text: [Themes: edutainment, drama]
  
  You charge with the bayonet, ramming the blade at the man's chest. He grabs the gun barrel, pushing the bayonet away from you as it sinks into the dirt walls of the trench. You twist the rifle to try and pull it out, of the wall, but the bayonet snaps off the rifle uselessly.
  
  Suddenly, you're tackled, sent flying to the ground. Your head smacks off against the wooden walling of the trench, although thankfully your helmet absorbs most of the blow. You groan, turning to see that an Ottoman soldier, younger than even you, is standing there.
  
  You look around desperately, seeing your gun resting next to you. The Ottoman screams something in his barbaric tongue, although you don't understand a word of it.
  
  > Surrender
  You raise your hands defensively, starring into the eyes of the Ottoman in front of you.
  
  "I surrender, I surrender! For the love of God almighty, don't shoot!"
  
  The Ottoman screams something in his language, but you don't know what he's saying. You just keep your hands raises, not making any movements that would make him think you're trying to escape.
  
  Another Ottoman arrives, and the butt of his rifle smashes into your head. You twist, smacking into the ground. He grabs your hand, pulling you behind your back. A length of rough rope binds your hands together, as your face is pressed into the mud.
  
  With that, you've survived your first battle, and are now a prisoner of war of the Central powers.
  
  > A Year Later...
  As a prisoner, you're rounded up with the others taken from the battle and pushed back to the secondary trenches to avoid a recapture attempt. From there, you're taken inwards to a POW camp.
  
  The stay there is surprisingly tolerable. A few of the Turks speak English, and they're actually quite a friendly people. You're treated quite well, with relatively good food and a warm cot.
  
  However, as the war turns, you and a few other POWs are transported to Germany, where you end up in another POW camp in Germany. The Huns are even kinder than the Ottomans. They treat you well, and with respect. You wonder why this war even needed to happen. You don't care for things being disputed for in the war. Neither do the German soldiers, mostly poor peasants like yourself, recruited to fight other poor peasants as the Kings and Queens that sent you out to die don't miss a meal. Their worries aren't the Ardennes Offensive, they worry about feeding their families, surviving the war and returning home, and making sure their farm isn't destroyed in the chaos.
  
  You're not sure how the war is going, as the Germans try to keep you from learning, but you think your allies are succeeding. However, seeing what your enemies are like, you wonder why you should care who wins. All you hope for it peace.
  
  > A visit from a knight
  "McCarthy!" a voice asks, as you turn to stare at the ruddy face of Coogan.
  
  As another fellow Irishman, you and Coogan have got along swimmingly. He speaks Gaelic like a true Fenian. At first, the guards feared you were plotting a break out, but it wasn't long before they learnt you mainly talked about which prisoner had the biggest nose or which guard had the thickest accent. You're not action heroes, you don't plan to take on the whole camp to escape. Plus, at this point, you've befriended most of the guards, and you can't imagine having to kill one of them.
  
  "What is it?" you ask.
  
  "The guards are rounding us up! We need to go!"
  
  You look around, noticing several other prisoners just miling about in the open fenced area you're currently in, before raising an eyebrow.
  
  "What about them?" you ask.
  
  "Irish only!" Coogan says.
  
  "If you say so," you say curiously.
  
  You walk with Coogan, followed him to the one of the large housing units for prisoners, Cell Block D. A German Guard leans against the wall outside, a cigarette in his mouth.
  
  "Irish, yes?" he says in his thick, German accent.
  
  Although it takes you a moment to decipher his accent, you nod vigorously.
  
  "Yes, yes, Irish," you say.
  
  "Where are you from?" he asks.
  
  "Dublin," you reply.
  
  "Tipperary," Coogan says.
  
  The German cracks a grin, nodding.
  
  "Ah, Tipperary, I know that place!" he says, before he starts singing an old tune. "It's a long way to Tipperary, it's a long way to go!"
  
  "Yeah," Coogan laughs, nodding. "That's the tune."
  
  "Go right ahead," the soldier says stepping aside.
  
  "Why are we here?" you ask him.
  
  "There is an Irishman here to see you all," he says.
  
  "An Irishman?" you ask, intrigued, as you surge into the room with Coogan.
  
  You look around the room at the others there. McCardle, a fisherman who was captured in France, a cheerful fellow whose smile is easily recognizable by the set of black and yellow teeth he has. O'Connor, a farmer like yourself, a hard-working, friendly chap. Johnston, a mild-mannered postman whose sister you used to know from the local dance halls. There's a few others you recognize, but most prominent in the room is a tall, well-spoken man who everyone's crowded around.
  
  The tall man has a thick black beard that's quite well-groomed, with a long, thin mustache that sprouts from either side of his cheek. He has short, curly black hair and pointy features, with his ears sticking out slightly. He swears a striped suit with its collar up, tight around his neck, looking like he's ready for a formal ball.
  
  "You're Irish?" Coogan asks loudly, as the man smiles.
  
  "I'm from Sandy Cove. South east of Dún Laoghaire and Glasthule, of you know it."
  
  You nod vigorously, grinning.
  
  "A fellow Dubliner!" you say. "What brings you here?"
  
  "Simple, my good fellow. I am Sir Roger Casement," he says.
  
  You pause, as there's a hush of whispers. You know that name. Roger Casement was a humanitarian. He worked in far off, distant countries like the Congo and Peru, helping the poor negroes who were being abused by the British in power there, just like you Irish were. However, he was knighted by the King for doing so. The British King, King George V. You narrow your eyes, wondering what he's doing here.
  
  "I'm sure by this long in captivity you've seen that the Germans aren't the villains you were told. They haven't forsaken the Lord Jesus Christ, they don't torture prisoners, they don't eat babies!"
  
  "I wish they did," McCardle says. "We could use some meat in our rations."
  
  The group laughs, as Casement nods, smiling.
  
  "I'm sure you could. But, in such a time of trouble, the poor Irish souls that have seen such little opportunity have been awarded a great deal of it. The British grasp on Ireland is weakening as it focuses on the Central Powers. For the first time in history, we have a chance to do something about that."
  
  Roger Casement pauses, looking around at the faces around him. You try to make out his emotions, but you can't, his face unchanging as stone.
  
  "Germany is willing to release you, to accompany me on our return to Ireland. They're offering us arms, rifles and machine guns, in order to return to our comrades in Ireland. There, they plan an uprising on a national level. We have a chance to liberate our nation with our brothers, to claim Ireland as a free, independent republic!"
  
  "We'll be hung," someone says, scared. "We're just prisoners now. We join you, we become traitors!"
  
  "My friend, there will be no one to hang us! The free nation of Ireland will see us as heroes, and Britain won't be able to do anything about that!" Casement says. "Our brothers at home risk hanging! Do you think they fear? Of course not, my friend. Of course not! Now, I offer you a chance at freedom. Not only your own freedom, but the freedom of the entire nation! Together, Ireland will rise up, new and free! What men will stand with me?!"
  
  You pause, thinking his offer through. A chance to liberate your nation, but at what cost? Betraying the British you fought alongside to serve the Huns? Risking death as a traitor? But of course, is there a price too great for freedom?
  
  > join Roger Casement
  "I'll join! I'll join, for Eireann!" you say firmly, as Casement smiles, grabbing your hand and shaking it vigorously.
  
  "Yes, yes, thank you, my good man! Eireann thanks you! Your sons, your daughters, your grandchildren, they thank you!"
  
  You look around the room, waiting for an onrush of support for Casement, but you find it's disturbingly silent.
  
  "We're not traitors! We're not going to betray the Empire for you!" Coogan spits. "McCarthy, how can you do this?"
  
  "You don't understand, it's for the greater good!" Casement says.
  
  "We're not facing hanging to betray those we fought alongside. When this war ends, Britain will treat us fairly. It'll only be the fools like you who are a blemish to the proud Irishman's record of service during the war," McCardle says.
  
  You look around for supporters, but the room is silent. Roger Casement bows his head in disappointment.
  
  "If none but this young man is willing to stand for Ireland, so be it. Let's go," he says.
  
  Roger Casement turns, strolling off as you walk with him, heading off. You let out a sigh, as your fellow Irishmen jeer and mock as you all walk away.
  
  They'll thank you one day. If not them, then their children will. If not them, their children, because eventually, the next generations will realize what you did, you did for Ireland.
  
  > leave the camp with Casement
  Months pass, as Casement continues to recruit from the vast swathes of Irish POWs to form this Irish Brigade, German-armed and trained Irish-born fighters to return to Ireland take over, founding the Republic and distracting Britain, drawing attention from the main front and allowing the Germans to succeed in their mission.
  
  There's two thousand Irishmen who are prisoners of war in Germany.
  
  You get fifty two. Fifty two Irishmen willing to follow Casement like you were, to join the cause. It's appalling. The rest are either brainwashed by the Brits, appeased by their mock gestures and promises that are never kept, or cowards too scared of the noose, pathetic examples you dread to call men. Thus, you're left with a small, rag-tag team of Irishmen willing to fight for freedom.
  
  However, you're told there's still a backbone of Irishmen and women at home willing to fight, running in guns from Germany by themselves through private vessels like yachts and fishing boats, ready to fight for your cause. You know they'll be massive numbers of them, all willing to fight for the Republic that you all dream of. It's them who you'll use to takeover, they'll be the main fighting force used. With them, your dreams of a free and independent Ireland can be accomplished.
  
  Hopefully, you'll see Joseph again. You're sure if there's something like this coming about, he'll be there.
  
  Casement's Brigade is given 20,000 Mosin-Nagant 1891 rifles, good, durable weapons that will serve your people well, alongside ten new machine guns, as well as large quantities of ammo. However, they refuse to send trained German soldiers with you, not even giving you a single German officer to help organize and lead the uprising. Plus, the machine-gun training promised to you never comes, so these powerful machines of death are of little use to you, as you barely understand how to use them.
  
  Still, there's hope. It's mainly up to the Irish at home, but you know you'll be able to do it, for Ireland.
  
  > Disaster strikes!
  It's all gone to shit. Hell in a fucking hand basket.
  
  The gun running was a mass failure. A German cargo ship was heavily disguised as a Norwegian vessel. Given Norway's neutrality, it was thought this would get the weapons through. The ship bore Norwegian colors, the crew wore Norwegian clothes, all the charts and books were even in fucking Norwegian, yet it to shit. The British apprehended the ship, forcing the crew to blow their ship up, sinking it to avoid capture.
  
  Desperately, Casement plans to head to Ireland, to inform the rebel leaders of the change in plans and the necessity to postpone the uprising until a more better time. He plans to sneak their via submarine with German assistance, and has asked you to go with him. As an Irishman, you'll have no trouble blending in when you arrive, plus, having an extra man to assist in convincing the rebel leaders wouldn't go astray.
  
  > head with Casement to Ireland
  The rowboat hits onto the beach of sand, as you and Casement step off, onto the sands. Robert Monteith follows you afterwards, grinning.
  
  "Home," Roger says weakly. "Thank fuck."
  
  Casement's been sick for some time. At first you thought it was simple seasickness or claustrophobia, but now you're beginning to fear it's the return of his here-and-there malaria sickness he picked up in the Congo. He's pale, tired and sickly, and without a car, you don't know how far he can go. As there's British patrols everywhere due to a possible leak of information, it's going to be hard getting out of here.
  
  "We have a lot to do and not a lot of time to do it. Let's go," Monteith says. "But it damn sure is good to be here. Something special about Irish air, isn't there?"
  
  "We're in a fucking hurry," you say, keeping your mind on the mission. "There's British soldiers prowling around these beaches. We need to do this quick and clean."
  
  "Let's go then," Casement says weakly.
  
  You rush up the beach, hurrying to get away from this scene and get somewhere safe. There's a few safe houses you could visit on the way, supporters of the uprising you've been referred to who'd be happy to keep the three of you for a night or two.
  
  As you reach the lip of the beach, you frown, as you spy a few lanterns in the distance, floating in the near completely black early morn.
  
  "Shit, they're here," you say. "We need to get out of here fast, before the British get us.
  
  "I know this area," Robert says. "There's an old Celtic ring fort nearby. We can hide from the patrols there."
  
  You pause, looking at Casement. You doubt he'll be fast in this state. He might not even be able to make it at all. You need to do something.
  
  "We head to the fort, then," Casement nods, as he weakly begins half-running in the direction ring fort.
  
  > follow Casement to the ring fort
  You begin sprinting after Casement and Monteith, running alongside them as you hurry towards the fort as quickly as you can. Casement stumbles and you quickly move to his side, grabbing him and helping him keep going.
  
  "Can't go down now, sir!" you say hurriedly. "We have too much to do, remember?"
  
  You keep going, raising through the dark. It's only a matter of time before the British discovers your rowboat, and then you're screwed. Or the sun rises, letting them see you, and then you're screwed. Or their search net stumbles across you, and then you're screwed.
  
  "I think I see something!" a soldier yells.
  
  "Labhair de na diabhal," you mutter.
  
  "It's them! It's fucking them," another soldier yells.
  
  You keep going, before you see the old, ancient stones of the ring fort, laid by the ancient Celts of old. True, free Irishmen. You hurry towards the stones, running past them as you enter the land where once stood a huge Fenian fort.
  
  Casement slips from your grasp, crumpling to the ground. He lies there, breathing heavily and staring at you meekly.
  
  "We'll never make it," Casement says. "All we can do now is pray for the rebellion to succeed, with God's graces."
  
  "We're fucked," Monteith says. "Éireann will weep for us."
  
  "We can't go out like this! We'll hang! We'll fucking hang!" you say, desperately.
  
  You don't have a way to escape this. You'll be meeting God almighty at Heaven's gates soon enough. But it's your choice how you're getting there.
  
  > go down fighting
  "Stay back, you fucking bastards!" you yell, raising your rifle and firing. "I'm not going to go down without a fight!"
  
  You lean over the chunk of ancient Celtic stone, staring down the iron sights. You find a British soldier in the sights, pulling the trigger as the man crumples. You switch to another shadow moving through the night, trying to make out his form as he moves through the darkness. You raise your rifle, firing as the man drops.
  
  Bullets bounce off the stone around you, but you keep out of cover, aiming. You're ready to die here. You refuse to go down without taking a few of them out. However, you're outnumbered, and even your training in the war won't get you out of this one.
  
  A well-placed shot by a British soldier hits you in the forehead, sending you stumbling backwards, blood covering your face. You hit the ground, raising your hand up to your face to press your fingers against the grazing wound. You take a deep breath, focusing your attention as you move to stand.
  
  You try to stand, wiping the blood from your eyes so you can see better, but by now the soldiers have moved forward, raising their rifles. A volley of shots goes off, and you collapse to the ground, no more.