Prologue:
June 7, 1942
Lower Manahattan
New York City, New York, USA
Jesus Christ thought 2nd Lieutanet Mike Edwards United States Army as he marched down the deserted street. His sweaty hands slid on the polished stock of his sub-machine gun. His eyes darted from one side of the street to the other, scanning for targets. He cast a nervous, scared look at his best friend 2nd Lt. Steven Morris who stood marched beside him. Edwards saw the scared look in Morris's eyes that was doubtlessly reflected in Edward's eyes.
As the company of men neared the end of West Broadway street a sound like far-away thunder reached their ears. Thick, oily smoke billowed into the otherwise crystal-clear sky. As they grew closer the sound became even louder. It was the sound of a thousand angry voices shouting as one. As they neared Chambers Street their sargeant barked out an order "Company, halt" The men stopped, peering into the greasy smoke. The man on Edward's right, a small, mousy man named Ron Hill spoke in a low tone. "They say the riot started down near the conscription offices in Battery Park. A bunch of Irish immigrants stormed the office and burned it to the ground. Apparantly they also were able to seize the National Guard armory in Battery Park and holed themselves up in Trinity Church."
"Shut the fuck up!" screamed the sargeant. Hill immeditaly grew silent. "Gas masks on" barked the sargeant. With trembling fingers Edwards yankled his gas mask on. The stale, musty odour of the mask almost overpowered him, but he quickly recovered.
"Weapons ready" Mechincally Edwards switched the safety off his brand-new M1A1 sub-machine gun and brought the weapon up to point at the sky.
As Chambers Street appeared out of the haze, the shapes of several burning cars rose out of the haze. These cars blocked Chambers Street. "Alright laddies I guess we're going to have to do a little of climbing today" said the sargeant. Duitfully the first wave of men began climbing over the car, takking special care not to burn themselves. Suddenly windows overlooking the street sprang open and men armed with guns appeared. Long, tearing bursts of machine-gun fire, interspaced with shorter, more delibrate rifle shots rang out. The men who were scrabbling over the car were tossed from the car like bloody rag dolls. Time immeditaly began to slow down for Edwards and he saw as if in slow-motion, the bursts of gunfire walking across the metal of the car and slowly advancing toward him. Edwards immiedtaly threw himself down against the car as did most of the other men.
Suddenly as soon as it had began the gunfire stopped. Soldiers with a hunted look in their eyes frantically looked around for new targets. The deathly quiet which had ascended on the soldiers gave way to a cacophony of wailing soldiers clutching at their wounds. Cries of Medic! Medic! rang throughout the air. The soldiers were too occupied with their own misery scacrely heard the sound of windows opening above them. Suddenly clear glass bottles with burning rags stuffed into them began falling in the midst of the soldiers. As soon as the bottles shattered on the road great gusts of flame sheeted outward from the smashed bottles. New cries of men covered in fire permeated the air. Edwards spotted a man just about to drop another bottle into a mass of soldiers. As he jerkily swung his weapon around an animal-like scream of pain and anger escaped from his lips. He centered the sights on the man and pulled the trigger. Just before the man dropped his flaming bottle the gunfire spun him around. He disappeared into the buliding but a second later a great gout of fire from the dropped bottle leaped from the window.
The soldiers huddled in a small ragged group with over half their comrades lying dead on the street. Edwards looked over to see a man speaking frantically into a radio. "CP CP, do you read me over? We are under heavy fire at the Chambers street-West Broadway intersection. Request immediate backup over." As the soldier looked expectantly at the radio, only the whoosh of dead air answered him. At that instant the man lost all self-control and screamed into the radio. "We need some fucking back-up now! We lost half our fucking platoon.". Then a silence fell over the men as a new, more terrifying sound reached their ears. The sound was a rhymtic pounding of feet on concrete. Several man poked their heads above the car to see a solid phalanx of men striding toward them. The men were dressed in the shabby clothes of immigrants but the marched as one. Brandishing pitchforks, clubs and rifles they marched steadily toward the men. The soldiers closest toward the car stood up and aimed their rifles at the mob. The immigrants kept on marching. The soldiers fired their M1s into the crowd and the first line of men went down like wheat under the blade of the scythe. Still they kept coming, stepping over the bodies of their fallen comrades. The soldiers loosed another volley followed by another volley and still the mob kept advancing. Their numbers seemed to swell as more and more men joined the rear ranks. By now the soldiers were panicking and their shots went wild.
Then as the mob reached the interesection it was their turn. The man who carried guns fired. Soldiers began dropping. It was then that the mob broke ranks and began to indivually vault over the car. Mike Edwards lay crouched in a doorway watching as the mob stormed over the car and began pocketing groups of soldiers, beating them. Other members of the mob loosed devastasting volleys of gunfire up the street at the retreating soldiers. Jesus Christ thought Mike Edwards. He ducked instinctevely as another volley of gunfire ripped through the air. He glanced at the radioman who had lost all semblence of self-control and was screaming into the radio. "We are retreating up West Broadway. We are being overrun, I repeat we are being overrun! Send us some fucking backup now!. The radio-man released the transmit button and looked at Edwards with a tired glance that was devoid of all life. "They're not fucking coming man." Edwards nodded numbly. "Only one thing to do then" the radio-man said resignedly. Edwards nodded again. The two man inserted fresh magazines into their guns and as one stepped into the street in front of the mob. The last thought that Mike Edwards had before the gunfire caught him was "How did it ever come to this"
June 7, 1942
Lower Manahattan
New York City, New York, USA
Jesus Christ thought 2nd Lieutanet Mike Edwards United States Army as he marched down the deserted street. His sweaty hands slid on the polished stock of his sub-machine gun. His eyes darted from one side of the street to the other, scanning for targets. He cast a nervous, scared look at his best friend 2nd Lt. Steven Morris who stood marched beside him. Edwards saw the scared look in Morris's eyes that was doubtlessly reflected in Edward's eyes.
As the company of men neared the end of West Broadway street a sound like far-away thunder reached their ears. Thick, oily smoke billowed into the otherwise crystal-clear sky. As they grew closer the sound became even louder. It was the sound of a thousand angry voices shouting as one. As they neared Chambers Street their sargeant barked out an order "Company, halt" The men stopped, peering into the greasy smoke. The man on Edward's right, a small, mousy man named Ron Hill spoke in a low tone. "They say the riot started down near the conscription offices in Battery Park. A bunch of Irish immigrants stormed the office and burned it to the ground. Apparantly they also were able to seize the National Guard armory in Battery Park and holed themselves up in Trinity Church."
"Shut the fuck up!" screamed the sargeant. Hill immeditaly grew silent. "Gas masks on" barked the sargeant. With trembling fingers Edwards yankled his gas mask on. The stale, musty odour of the mask almost overpowered him, but he quickly recovered.
"Weapons ready" Mechincally Edwards switched the safety off his brand-new M1A1 sub-machine gun and brought the weapon up to point at the sky.
As Chambers Street appeared out of the haze, the shapes of several burning cars rose out of the haze. These cars blocked Chambers Street. "Alright laddies I guess we're going to have to do a little of climbing today" said the sargeant. Duitfully the first wave of men began climbing over the car, takking special care not to burn themselves. Suddenly windows overlooking the street sprang open and men armed with guns appeared. Long, tearing bursts of machine-gun fire, interspaced with shorter, more delibrate rifle shots rang out. The men who were scrabbling over the car were tossed from the car like bloody rag dolls. Time immeditaly began to slow down for Edwards and he saw as if in slow-motion, the bursts of gunfire walking across the metal of the car and slowly advancing toward him. Edwards immiedtaly threw himself down against the car as did most of the other men.
Suddenly as soon as it had began the gunfire stopped. Soldiers with a hunted look in their eyes frantically looked around for new targets. The deathly quiet which had ascended on the soldiers gave way to a cacophony of wailing soldiers clutching at their wounds. Cries of Medic! Medic! rang throughout the air. The soldiers were too occupied with their own misery scacrely heard the sound of windows opening above them. Suddenly clear glass bottles with burning rags stuffed into them began falling in the midst of the soldiers. As soon as the bottles shattered on the road great gusts of flame sheeted outward from the smashed bottles. New cries of men covered in fire permeated the air. Edwards spotted a man just about to drop another bottle into a mass of soldiers. As he jerkily swung his weapon around an animal-like scream of pain and anger escaped from his lips. He centered the sights on the man and pulled the trigger. Just before the man dropped his flaming bottle the gunfire spun him around. He disappeared into the buliding but a second later a great gout of fire from the dropped bottle leaped from the window.
The soldiers huddled in a small ragged group with over half their comrades lying dead on the street. Edwards looked over to see a man speaking frantically into a radio. "CP CP, do you read me over? We are under heavy fire at the Chambers street-West Broadway intersection. Request immediate backup over." As the soldier looked expectantly at the radio, only the whoosh of dead air answered him. At that instant the man lost all self-control and screamed into the radio. "We need some fucking back-up now! We lost half our fucking platoon.". Then a silence fell over the men as a new, more terrifying sound reached their ears. The sound was a rhymtic pounding of feet on concrete. Several man poked their heads above the car to see a solid phalanx of men striding toward them. The men were dressed in the shabby clothes of immigrants but the marched as one. Brandishing pitchforks, clubs and rifles they marched steadily toward the men. The soldiers closest toward the car stood up and aimed their rifles at the mob. The immigrants kept on marching. The soldiers fired their M1s into the crowd and the first line of men went down like wheat under the blade of the scythe. Still they kept coming, stepping over the bodies of their fallen comrades. The soldiers loosed another volley followed by another volley and still the mob kept advancing. Their numbers seemed to swell as more and more men joined the rear ranks. By now the soldiers were panicking and their shots went wild.
Then as the mob reached the interesection it was their turn. The man who carried guns fired. Soldiers began dropping. It was then that the mob broke ranks and began to indivually vault over the car. Mike Edwards lay crouched in a doorway watching as the mob stormed over the car and began pocketing groups of soldiers, beating them. Other members of the mob loosed devastasting volleys of gunfire up the street at the retreating soldiers. Jesus Christ thought Mike Edwards. He ducked instinctevely as another volley of gunfire ripped through the air. He glanced at the radioman who had lost all semblence of self-control and was screaming into the radio. "We are retreating up West Broadway. We are being overrun, I repeat we are being overrun! Send us some fucking backup now!. The radio-man released the transmit button and looked at Edwards with a tired glance that was devoid of all life. "They're not fucking coming man." Edwards nodded numbly. "Only one thing to do then" the radio-man said resignedly. Edwards nodded again. The two man inserted fresh magazines into their guns and as one stepped into the street in front of the mob. The last thought that Mike Edwards had before the gunfire caught him was "How did it ever come to this"
