Sorry about this but it is the only way to hand in an English essayI have for tomorrow and I lost my USB stick. Email is blocked but GD isnt. Therefore I'm uploading it here so I don't get in trouble. Yes, it is also rubbish, we were given parameters to write within, and I hit a mental wall. I suggest not wasting your time. Please do not delete this for 24 hours at least. ************************* Crossing the Border Half-past seven. The train, chugging through the thickly forested German countryside, was right on time, and with any luck he would be in Frankfurt-am-Main by eight, and at the border by one. He didn't expect trouble, not with the Russians in the east sucking up manpower and the Italian failures in Africa. Even then, he warned himself, all it took to get a bullet in the back of the head was to say the wrong thing to a jumpy guard. At quarter-to the train broke out into open countryside with the lights of small villages visible for miles, each one the same, just a few farmhouses and a station, in this area the train was the only modern form of transport, with cars still a curiosity to locals. At regular intervals larger settlements, little market towns unaffected by the horror that had sweeped through the rest of Europe, lay peacfully in the rolling grassland, almost a self contained little world. Watching the tranquil scene from the rumbling carriage made his drooping eyes feel even heavier. He had a few hours till he reached Weil am Rhein, where the Swiss man (his name unknown) would meet him and lead him to Zurich safely, or so he had been told. Sleep was going to be short soon, so he took the chance and drifted off to a peaceful slumber. Craig Lawson was not a military man. He was an aristocrat at heart but like other members of the intelligentsia he sympathised with the socialists. His patriarchal line went back to the Valois dukes of Burgundy, his family being driven to Britain by the French in exchange for their lives in 1477. His late mother was related to the royal family, but from a few hundred years back. Before the war he was in line to inherit great estates throughout Europe and the UK. He had given up that though, at least for the time being, and had signed up at the outbreak of war as an enlisted man. He used a false name and his roots were kept secret until he was put forward for a Performance Commission by his commander and had to provide a full family tree to ensure he was trustworthy. The story had made the papers and he was a short-lived national hero, working his way up with the working class and proving that the aristocracy weren't all heartless capitalists was a popular . For a while there were people coming up in the street and shaking his hand. Then Africa started to turn around and it became the focus of the media leaving him forgotten and unknown again. He had been captured by the Germans in 1941 and Craig had spent two long years sitting, watching and waiting. His camp was relatively comfortable, it was specifically for VIPs and his lineage guaranteed him a place, and the guards were mostly old men and young boys. He got to know the guards, their habits, vices and routines. He selected one young boy – John Hammersmith – who had been sent from a childhood in Britain by his parents, both Fascists sympathisers. They wanted him to take part in the fight 'for the fatherland'. The boy only did his job to keep his parents happy. He was easily talked round and Craig walked free without issue whilst the other sentry, a Great War veteran, was at the toilet. This was the easy part compared to what came next. In the camp he had no idea where he was, but on the outside he soon got his bearings. He had been put in Norway's frozen north, possibly the worst thing that could of happened. Although Sweden was 30 miles away, they were sending refugees back to Germany, to delay what seemed like an inevitable invasion. Spain was not an option and no one had come out of the USSR at all, and he didn't like to think about what his 'allies' were really doing. The only two options were straight back to Britain, with U-Boats and planes patrolling around him at all times, or Switzerland. He tried to acquire a boat to get him across but no-one wanted to cooperate. His Norwegian was non-existent and people up there were naturally wary of outsiders. After a month of wandering small fishing villages he found the first person who was willing to help him, a resistance man called Boris. As he prepared though, a German patrol boat had called in to port for supplies and caught wind of his presence. His new friend gave his life so Craig could escape, and even then it was barely enough. He spent the night in a hollow beneath a Fir's branches before the searchers finally gave up. After this he had made a run for the south, hoping to get into Denmark during winter because the way across was frozen over. He didn't manage this though, and had spent a month in a Danish prison. By now Britain was retaliating after the Battle of Britain, and a lost bomber had dropped its load near the prison, cracking the wall of his cell. He managed to squeeze out and continued south. In Hamburg he stowed away on the train to the border, so now he was trundling at 50 miles per hour towards freedom. When Craig woke up he had two pressing objectives. First, he desperately needed the toilet, but it was occupied. The second was how to deal with the conducter making his way down the aisle. He patted his pockets, but of course, there was no ticket. Panicking, he scanned the room, looking for an escape. There was none, and his shaking hand was attracting attention. The man across the aisle, a large, blonde, blue eyed man, was peering out the corner of his eye. He resembled one of Hitler's 'Aryan' SS members. Probably on leave. Dragging his gaze away from the man's glare he blew into his hands and stuffed them into the deep pockets of his fur coat, stolen from a remote cabin. It had probably been left there by a hunter at the end of the season so he didn't feel guilty. In his pocket was a short, stubby pistol. It was a last resort only because the train had armed men in the locomotive, just in case someone like him turned up and he didn't want a gunfight. He didn't want to risk glancing back at the blonde man, so he just had to hope his ploy had worked, and that he thought that his hand had been cold. Craig was reading through a German paper, not understanding a word, when the conducter sidled up and sighed something in German. Cursing silently, Craig fumbled for a moment before whipping out the gun and aiming it at the conducter's head. The man started, before dropping to the ground. Behind him the blonde man was wiping a large knife with a cloth and blood was pouring out of the conducter's neck, severed from behind. He lowered the gun and gaped at the conducter, whose left hand was twitching. The man motioned to him and pointed at the door, but he was frozen to the seat, mind racing. There was silence for a moment, broken by a scream originating from a woman sitting in the row in front and everyone turned to find the source of the commotion. The man jumped up and rushed out to the chamber between carriages where the toilet and doors were. Half a second later Craig followed him, stumbling as the train hit a bump. The man was prying at the door, trying to open it. 'Wha...' Craig started, but he was interrupted by the blonde man. 'Just hold them the hell off, idiot.' It wasn't the English that threw Craig off, it was the broad Geordie accent. Gathering himself, he turned to see soldiers running through the far end of his carriage. He crouched, back against the wall, next to the door. His stubby pistol was useless at range so he waited until the soldiers were almost at the conducters body before unleashing a clip into them. The soldier at the front, a mean looking man with the build of a boxer, got hit in the head and fell to the ground in an eruption of blood. Another got hit in the shoulder, whilst a third soldiers shin got decimated and he fell to the ground and writhed in pain. Having no more bullets, Craig grabbed up the boxer's snub nosed machine gun and fired into the carriage. The magazine clicked empty and he looked round. All the soldiers were down, and only one civilian had been hit. Luckily it was in the foot, so he would live. He turned to harvest the boxers body for bullets when he saw the doors sitting open, and the blonde man nowhere to be seen. Stowing as much as he could find about his self he got ready to jump. A patch of long grass came along and he dove, rolling with a thud into the German countryside, the lights of Frankfurt lighting up the horizon. Using the illumination of the passing train, he pulled out a timetable. The next train was in an hour at Frankfurt-am-Main Station. He was about four miles away. After relieving himself against a tree and checking the horizon for more trains he set off, following the bullet-holed train towards the station. From the bushes, John Paschal watched the bumbling fool run off after the train. He didn't know what the hell he was doing, getting involved like that. The Eagle left Frankfurt in forty five minutes and now he was going to miss the hit, stranded out here by his own stupidity. He hoped his partner would be able to go ahead without him, because if the target escaped then millions could die. Troop orders, supply information, almost everything the Allies wanted to keep secret, the target knew. Knowing he couldn't risk being caught, he took out his knife and slit his own throat. It was his duty, one of the terms of his transfer to S.O. He willed God's speed to his partner, known only as George, and collapsed to the ground. [Edited by - jpetrie on May 4, 2010 5:55:17 PM]

lol

You know, there's a notepad feature in your control panel if you want to use gamedev to store text for personal reasons.

I like to rub my head in front of the mirror and

">imagine I'm ranger Brad.

Pastesite is now a favourite and notepad is not something i knew about. Thanks guys.

Quote:Original post by JamesPenny
Pastesite is now a favourite and notepad is not something i knew about. Thanks guys.

Err - there's always emailing yourself. Just mentioning... :)

Quote:Original post by Talroth

Quote:Original post by irreversible

Quote:Original post by JamesPenny
Pastesite is now a favourite and notepad is not something i knew about. Thanks guys.

Err - there's always emailing yourself. Just mentioning... :)

Way to read. Second sentence into his post man.

Right. iFail.