a significant step up from the waterfront, but even here there was still tons of poverty. There were beggars on street corners and bread lines stretching blocks. The Black Monday crash has not been kind to this city.

While patrolling a market square, a little kid, clutching her mom’s dress, pointed at me and said, “Fritz!” I had some food rations in a bag. I kneeled and handed the child a biscuit and the mother some preserved meat. Tears gathered in the eyes of the mother, and she gave me a hug. She said in broken German, “d-danke schön,” and the child had the biggest grin I’ve ever seen. The two left the line and went back toward the houses. My lunch was some fried noodles I got from a street vendor. I sat down at the curb and began eating. I’m telling you, it was so much better than the stale biscuits and meat drowning in preserves that made up my diet for the past year or so. All seemed peaceful, until my commanding officer Heinrich approached me. I stood.

“Sir?” I asked.

“The Chinese Civil war has spilled over here. Left KMT positions are shelling us. Your job is to evacuate the civilians to shelters. Go now!” Heinrich barked.

And, then, I began hearing it: the pack pack of rifles and the distant concussive blast of artillery. The marketplace devolved into chaos. I began directing crowds into the bomb shelters. Everyone in the street was panicking and running around like mad. I had to get up on a box to move everyone to a little shelter in the basement of a shop. It was a tiny, metal room with shelves filled with canned goods–that were soon picked clean by the refugees. Overhead I heard the whistling and subsequent explosion of a shell and the sounds of gunfire. At least I managed to get some people out of harm’s way.

*55 Days at Peking

Metsavendade Laul*

October 13, 2022 by szachik@pvs.org Leave a Comment

By Junior Remy Haring

Saaremaa Island, Former United Baltic Duchy, Now Estonia

In a series of stories from multiple people all over the world collectively known as the Kaiserreich Files (inspired by the titular mod for Hearts of Iron IV), blogger Remy Haring explores an alternate history in which the Central Powers win the First World War.

Night of February 15, 1936

I was sitting on an ammo crate in our dark green tent cleaning my rifle with only a gas lamp to keep me company. My friend Jukka was on duty for the night, watching for any German patrols. Most of the German Army had fled Estonia and Latvia, but there were still a few lingering patrols on the island that were looking for me and other Forest Brothers. We were a group of Estonian Guerilla fighters who wanted to free our country from the clutches of the Kaiser. With the advent of Black Monday and the ensuing economic chaos, we saw this as our chance. While I was idling away cleaning, I heard loud and heavy footsteps crunching on leaves. For a second I thought it was a bear, but it turned out to be Martiinus.

Martiinus was a six-foot-tall giant and the muscle of our group. Not exactly the most subtle person, but he got the job done. He and Jukka entered the tent, and Martiinus had the biggest grin on his face. He produced a fresh bottle of vodka from his coat and some shot glasses.

“Where did you get that?” I asked.

“I found it in an old, abandoned German barracks,” he replied. “We are going to party tonight!”

“Martiinus, you oaf! You stormed a barracks without us? What were you doing?” Jukka snapped.

“What can I say? We needed supplies, and I’m not turning down a fresh bottle of vodka.”

“Eh, whatever. Lucky you didn’t get yourself killed, and I haven’t had a good drink since the revolt began.”

“A toast to a free Estonia!” Martiinus shouted. “Taavet, you still have that old accordion?”

I pulled my old accordion out of my backpack and began to play Metsavendade Laul, our anthem, and we all began to sing:

Ai-tših ai-tšah ai-velled!
Me, metsavennad, oleme
Ai-tših ai-tšah ai-velled!
Me, metsavennad, eestlased

February 16, 1936

It was early in the morning when we packed up our tents and moved to the north of the island. We got word on the radio that there was one last German division on the island at the town of Leisi, and, by god, we were going to be the ones to kick them out. Like cats we prowled through the dark, snow-covered fir trees. We are called the Forest Brothers for a reason after all. In the interior of the isle, there was no sign of human activity. It was all dense forest. We were on a ridge with a road below us when Jukka raised his hand to stop.

“See that?”

There were five German soldiers marching along the roads. The man in the front had a silver pickelhaube with a golden spike on top and the Prussian eagle emblazoned on the front. If I hadn’t known any better, I would think it was Kaiser Wilhelm himself. The other four were quietly and frantically chattering away. My German is admittedly poor, but from what I could make out, they were the last on the island, and everyone else had fled to the Latvian city of Riga.

“We ambush them on 3, give them a chance to surrender first,” Jukka ordered.

“Understood,” I replied

“You got it, boss,” Martiinus responded.

Without another word we leapt from our position and surrounded the Germans with guns drawn.

“Hands where I can see them, Krauts!” Jukka shouted, “We got you surrounded!”

When I got a good look at their leader, I saw it was none other than the famous field marshal Paul Von Hindenburg. Jukka continued with his demands while I kept my gun drawn.

“We will give you one day to get off the island and out of Estonia. Otherwise you will be shot,” Jukka demanded

“Ach ja, ja fine. We haven’t gotten any supplies since the revolt, and we are all that is left in your god-forsaken country,” Hindenburg responded.

“One more demand I have is your pickelhaube. You will return to Berlin a disgraced man or not return at all.”

“Ja, ja fine take mein kidney as well, why don’t you?”

I saw them leave from a small jetty as the sun set. The sun glinted against the ice and water as they steered for who knows where. We returned to the port, took down the old German flag, and a new, Estonian flag was raised. Down with the eagle, up with the blue, black and white tricolor.

*Anthem of the Estonian Forest Brothers

Quand Fera-t-il Jour, Camarade?*

October 12, 2022 by szachik@pvs.org Leave a Comment

By Junior Remy Haring

Paris, France, January 3, 1936

In a series of stories from all over the world, collectively known as the Kaiserreich Files (and inspired by the titular mod for Hearts of Iron IV), blogger Remy Haring dives into an alternate fictional history–a history in which the Central Powers win the First World War.

The air was crisp and cold as I walked the Parisian street garnished in snow. At the corner was a little cafe. All the sidewalk chairs were taken in for the winter. A Syndicalist banner was draped on the wall outside that called for the French to support a general workers’ strike in America. I pushed open the splintered, wooden door and entered. I found a seat at the window. Across the street was a large, concrete apartment.

The inside was warm and relatively cozy. The smell of coffee permeated the air. I picked up the newspaper l’époque syndicaliste. “Quand Fera-t-il Jour, Camarade?” played on the jukebox. A poster of a French worker holding up the hand of an American worker and a British worker holding up the hand of a Russian worker read, “Support your fellow proletariat in the worldwide revolution.” I looked down at my table. It was covered with gouges and scratches. A waiter approached me.

“What would you like tonight?” she asked.

“Just an espresso, please,” I replied.

“Will that be all for tonight?”

“Yes, please.”

The coffee was watered down and tasted like sawdust, but it was reassuringly warm. I began reading the newspaper. To say a lot has happened in the news would be an understatement. The Berlin stock market crashed hard recently in Schwarzer Montag or Black Monday. Unemployment skyrocketed and bread lines stretched along streets. The situation was particularly bad in Poland where the ineffective regency council in charge did little about the situation. Now mass protests were breaking out in Poland as they demanded complete independence instead of being a lapdog of the Kaiser. Over in Russia, President Kerensky had been shot and killed. The fledgling republic was in chaos.

Here in France, a big election was going on between the current Syndicalists, the Anarchists, and the Sorelians. And, right then, a fierce argument broke out in the cafe. At the table in front of me were two people. One looked to be 40. He was covered in black soot and wore a miner’s uniform. The other was much younger and wore a bright yellow hard hat and a neon green vest. Welding goggles were draped on his neck, and he looked like he had just left the steel mill.

“The Syndicalists are right: for the proletariat to truly be able to revolt against the bourgeoisie is for a state to be decentralized and for the government to consist of small, local worker’s unions as decision makers,” the miner said.

“You are an idealistic fool if you are to think that a decentralized state would be able to stand up against the bourgeoisie. The Totalists Ioseb ‘Stalin’ Dzhugashvili and Musollini were right saying that the only way for the proletariat to defeat the bourgeoisie is a highly centralized and militarized state,” the steel worker replied.

“Then we would just become as totalitarian and brutal as the bourgeoisie!” countered the miner.

The steel worker threw a punch at the miner, and the argument went from verbal to physical. It all culminated when the miner hit the steel worker over the head with a barstool. The steel worker crumbled to the ground, and the two were promptly forced out of the cafe.

Meanwhile, the election results for every commune in the country were being reported across the radio. Outside, a truck with the letter A in a circle painted on its side pulled up to the sidewalk. Suddenly, a brick crashed through the window and nearly hit one of the waiters. Shattered glass coated one of the booths and the floor. Thankfully, no one was hurt. The driver shouted, “Death to the syndicalist rats and the state! Long live the anarchists!” And, the truck sped off.

So much for class solidarity, I mused and turned to the next page of the newspaper.

*”When Will the Day End, Comrade?”–French Socialist song from 1968

Потерял*

September 29, 2022 by szachik@pvs.org Leave a Comment

By Junior Remy Haring

Junior Remy Haring continues with his fifth installment of his serial fiction inspired by The New Order–a mod for Hearts of Iron IV. If you recall, Remy visits an alternate dark history here, where, in WWII, the Axis powers have won.

Chita Wilderness. No Idea what the day is.

I am lost. I don’t know what day it is or where I am. I tossed my dog tag into the bushes and ripped off the Double Eagle on my uniform. All I have is my rifle and an old bowie knife. The dense pines seem to just keep going and going. I can’t tell if I’m going east or west because the sun is completely blocked by the trees. I know one thing for sure; I cannot go back. If I was found to be a deserter, I would be hanged or worse.

There is no sign of human activity here. No tracks, buildings, not even a dirt road. I think it has been a day since the war began? But, I can’t be sure. My stomach feels hollow. My head feels hollow. Everything feels hollow. I need food and water, and fast. I make my way through the forest. The pine trees go up forever and ever. It is absolutely quiet. No birds, no raccoons, nothing-until I hear crackling and voices.

It doesn’t sound like Russian, Chinese or, hell, even Nivkh. As I advance closer to the sound, keeping a low profile, I see two men: both in their 20s wearing Japanese uniforms. They are huddled, sitting by a fire, clasping what looks like a bowl of soup. An army truck is behind them with the Rising Sun emblazoned on its side. I must have crossed the border into Mengkukuo.

I don’t know what to do. I desperately need food and water, but these two look as lost as I am. Then, I remember that the Japanese government is helping Amur’s full-scale invasion of the other warlord states, but these two are not involved. More likely than not they are a lost patrol or something. But, then I realize the first rule out here on this edge of the world: kill or be killed. I’m not proud of what I do.

I leap from the bushes, point my rifle at them, and shout aggressively in Russian. The two are too startled to reach for their weapons. They put up their hands in surrender, and in broken Russian one of them replies, “T-take wh-what y-ou n-need, d-dont k-kill us.” I lower my rifle, steal some rice, soup, and, without another word, I slip back into the wilderness.

What can I say? I am desperate and starving. I must have scared them though. Night is falling fast, and I need shelter quickly. Fortunately, it is still light out. The trees just keep going and going with no end in sight. I’m pretty sure I am going west; the shadows of the trees point east. Out of the corner of my eyes something glints, starkly contrasting to the cold, dark forest.

As I look closer, I realize it is the skylight of an abandoned log cabin. There is a small, decrepit chimney that looks more like a pile of stones protruding from the snow than anything else, but it will have to do. Thankfully, the entrance isn’t snowed in, and I can open the old, splintered door. Inside is an old wood stove, a pile of wood and an old cot. Dust blocks my vision, but I find shelter at last.…

*Lost

Война*

September 28, 2022 by szachik@pvs.org 2 Comments

Junior Remy Haring continues with his fourth installment of his serial fiction inspired by The New Order–a mod for Hearts of Iron IV. If you recall, Remy visits an alternate dark history here, where, in WWII, the Axis powers have won.

Somewhere in Chita, the Russian Far East, January 26, 1962

Last morning a letter appeared at my doorstep. It was a faded beige color with the stamp depicting the Double Eagle. After Rodzaevsky’s speech, I knew what it was about: I was going to be conscripted into the army and forced on to the Chita front. I was ordered to report to the army office or face death by hanging.

The next day, I was sitting on the back of a military truck wearing a fur hat one size too small and a snow camo suit. My dog tag read Alexander Titov. Sitting across from me was a gangly young man-couldn’t have been older than 19. His entire body was shaking, and he was wearing an oversized military helmet that had “Don’t tell mother I’m in Chita” painted on it. He could barely hold the rifle he was given. He was smoking cigarette after cigarette. I really didn’t know what to say or do to calm him down.

The sun was almost completely blocked out by the trees. Only little flecks pierced down like golden arrows. The only things I could hear were the humming of the engine and the tires crunching against the snow. Every snap of a twig, every sound in the darkness could be an ambush. I was too high on adrenaline to even think of sleeping. God knows what might happen if I woke up to an ambush. Behind me was another truck. The driver gestured to me to look ahead. I don’t know how long the boy and I had been sitting there, but neither of us dared to speak. The forest seemed to just keep going and going until the truck stopped.

The driver ordered us to leave the truck; it was time. The boy was now a wreck: hands trembling, helmet knocked askew. He could barely stand on his thin legs. Poor sod looked like he hadn’t eaten anything for days. The place we stopped was a small Chita camp in a forest clearing. There were tents dotting the forest floor, and in the center there were three soldiers around a fire. The one in the middle was playing the guitar, and they were drunkenly singing soldier’s songs from the Russian Civil War. It was almost serene until the first shot was fired.

I took cover behind a log and propped up my rifle. All I could see was smoke from the now burning tents and the silhouettes of my fellow men, writhing and screaming under the cloak of embers. I didn’t know what to do. My hand was too shaky to aim at anything properly, and, even if I could, I could very well have shot the boy mistakenly. All of this raced through my head until I heard a single, solitary pop and the thud of a body.

Behind me was the lifeless body of the boy who less than an hour ago was sitting with me. Standing above him was a Blackshirt with a smoking pistol. He looked me dead in the eyes, pointed the gun at me and simply said, “Your life or the life of the enemy: choose one. Your order is to advance on to the enemy position.” I turned back and began advancing alone towards the torched camp. Smoke clouded my vision and filled my lungs. I was a good fifty yards ahead of the Blackshirt. I finally broke. I ran. I didn’t care where. I just couldn’t do this. I hunted plenty of small game. I laid plenty of traps. But I couldn’t take the life of another man. I stumbled over many things on the ground. I didn’t know what they were, and I did not care. I ran like a wounded animal off into the Siberian Hinterland.

*War