World War 2 Historical Fiction Novels & Stories

Merlin’s perception was completely subverted when he heard Christian’s words and he sighed as he said, “You guys are even more ruthless than spy warfare… The entire World War II was only fought for a span of six years, from 1930 to 1945, but you guys actually lasted fifteen years…”

Binuksan niya ito gamit ang isang susi— mukhang sinara niya ito nang tangkain kong buksan. Bumungad sa amin ang mararaming libro at isang lamesa na naglalaman ng isang kuwadrong larawan. Nilapitan ko ito at binasa, "WWII" Napahanga ako sa guhit ng isang lalake na nakasuot ng pang-heneral at isang babae na nakasuot ng pang-amerikana. "Kung makikita mo hija. Ang painting na 'yan ay ginawa pa ng mga ninuno ko," pagkukuwento niya.

Michael asked, Alissa ventured further into the shop, she saw the sign for 'History'. Alissa turned into the area and scanned the spines. There appeared to have been two human world wars as that topic featured heavily. She picked one of the larger books up, scanning the back. Michael saw what she was looking at. “If you're looking for fighting techniques that won't help, they used their guns and planes.” Alissa mouthed the words back. “Don't ask,” he responded. “I'm looking to know more about...” Alissa waved in the general vicinity. Michael tapped at his chin and started looking at the books.

Each wooden ledge branded with a faded, handwritten label proclaiming— HISTORY. World War I. World War II. Forgotten battles in faraway places she’d vaguely heard of. The patriarchal pissing contest that stained our collective yesterdays recounted, retold, revisited in page after ponderous page. Heavy tomes groaning with the weight of mistakes made and hearts broken. Hopes dashed and success stolen. Forgotten lives buckling under the burden of dreams lost. She strolled, her eyes scanning the large letters embossed on covers puckered and creased. The dog-eared corners of aged paper discovered when the book was lifted, turned, opened.

“You know what I’m reading, of course you do.” “I haven’t researched it as I stalked you on camera if that’s what you’re referring to.” Max smiled. “It’s a novel about a woman who rescued thousands of children by smuggling them out of the Warsaw Ghetto in World War II.” “Sounds heroic,” Max said. “I’ve just started, seems good so far.” Abby paused. Max seemed different, more reserved if it was possible. Reserved and distracted. “What’s wrong? Have you heard something?” His eyes shot to hers. “What makes you say that?”

The lesson begins. Ah, history, what an illusion humanity has of the past. And yet scholars argue the reality of their texts until they are blue in the face, even though something as recent as the Second World War is remembered in a manner that has no feeling for the times, for feeling, not events, is to me the essence of history. The majority of people recollect World War II as a great adventure against impossible odds, while it was nothing but an unceasing parade of suffering. How quickly mortals forget. But I forget nothing. Even I, a bloodthirsty harlot if ever there was one, have never witnessed a glorious war.

The fist part of the book brought me to tears, with the war first taking place in London, where she looses her family and escapes making her way over to France, journeying alone to different towns, the struggles she endures pain me to think about. She meets a man called Marcel who Bruno had told me about, well told me what I had originally told him before I lots my memory. The way Flo describes him makes my head go foggy, almost like memories coming back into view gradually, I start to see a face in my mind matching that of Flos drawing, I remember meeting him and painting on his walls, his support and help… my memories were slowly coming back, I eagerly flick through each page in hopes that

“Are you guys ready to finally do as we were formed to do?” My eyes glared at Callighan as he lifted his head up to the sky. Once that loud howl came from him, we all prepared ourselves as the wolves charged at us altogether. All we could do was fight to our hearts desire. One charged at me and right when I thought life was over for me, the gunshots came right after him. Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! However, those shots were not enough… -To Be Continued- The End of Book 2

He looked every bit the war hero the country adored— stoic, composed, untouchable. But i remembered the boy who'd pull my pigtails and grin crookedly whenever he caught a fish. The boy was long gone. The string quartet played a hollow waltz. Servants in black jackets moved with grace between tight circles of conversation. In one corner, someone laughed too loudly. In another two aides argued quietly in a diplomatic tone. "I see only your mother attended," Darrell said . I nodded. "She had to see her only daughter off and she doesn't believe in making scenes,"

He would have, right? I shook my head again and concentrated on the book placed on my lap. It was one of the British, historical romance fictions set during the World War Two. I had randomly picked it up at the bookstore and somehow felt myself drawn towards it. Sappy novel with mopey dialogues and dragged out bits, it still provided me with much needed solace.