My turn! Lemme see...



Ivan Stalin sat in his old and trusty Reliant K car. His 'army' was moving.

He had mapped a major assault on the German infested St. Petersburg, and planned to win it back from the Nazis.

The large Russian force (numbering some thousands) Stole quietly up to the city's fortified walls and set up their ladders.

A piece of cake. Ivan thought.

He marched with his men and started climbing.

Then he heard it: Machine gun fire. German machine gun fire.

A huge force of German Shock Troopers smashed into his Rebellion's flank causing major confusion.

The attack has failed! Stalin's brain screamed. But he refused to retreat.

He shouted to his men, "Get inside! We can hold them off from there!"

Ivan swung himself up on the wall and shot a guard. a dark pool surrounded the Russian's boots.

Tonight's gonna be a long night. Damn!

Harry waved his cap triumphantly and stood on the hood of Great Granpa's now-fixed T-Bird. The men clapped profusely and hollered victoriously. Now, the Robertsons had multiple cars. Put a little armor on the T-Bird, and it could go into battle. "We got ourselves armored cavalry, folks!" roared Harry.

"Huzzah! Huzzah!" The men had not been so excited in a very long time. They were even happier when a militia member turned the ignition and the car thundered to life. The mechanics at the gas station had done an exceptional job. They had even given the car a coat of blue paint and mounted several automatic weapons on it.

Later...

Harry led a chorus of cheers when the mechanics fixed an old Bel Air. It was in a little worse shape than its T-Bird teammate, but it ran.

Quite a few of the men crammed into the cars and prepared to attack the Lincoln Street Still. The drivers put the pedal to the metal and slammed on the acceleration. In what would've taken a long time for just infantry, the Robertsons' car cavalry had reached the still in minutes. Cheering battle-cries, guns blazing, and cursing frequently, the men attacked a small house. It was basically undefended, as the Randalls had taken huge casualties lately. As the few defenders in the above-ground part of the house were overwhelmed, the Robertsons surged forward. The basement door was locked with a board hanging from one side of the door frame to the other. "Bring up the battering ram!"

"Ooh-rah!" rallied the men as the large wooden log was brought up. After the door was broken down, several Randalls opened fire in the basement. Two Robertsons hurtled down the basement stairs head-over-heels, landing with a thump at on the concrete floor. Harry fired his Thompson, avenging his two lost brothers-in-arms with a few well-placed bullets. The Randalls that remained started firing with Colts, wounding several Robertson soldiers. Harry clouted one of his enemies over the head with his cane and lodged a bullet in his chest.

"Quick! Plant the bomb! We must not let them capture the still!" ordered one of the Randalls before spinning around as a bullet hit his side. Collapsing onto the floor, he watched his cousin light the bomb's fuse.

James kicked one Randall in the gut, "Die you heels! The Robertsons are gonna have free booze tonight!" Seeing the one man lighting the still's self-detonator, James fired several Garand bullets in his direction. One hit the man in the leg, but the bomb was lit. It escaped from his hands as he received the bullet from James, and the round bomb rolled over into the Robertsons' side of the basement.

Seeing his brothers were about to receive an explosion, one Robertson sacrificed himself by throwing himself on top of the explosive. It killed the man instantly, but it saved everyone else.

Pop.

"Pop! No!" cried James.

"That's it."

James screamed bloody murder as he put a knife through the bomb-lighter's neck. Standing and walking like clockwork, he marched right into the Randalls' side of the basement, firing a barrage of rifle bullets. Down they went. Single-handedly, he wiped out the remaining Randalls. Standing next to the captured still, he shouted, rifle over his head, "For Pop Robertson!"

"Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!" chanted the soldiers. They had achieved victory. The Randalls in the Village had been defeated utterly. Now, for the first time, the Robertsons had total supremacy in the Village. They might still have to deal with the Randalls from Shenandoah, but for now, they had won. The men grabbed James and Harry, hoisted them above their shoulders, and carried them victoriously back to the main Robertson base, with a few men staying behind with the Bel Air to keep watch over the still.

Victory.

Liz watched as Gunner belly-crawled backwards through the brush and undergrowth of the woods. She stood in an old cornfield, holding one of the shotguns and waiting for Gunner's verdict. Once the big Texan had emerged, he stood and pulled a few thorns out of his jacket.

"Like hell in there." he chuckled.

"What'd you see?" Liz asked.

"Not a whole lot," Gunner replied, putting his large pair of binoculars around his neck by the leather strap, "There's a tiny liddle town about a half-mile across that soybean field over there, and there was a lot o' shots goin' round. I caught a glimpse of some cars, and a lot of dudes rushing around like crazy, shootin' at each other, but other than that I didn't see any Krauts. Glad of that, eh?"

Liz nodded. "Should we go over there?"

Gunner shook his head and checked the long machete tucked carefully into a sheath on the side of his large rucksack. "Nope, not now anyways. We'll lay low 'til the fighting stops and--" he was interrupted by distant shouts of, 'Ooh-rah! Ooh-rah!'

His brow furrowed. "Somebody's just won that scrap. Hop up there into the truck, let's go." He chambered a round into his shotgun, flipped the safety on, then slid it into its sheath under the rucksack and across his back.

--Twenty minutes later--

Gunner stopped the truck just outside the town. It looked completely empty, although he caught a glimpse of someone darting into a building on the right side of the street.

"Um... stay here. I'll be right back." he said to Liz, patting her leg. He opened the door slowly, and got out.

"Hello?" he ventured. Nothing. Not a word. The wind blew slightly, blowing some leaves around the out-of-commission fountain in the town square.

"Hey listen, I heard some ooh-rahs and I was wondering if there's any Marines here," Gunner continued in a passive tone. He went on slowly. "Look, I'm not a Kraut, I'm from Texas. I was a Rebellion Marine, 1st Lt. My parents were Irish, so the Krauts are out to get me. I was wondering if somebody could hook us up with a place to stay for the night...... Hello?"

He'd barely finished the first sentence when he heard a shout from an upper window on the left side of the street.

"Who else is in the truck?"

The voice was commanding, and young-sounding.

"My wife, Liz."

No answer.

"Look, we just need a place to spend the night. We can move along in the morning, but we're both real tired." Gunner said.

"Anyone followin' you?"

"No sir."

"And you're a Marine?"

"Was."

Silence for a moment, then, "Alright. Stay there, I'm comin' down."

A few moments later, a bullethole-riddled door opened in an old brick building, and a young man stepped out wielding an M3 submachine gun. He gave a salute that almost disgusted Gunner in its sloppiness. Two years in the Marine Corps. had permanently grilled parade deck etiquette into his head. At least there were other ex-Marines here, however sloppy they were.

"Jimmy Robertson." the kid extended a dirty hand, and Gunner shook it without hesitation.

"Gunner Patterson, pleased t'meetcha. You got a leader?"

"Um... not, not really. James Robertson's sort of lead us a few times, but I'm thinkin' you'll want to talk to Grandpa Rick."

Gunner nodded. "Can you take me to 'im?"

"Uh, sure, yeah. Yeah, sure thing. Um.. I'll just have to give you directions, I'm on guard duty, so I can't really leave."

"'Kay."

"You got a pencil?"

Gunner laughed, then said, "Every man should." The kid, however, didn't see the humour in the joke, and didn't so much as grin. Gunner squinted, then spoke. "Yeah, I think I've got one in the truck, but you can just give 'em to me right here. I've got pretty good memory."

"Okay, so, you're gonna want to go down this road, then take a left.........."

--Hour and a half later--

"So that's the status quo." James Robertson finished.

Gunner nodded. Liz, Gunner and James were all seated at the dining room table at the main Robertson's house. There was a map of Spruce County and the surrounding areas, all marked in different colours each signifying a different branch of the Robertson or Randall's territory.

There was a short silence, then Gunner spoke, leaning back in the rickety wooden chair and making it creak. He tipped his hat further back on his head and played with the feather.

"Tell ya what, Jimmy. I'll make y'a deal, 'kay?"

James didn't really like being called Jimmy, but he was flexible.

"I'm listening."

Gunner nodded again. "Lemme tell you our story first. I'm a lier by trade, an' I'm good at it. Don't get me wrong, I'm tellin' you the Gospel truth right here an' now, but I'm really good at lyin'. Always have been. That's one o' the reasons I'm still alive. I was born in San Antonio, but my parents are pure-bred Irish. Now, you prob'ly know the Krauts don't take a likin' to Irish folks, so naturally my birth certificate an' identity are all jigged up makin' me all-American, an' descended from a Scottish line. Same thing happened to Liz, an' we grew up together. Her, me, you, an' that kid down at the Village are the only folks alive that know our past. Now, all three of us havin' reddish hair don't really match with Scottish looks, so I think we can all trust each other. Lemme make a long story short; I'm Irish and Liz is Irish, an' we've went to all the places that accept Irish folks, an' we've been rejected. This is our last resort. Anyway, back to the lyin' subject. The only way we've been able to get past border guards an' such is by means of lyin', an' I'm sick an' tired of it. What I haven't told you yet is that I'm an ex-Rebellion Marine..."

Uh-oh, James thought.

"Actually, lemme rephrase myself. I used to be a Rebellion Marine. Now, that don't look good on somebody's record, especially when you've got Krauts readin' it left an' right. But let me get on the level with you right now. I've got a bargain that I think you'll like. I've got two and a half years of fighting experience. I've got connections that can get me guns whenever I want 'em. I can train your folks how to be real organized fighters, not just angry family members. I can teach you how to hand-fight, shoot, man a vehicle, an' all that trash. I'm a dream come true for you Robertsons. I'll do all this stuff for you, free of charge, if you just let me and my wife settle down here. After we've dealt with the Randalls, we'll build ourselves a house a couple hundred miles into those wilds out there, and we'll be out of your hair forever. All you gotta do is say yes. I'm not askin' fer an answer right away, I want you to think about it. For now, though, we just need a place to spend the night and recharge our batteries (not literally)."

While we're waitin' for Khopesh, I'll finish that section, Big O.

James thought about it. He had balled his eyes out after Pop died, but so far, he had kept his composure. The marine said he was good at lying. That made James nervous. Still, someone with actual military experience? He might be a godsend. "Stay right here," he said, and went to one of the bedrooms were Granpa Rick was once again creaking back and forth on his home-made rocking chair. James told him Gunner's story.

Granpa fingered his tie nervously. It looked like something from the 1890's, but he wore it anyway. He stood up slowly, very slowly, and had James lead him to the living room. Granpa gave a small nod and asked, "Yew sure yew can train owr boys? Y'aint lying, is yew?"

Gunner shook his head. "Nosir. I ain't lyin', I swear it to ya on a big stack of Bibles."

Granpa Rick thought on it for a few moments, and answered in his thick drawl, "I guess yew can stay. For now, anyways. Yew'd better start trainin' now, though, or yew'll have hades t' pay, yew read me?"

"Yessir. Right away! Thank ya, sir!" Gunner snapped to attention and saluted.

Granpa laughed, which was very unusual for him, "Now I know yer a marine. By the way, we dug up a weapons cache at the gas station. It's from durin' the Rebellion. They... belonged, in the past tense, to marines, if yew get m' meanin'. Perhaps you could teach the men how to use them."

James patted Gunner on the back, "Yeah! You can be like von Steuben at Valley Forge! Turn us into a regular army, you might."

Gunner put on his cardinal-feathered hat, "Right you are."

Later...

"This is a 12 gauge, pump-action, Remington 870 shotgun. Designed in 1959, right before the occupation. It has a bottom-loading, side-ejecting receiver. Ya put the tube magazine under the barrel. Aim. And blast away. It's great for hunting animals." He pulled the pump. "And people. Ooh-rah." Gunner held the shotgun up for everyone to see. The "class," 30 Robertson clan members, studied it intensely. After they got a good look at it, Gunner demonstrated how to fire it. Following that was a practice period, where all the men got a chance to use the shotgun. Gunner picked out the best shooters. "Victor, Bobby, and Jonny, you're the best. I award ya with these three shotguns. Take care of 'em, keep 'em clean, and use 'em often. It ain't hard to get shotgun ammo, so practice often." Gunner passed them out to the three awe-struck men who then thanked him again and again. Gunner took one large rifle out of the weapons crate. "This is an Italian-made Beretta BM59. El Duce ripped the M1 Garand design after we wupped the dagoes in the War. We would've clobbered him if Adolph hadn't interfered. Anyway, after he saw the Garand in action, he wanted it. Then, some Krauts helped his weapons-makers develop this little guy. It has a removable 20-round magazine, foldin' bipod an' a flash suppressor/grenade launcher. It fires 7.62x51mm rounds. Take a look at it. This is how ya load it." He then went on, demonstrating how to use it. Practice ensued, and the lone gun was given to Bart Robertson, Harry's other brother. Bart was a natural with the gun, almost as good as Gunner. Gunner then pulled out several other infantry weapons, and, through testing, gave out FN FAL's, a few sniper rifles, and some Swedish AG-42 Ljungmans. Everyone was happy when the lone bazooka was next and last. It even looked exciting. "This is an M9 bazooka from '44. It has an optical sight, a reinforced launch tube, can penetrate five inches of armor, uses the M6A3 rocket. You can break this baby in two for transport. If the Randalls from Shenandoah come an' crap shells on us with their Stuart, some of you will have to use this one bazooka to take. It. Down. I fought Panzer X's in the New England Rebellion. One of their main purposes is to scare ya out of yer skin. Ya need to be level-headed and not even consider runnin'. This takes a second to use, so find cover, have a buddy load it, and blast away. There're only a few rockets here, so do not miss. If some scaredy-cat wastes all four of these, it's over. The Randalls will laugh their fat heads off as they massacre you. Now, is there an explosive-expert here?"

Carl Robertson raised his hand, "I've used powder before. I drained a bunch of shells, put it in a box, buried it, and waited for some sap t' step on it. I'm also the one who makes grenades around here."

James thumbs him up, "Yep, Gunner, he's right. He's the only one who makes our grenades. He's a good soul and won't run. Got guts."

Gunner was reluctant, but they couldn't waste rockets practicing. Carl shouldered the bazooka and beamed with pride. "Thank ya, sir. Ooh-rah!"

Suddenly, the sound of a motorcycle was heard. It sounded like it was a bike that was in bad condition, probably salvaged. Then, amid a cloud of dust, the vehicle appeared down the road. The driver raised his fist, "Woo-hoo! Yeah! I'm so cranked!" The driver stopped the bike and hopped off. He pulled off his goggles and helmet and put on an Afrika Korps-style cap.

Harry.

Cousin Harry raised his fist, "Yeah, baby! I found this motorbike in an abandoned Randall barn, fueled her up, and drove it here. So, what's buzzin', cuzzin'? Who's this guy?" he asked, pointing to Gunner.

James put his arm on Gunner's shoulder and pushed him forward, "This is Gunner Patterson. He's training the troops."

Harry's left eye twitched and his eyes widened. "What? That's my job. Where'd he come from?! I'm doing a fine job trainin' the men. Who allowed this?!"

James pulled Gunner back, "Granpa, that's who. What he says goes. Nothing against you, but Gunner was a Rebellion Marine for two and-a-half years. Granpa put him in charge."

Harry put his gloved finger on James' chest. "We'll see about that, cuz. We'll see about that." He threw his hat on the ground and stormed off towards the house.

Gunner gulped, "Well, that was delightful, Jimmy. Just delightful. Who is that party pooper?"

James picked up the discarded cap, "Cousin Harry. He's our strategist. Looks like he also thinks he's the marshal, or something, too. Ah, well, Granpa'll deal with him."

All yours, K97!

OK, here goes nothing (provided my input is still welcome):

Gefreiter (PFC) Hans Gruber had been in a lousy mood since that arrogant American and his woman had barged through his checkpoint, but a few beers and the fact that his watch was over in somewhat less than an hour had improved it somewhat. He was going over the logbook, for hopefully the last time, when he heard the rumble of engines and a series of headlights coming up the road from the Pennsylvania side of the line. As the headlamps approached, they revealed themselves as belonging to a column of Army trucks with a Kubelwagen at each end of the convoy and a Jagdpahter of recent vintage in the middle. Instead of the standard Baltic Cross and Swastikas that would normally festoon such vehicles, there were white Iron Crosses and the letters "PGS Heer".

He stepped out of his guard shack as the lead vehicle came to a stop and a man wearing an olive-green uniform, but with a Heer Hauptmann's (Captain) rank insignia on the shoulders stepped out. The man was of average build, with close-cropped brown hair and blue eyes. Hans stepped up, raised his arm in salute and said, "Guten abend, Herr Hauptman!"

The captain returned the salute in a more American style and said, "Guden awwend, I am Hauptmann Lautenslager of the Pennsylvanishe Grenzschutz and we have a weapons and supply shipment for the New York city garrison."

Hans blinked, thinking, "What weapons shipment?!" Then he remembered, "....Ah, yes, I remember the Oberst mentioning that the monthly shipment from the munitions plant in Chambersburg would be arriving sometime this week, would this be it, by any chance, sir?"

"Ya, this is the shipment... We would have been here yesterday, but we ran into some trouble with bandit on the way up... They, fortunately, won't be giving anyone else trouble ever again," Hptmn Lautenslager replied, "I suppose you want to check my identification, cargo manifests and all that good jazz."

Hans sighed, "Yes sir, standard procedure and all that... Let me fetch the shipment log while you get your convoy read for inspection, sir!" As Hans waddled off to fetch his paperwork, Hauptmann Lautenslager began issuing orders in his oddly accented German, and recieved replies in that same language as truck drivers killed their ignition, opened the backs of the trucks up and got their cargo manifests in order. Hans was soon back out, looking over packing lists and popping the lids of the occasional crate. When he got to the last truck, he turned and said, "Herr Hauptmann, it would seem that your men have brought one more crate of Pawpaw wine that was ordered by HQ!"

Lautenslager, an old hand at the game just winked and said, "Well, darn, I guess you'll just have to go ahead and seize it then... I couldn't fault you for doing your job, now could I, Gefreiter?" It wasn't so much that he HAD to bribe the border guards, its just that corruption was so ingrained in the American occupational forces that he would have raised the inspector's suspicions if he wouldn't have offered some small bribe.

As soon as the offending crate of wine had been hauled off for "confiscation" Hans handed Lautenslager's paperwork back to him, now bearing the official customs inspection stamps, and said, "Well, sir, everything is in order... By the way, if you don't mind me asking, but your military passport says you were born in Pennsylvania, but you speak German like a Swabian...."

"I'm Pennsylvania German: My ancestors came over about 300 years ago, but we still speak the mother tongue... Of course, after the glorious armies of the Reich defeated the American government, my family realized that it was our duty to help the Fatherland in maintaining some kind of order against anarchists and seditious elements," Lautenslager replied.

"Ah, thank you sir!" Hans replied saluting, "I'm glad there are those among the populace who realize their duties, like you sir! May you have a pleasant stay in New York!"

Hauptmann Lautenslager returned the salute and returned to his Kubelwagen, and once again, the convoy got under way. A few miles down the road, Oberwachtmeister (First Sergeant) Mark Eichenlaub looked at Lautenslager and said in the same dialect of German that Lautenslager had used when talking to the guard, "Hauptmann, I can't believe you said that last bit with a straight face! Especially considering that you're one of, if not THE most seditious of seditious elements in the whole state of PA!"

Hauptmann Ryan Lautenslager leaned back in his seat and said, "Ja, well that's why I'm the officer here, and you are the lowly NCO... After all, we need SOMEONE to put up a convincing act to keep anyone from looking TOO closely at what we really do back at Letterkenney! Of course I've got nothing on Oberstleutnant McNutt... I mean the way he somehow managed to officially lose track of two-thirds of the people employed at the Letterkenney Munitions depot, or even better, convince the powers that be that we only have the capabilities of manufacturing about 25% of what we actually make there... Oh, no, it wouldn't do at ALL for them to find out about all that, at least, that is, until we're good and ready for them to find out the HARD way!"

Ryan and Mark exchanged evil grins at that last statement, then their expressions quickly sobered up. "I understand what you're saying sir, and it's all true too.... It's just that its bad enough that we're constantly having to deal with raids by the various Hatfield & McCoy wannabes tearing around the state and causing trouble, but having to PRETEND that we actually LIKE the damn Nazis swaggering around like they own the place just grinds my nerves sometimes," grumbled Mark, "I mean, my ancestors LEFT Germany 300 years ago to escape political oppression and religious persecution, and now they want to come over HERE and start the same BS all over again!"

Ryan looked at Mark and sighed, "Yes I know, Oberwachtmeister, and how its even worse that some idiots think that just because we have German last names and speak an old dialect of German at home means that we share the Darwinistic, nihilist ideology that these SOBs do and treat us the same as them... That's one of the reasons that Rob Erhlich founded the Freischteet Pensilfaani in the first place. Not only did it become a nice refuge from persecution and bandits for the Amish and Mennonites, but pretending to collaborate with the Nazis gave us access to their weapons designs and kept them out of our hair while we find ways of creatively fiddling with our production numbers and providing a small core of stability in the state... I mean its been close to 20 years since any of the major clans so much as attempted to raid any town in Franklin, Adams or York counties!"

"Yeah, yeah, I know, sir," Mark grumbled, "I was just taking advantage of the soldier's prerogative to gripe about stuff, sir.... I'm just going to be glad when we dump this stuff and get back to 'Rabenstein', sir."

Ryan smiled at the mention of the Germanized code-name for a top-secret formerly US Army base hidden under the mountains of southern PA that, as far as anyone knew, the Nazis had never discovered. He was looking forward to the day when they DID find out about it... The Füher would probably crap a 24-carat gold brick! "Ja, Eichenlaub, let's get this shipment taken care of... I'd like to see if our man, Herr Welch, has any news about what the various clans are up to waiting for us when we get back..."

Ryan and Mark continued their musings as their Pensylvania Grenzschutz Heer (PA National Guard Army) convoy rolled on to its destination.

Well, how was that?

Nice Hikaro!
Alright, Here's a shorter addition to my last post...


Ivan ran along the fortified wall, gunning down every German he saw. Stupid Nazi's! Stalin thought happily. A thought flashed through his mind: "Get to the ammunition dump!"


--A few minutes later--


Ivan wrenched open the door to the Ammunition hold. He selected a whole lot of grenades and carried them outside. He sighted on the ammunition shed, tore the pin out of a pineapple, and hurled it into the shed's open doorway.

Boom

A huge explosion threw him off his feet and sent the Ammunition sky high.

Two German's who had walked by the shed at that moment were killed outright.

Ivan smiled, Maybe tonight wouldn't be as long as he thought!

Like it?

You can make wine from those things?!!? How did I spend 5 years in Athens, Ohio and not hear about this?

On a more related note, great addition to the story. It's interesting to see yet another side/faction in this conflict during this point in time and how their stories can cross.

Awesome, guys! Okay, I'm taking back what I said a day ago. All those in favor of Hikaro officially joining our alliance, say aye!

Hikaro, that was awesome! I definitely say aye.

This one's meh, but I'm not feelin' too creative today.


Gunner smiled. He was laying in a comfortable bed, wearing comfortable clothes, in a warm room with his wife next to him and his life looking easy. He was, to be frank, happy.

Today had been an easy one. He had shown off his skill with weaponry, and let all the family members know how to use different types of weapons, and even made some friends. He had ingratiated himself. That was the first step. Now that they knew he was indispensable to them, they would let him do whatever he wanted, and that was what Gunner intended to do. Today, weaponry. Tomorrow, drill etiquette. The next day, how to address officers and superiors. And after that.... Games. Mind games. Harden the wits, make them de-sensitized to abuse, un-offendable, un-moveable. Make their minds just as twistedly brilliant, cynical, calculating, and dependable as his own. Then, and only then would they be able to defeat the Randalls, and have the right to say "Ooh-rah." They would owe him their lives, and he would ask nothing in return other than to make him and Liz disappear off the Nazi's world. This would be good, no doubt. And now he even had some competition. Competition added fun to any situation, especially this one. He wasn't quite sure yet how he'd handle Harry. He would have to find out what he was like first.

With that thought, he went to sleep.

--The next day--

Gunner addressed the group of Robertsons loudly, adopting a bit more of a commanding tone than he had the day before.

"Mornin', boys." he said.

A few murmured replies of "Mornin'," came back, but other than that all the men were a bit groggy. It wasn't even past dawn yet, and the men weren't used to getting up that early. Gunner frowned.

"When I address you, from now on, I'm gonna expect a loud reply, and in unison. Anything else is gonna be unacceptable, and whoever ain't acceptable's gonna have to do fi'ty push-ups without stoppin'. Kay? Now let's try this again. Mornin' boys."

"Good morning!" came a hurried reply, but it was hardly in unison.

"What the hell are you people doin'!" Gunner shouted. The men's eyes widened the slightest bit. "You will address me as sir! Now all of you drop and give me fifty, no stoppin' and no shirkin'. Last one to finish gets to sprint across this field!" he roared. The men were slightly dumbfounded, but soon enough they all started doing push-ups. Gunner smiled inwardly. Today would be a good day.

When they were all finished, and the last one had sprinted the field, Gunner spoke again.

"Now, let's try this again. I'm gonna have to bottle-feed ya, obviously. When I say 'Mornin' boys,' you say 'Good morning sir' back to me, and at the same time. Now let's try this again. Mornin' boys."

"GOOD MORNING SIR!"

"Y'all learn fast. Now let's talk 'bout salutes."

--One hour later--

"Look Grampaw, I've been trainin' these boys for months! I'm the ONLY one who should be doin' this, not some foreigner!" Harry said. His nostrils were flaring.

"Harry, listen," James began, but he was interrupted by Harry.

"Shuttup Jimmy, this is between me an' Grampaw."

Grandpa Rick spoke up. "Harry, I think y'need ta calm down. Gunner might be from far away, but he was a Rebellion Marine for two and a half years. What's more, he's been trained, an' you ain't! I'm sorry Harry, but you've been booted, at least fer now. You kin share advice, but Gunner's gonna be the trainer 'round here from now on, or at least until we can find out a bit more about him and see how well it works out, a'right? Sorry, son."

Harry slammed the flat of his hand on the table and stormed out of the room. Grandpa Rick sighed, and James tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair. This was going to be a rough few weeks, and the last thing the Robertsons needed was division. James knew he would have to talk to Gunner about some stuff, and this would have to be brought up. As he got up to go out and check on Gunner and the rest of the family members, he recalled the famous words of U.S. President Abraham Lincoln:

"A house divided against itself cannot stand."

Great Oreo! And I shall add Hikaro to the list of the Alliance!