Without Choice

Scene I: over the Florida skies - Monday, March 17, 2003

The Duke of Wessex sat sleepily pondering his lot in life aboard his Lear Jet, which was heading back towards his home in Lincoln, Nebraska.  Stephanie sat asleep across from him, as Edward too slumbered peacefully in his crib.  He stared at his beloved wife and son, before turning his attention back to the night skies over Florida, attempting to make of what had happened and what was to come.

His body, still tired and worn from his war with Demonstone, clearly showed its toll.  The Duke sat wearily with a small sherry in his hand, wearing only loose jeans and a tshirt, as his laptop sat on his lap (how appropriate!) loaded on the CSWA's main page.  Lancaster grinned as he scrolled down to see that he and his mystery partner - with whom he had recently communicated - would be taking on the combination of the very dubious Scythe Meister and his good friend Chris Wright.  He knew that Wright would still give his all against him and his partner, but if Mr. Meister crossed Wright the wrong way - pardon the pun - he would not hold back from giving Scythe a warm CSWA welcome the Wright way.

The prospect of capturing the CSWA Tag Team Championship was a very inviting one, but becoming the number one contender for the CAL World Heavyweight Championship was all the more captivating.  The Scotsman Demonstone was his first hurdle, and the Duke considered it ironic that he would next have to face an Irishman - a very finicky and talented one at that - in his quarter-finals match.

The Duke sipped his sherry before nearly spitting some of it out in laughter.  How odd to have an Englishman step up against two other British Isles nationals, each with very proud and nationalist beliefs in regards to their home states.  Lancaster smirked as he considered his battle a battle for British unity and the power of London against the nationalists in Edinburgh and Dublin!

He raised his glass and mumbled under his breath, "For Queen and country!"  He took a swig and finished his sherry, as he then logged on to the official CAL website to view the other brackets in the tournament.  Lancaster knew he had to look to the future beyond his quater-final match if he was to be successful, or to even gain a glimmer of hope of being successful.  His tired albeit happy demeanor faded to an extent when he read the official CAL preview of his match against Mr. Leprechaun:

"In what was touted as already the 'best match in the tournament,' D. Leprechaun took out Leona Lawless on the most recent edition IWA Shockwave. Lancaster steps up against the man a lot are considering to be the favorite for the entire tournament but logic dictates that the Duke won't be afraid."

"Favourite for the entire tournament is he..." mumbled the Duke.  He sighed and shook his head, as he decided that another glass of sherry was indeed in order.  

Once again Lancaster felt he had been dealt the short end of the stick, a loaded deck, with some believing that he was incapable of defeating the troublesome Irishman.

To hell with anyone who doubted him, he decided.  His integrity, skill, determination had been questioned countless times in the past, and he showed these people what stock he was made of.  He would do so again.  His accomplishments in the past spoke for themselves - holding championships in four different federations, and managing his former protégé to a World Tag Team Championship a year or two prior.

He would have to draw on all those past experiences though in order to overcome perhaps his biggest opponent in quite some time - not by size, but rather by challenge.  Every iota of his being was to be poured into this tournament.  He had no choice but to do so. To fight, to fight to the very end, to throw absolute caution to the wind, to defy his limits, and push himself to the brink of destruction or absolute victory - which ever came first.

It was the legacy left by his father and by every member of the House of Lancaster - from the ones who arrived in England in 1066 along with the Duke of Normandy, to his father, who fought courageously in the RAF during the Second World War against the scourge of National Socialism.   

The words from the CAL site resonated in his mind: "logic dictates that the Duke won't be afraid."  You're fucking right I won't be afraid.

Robert switched off his lap-top computer and tossed it aside.  Reaching into his briefcase, he pulled out his father's war diary, something he requested Simkins to send him from Wessex.  He hoped to draw any inspiration from it that he could, and after reading a few entries - he did just that.

Scene I: over the England skies - September 15, 1940

Lancaster stopped to smile, seeing that his father's passion for Macbeth likely spurred his own.

    Today was a day I soon shall not forget.  Another early day as always, simple tea and bread for breakfast.  How I yearn for the halls of Wessex on days like this! for it was a dreary, rainy day - thank God, seeing the fires that the bombs dropped by the Nazis are quite horrid.  Downtown London has transformed from a beacon of civilization to a beacon of destruction.  The Dome of St. Paul's Cathedral still holds despite the near constant bombardment - it is said that the day of that dome's destruction will mark the end of England...yet still we fight on, as I do, as we all do.  We all have heeded the words of Prime Minister Churchill, and we all look to His Majesty King George VI for guidance and strength.  Thank God we have such men to serve and lead our country - it is an honour to serve His Majesty in my humble way.
    Had some trouble starting my Spitfire Mk 1 this evening, but finally got it started so me and the lads could get in the air to smash the Luftwaffe's might.  I had not expected such extraordinary circumstances to befall me or my plane, and I am lucky to have escaped with my life - as I am every night.
    I was in the air just outside London I believe - I am not quite ever sure really where I am - when I was chasing down a small group of Messerschmitt's with a few other of the lads.  I had one in my sights and managed to get one of their planes down.  Unfortunately for me I did not see the other Messer that dove out of the skies, unknown to me, her guns blazing.  The bastard got me square on the fin, and sent my plane diving towards the ground.  I had barely enough time to react when my plane had smashed into the ground, thankfully into a group of trees which softened the blow.  I was quite stunned and I think I blacked out for a few moments, when I finally came to.  
    I managed to get out of my cockpit and collapse on the ground.  I opened my eyes to see the stars and the moon, which was partially full.  I looked around, trying to get my bearings when I heard a voice mumbling under its breath - definitely not an Englishman.  He was German.
    I pulled my sidearm from my belt and quietly began to move about on my stomach, hoping to corner him and if possible, take him prisoner and bring him to one of the country houses that we passed over.  I stopped in my tracks when I saw the young man get to his feet, his gun drawn too, a look of sheer terror - which was barely visible even in this moonlight.  He was clearly disorientated and scared out of his wits.  I managed to creep up nearer to him when he yelled out in German: "Anschlag! Wer ist dort?" (Stop, who is there.)  
    I got to my feet as quickly as I could, my gun aimed firmly at him.  I told him to stand still, in German, and to drop his firearm.  He relented, as his body began to visibly shake, and then he yelled back, "Lassen Sie Ihre Gewehr fallen! Jetzt!" (Drop your gun! Now!)  He must have repeated his command three times, before I responded, I too, now afraid: "Sie haben kein Entweichen. Geben Sie oben." (You have no escape. Give up.)  I walked forward a few steps, a grim expression of determination on my face.  I looked at him and whispered in a low tone, that he had no choice, no way out, and that I would have to kill him if he did not drop his gun.  I could not show any mercy.  His eyes began to shed some tears, as he declared his devotion to Hitler and Nazi Germany.  I aimed squarely at his head and pulled the trigger, shooting him dead.

Lancaster looked up from the diary pages, written in black fountain pen, with a dazed look of disbelief and pure shock.  He had never known that his father had committed such an act, and he was not surprised that his father had refused to show his diary to his young son. Robert continued to read on.

    I looked down at the young man, who could not have been any older than twenty or so.  I leaned down beside him and said a prayer, asking forgiveness and mercy for both him and myself.  It was one thing to shoot a man's plane out of the air - but to do it face to face, was completely devastating.  I got up and walked to a near by cottage, and was brought back to London later that day, where I sit now, writing this entry.
    I know I shall dream of that young man later on this day, the fear etched on his face, the blank look of death then crossing his lips.  I had no choice though.  God forgive me.  I had no choice.  I had no choice.  I faced the ultimate reality that any man could face - it was to be either him or I - and I had no intention of sacrificing myself for Hitler's sake.  I did what I did for God and country, and for His Majesty, and for any of my future kin.  They must know the truth as I write it now, if they ever discover the grizzly act I perpetrated that night.  Let this cursed war end.  But a lesson to anyone who may read this - there can be no mercy, no opportunity to lay down one's arms when the only option is open, bloody war.  There is no choice.
    God save the King. - EJL VII

To all those in the CAL Search for the Chosen One tournament: Robert Lancaster has no choice.