NationStates Jolt Archive

General Hannes Gygax from the Confederal General Staff and General Januarius Olbroz from the 1st Jagiellan Regiment waited quietly on the tarmac at St. Casimir International Airport. Both men were wearing their formal dress uniforms and carried themselves today with something of the air of the parade ground. For Olbroz, it was something of a stretch. He was a soldier’s soldier who had begun his career in the gritty local militias who had defended the settlements in Jagiella from attack by the Sons of the Reformation and other terrorist organizations. Gygax, on the other hand, seemed right in his element, wearing a polite if insincere smile. Behind the two men stood a military band and a small group of soldiers in parade formation. The Jagiellans intended to greet their Amestrian and Xirniumite visitors correctly.

The Xirniumites were expected first and then the Amestrians an hour later. The rest of the day was to be given over to ceremony. The actual maneuvers would take place the following day. They were to be fairly straight forward infantry maneuvers like the men of the 1st Jagiellan Regiment had done many times before. Neither of the Confederal officers was at all nervous about the maneuvers themselves. What they were worried about was the diplomatic role they would have to play with the Xirniumites and the Amestrians, a role neither was especially trained for.

“That looks like the Xirniumite plane.” Gygax commented with a small smile as he gestured to a plane just coming into view in the distance. “They must be exhausted. A direct flight from Xirnium to Jagiella takes a full day.”

“They might have stopped somewhere along the way.” Olbroz pointed out. “Or the might have slept on the plane. Even if they didn’t, a long flight isn’t much for soldiers like us, is it?”

“No. It’s nothing.” Gygax said unconvincingly. He’d never been anywhere near combat and long flights were the most trying thing he ever put up with in fulfilling his duties. He couldn’t figure out if Olbroz had been attempting to insult him or had simply been judging things by his own more rugged standards.

“It might be for Xirniumites though.” Olbroz said. “I’ve never been there but I hear that they’re something of a ‘soft’ people and hedonistic too.”

“I hope you’ll be more tactful when our guests arrive.” Gygax said. “This visit is very important to the Secretary of Defense. He wants the Western Atlantic to be a strong security community and, because of Ambalieva, that includes Xirnium.”

“I get it.” Olbroz said. “I just don’t think that if it comes to war they’d produce the kind of soldiers we could count on from Abt or Excalbia. Do you?”

Gygax shrugged. “That isn’t the point right now. Be quiet. Their plane is coming in for a landing now.” He gestured upwards to the plane which was even now heading down towards the runway. The two men took a few steps back from the actual runway, staying well clear of the plane’s trajectory. As it taxied up to the area where the Confederals waited, the officers took a step towards the door, both smiling politely.

Whether for better or worse, the Xirniumite armed forces had always maintained a strong reputation for the wearing of dashing and stylish uniforms. In fact, current peacetime regulations (and it was always peacetime in the ever lovely Eternal Republic) prescribed a total of at least twelve different orders of dress for the officers of the army; including two different ceremonial uniforms and a parade uniform for formal occasions (the latter of which was worn during a colonel-in-chief’s official inspection of one’s regiment), walking-out, leave, and reporting uniforms for semi-formal occasions, service, guard and undress uniforms for informal occasions (including barracks and training duties), summer and winter field uniforms for combat, and sports dress.

To this rather extensive list were added (at least, for non-commissioned officers, as well as other, lower ranked personnel of the Xirniumite army) six different sets of fatigue uniforms, four of which were camouflaged and designed to be worn for active battle duty. Only adding to the general confusion caused by such strict dress regulations were the various distinctions in uniform characteristic of the different branches of the Xirniumite armed forces, and of the different services within these branches.

Lieutenant General Flávian Anfaúgädrien Valtâriel, a senior officer of the Xirniumite general staff and deputy director of its training branch, thought of this and much more during his long, boring and very tiring flight to the Jagiellan Commonwealth. Sighing impatiently (as well as from weariness), he stubbed out an expensive cigarette and adjusted his service cap, preparing to finally debark. A count of House Nólandil, Flávian’s ancient family had for centuries been a prominent fixture within the (now mostly defunct) landowning officer subclass of the lower Xirniumite aristocracy. Rather anachronistically, it had continued to maintain something of a military tradition. His mother, for instance, had served as an officer attached to the manoeuvres staff of the army, and his grandfather had held the position of artillery general. His father, when first he had met Flávian’s mother, had been a subaltern in a grenadier guards regiment, before later being made a staff officer.

Of somewhat impoverished noble heritage (at least, when compared with the fabulous wealth that characterised the main circles of the Xirniumite beau monde and the Eternal Republic’s fashionable society), Flávian had been adopted by his maternal aunt after the untimely death of his parents. The youth had spent most of his sickly childhood absorbed with classical novels of romantic adventure and heroism, and had been especially inspired by the daring campaigns of one of his ancestors in particular, who as it transpired had been an officer during the famed Golden Revolution of 1624. By the age of six, the bedtime stories of his aunt no longer seemed to suffice, and Flávian had begun to read the descriptions of various great battles to be found in famous works on Xirnium’s military history. Given so, it was perhaps not altogether unsurprising that Flávian eventually found attractive the prospect of a career which, as it happened, had not been very fashionable in the Eternal Republic for over two centuries at least, that of an army officer.

The general who emerged from the governmental aeroplane (flanked by his aide-de-camp) was of a height slightly taller than average, aristocratic in bearing and spare of frame. Dark haired, clean-shaven and handsome, he possessed incisive features and an expression of extreme calm. Flávian was smartly attired in immaculate, full ceremonial uniform, and cut a dash as the aristocratically cultivated, eminently sophisticated desk general; courteous and mild-mannered, yet slightly cool and unfriendly. The officers’ peaked cap that he wore had a high crown at the front, falling steeply at the sides, with attractive gold-coloured woven cord piping that identified him immediately as a member of the general staff. His single-breasted dress tunic was wonderfully well tailored and cut from fine, dark slate grey-coloured woollen worsted cloth, with a gold braided aiguillette, gilt cuff-braids and pleated breast pockets. Ornamental epaulettes embroidered with fine gilt and flashy golden collar tabs added a fetching touch to the look.

Along with the tunic was worn matching, slightly lighter grey dress trousers (with piping down the outer seam, flanked on either side with dashing, thin crimson stripes), in addition to a meticulously clean, white starched shirt and stylishly knotted, black silk tie. Much like his beloved home in the Eternal Republic, Jagiella was rather a cold place, and Flávian was thus obliged to don a handsome, double-breasted full-dress greatcoat, made from the finest quality (almost black-coloured) heavy melton cloth, with two rows of six gilt buttons (the top ones of which were left open to display the bright scarlet facing of the lapels) and elaborate gold-coloured shoulder boards. On his left breast were displayed a small number of distinctive medals, including the coveted Order of the Aureate Lamp. The long garment’s brilliant red facings (including its gilt-braided cuffs, lining and trim) contrasted charmingly with the solemn charcoal grey of the rest of the greatcoat, and gave the luxurious appearance of thin felt. Polished, black patent leather shoes and officers’ light grey suede gloves were also smartly worn. The combined effect of all that was worn was dashing and elegant but not ostentatious.

Perhaps most immediately striking of all was Flávian’s splendid eighteenth century cavalry sabre. An elegant, richly jewelled weapon, the pretty sword had intricate patterns employing delicately flowing, curvilinear forms expertly engraved upon its shiny blade, and a gilt braid sword-knot attached to its hilt. The gift of his late mother, it numbered amongst Flávian’s most greatly prized possessions.

Lieutenant General Valtâriel smiled to his hosts with that unaffected air of total confidence that appears to come so naturally to the noble born. To his left, Flávian’s adjutant stood impassive and reserved. Her attire was substantially the same, save for the very noticeable differences of a slim, close-fitting skirt whose hem came to slightly below the mid calf, a greatcoat that was cut more tightly around her narrow waist and upper body, and elegant high heeled shoes. In addition, Major Eúphrosyne Findáriel chose to don a flashy formal dress cape, whose long folds she drew around herself majestically. The aide-de-camp also wore a ribboned monocle, dark scarlet lipstick and attractive eye makeup, neither of which did much to soften her grave expression. Both officers were dignified, self-assured and very proud.

Both waited expectantly.

Gygax and Olbroz stood at attention. If either of the men paid especial attention to the truly beautiful Xirniumite uniforms, they gave no sign of it. A few of the musicians did pay especial attention to Major Findáriel until a stern glance from their sergeant turned their attention swiftly back to their instruments as they began to play Hail to thee, Xirnium Eternal. Only when the music was over, did Gygax and Olbroz step forward, saluting formally. Gygax spoke first. "Welcome to the Confederated Peoples. I'm General Hannes Gygax and this is General Januarius Olbroz. The President and the Secretary of Defense asked me to convey their pleasure that the Eternal Republic accepted our invitation as a sign of friendship and cooperation between our two peoples." Gygax had rather a stentorian voice and he spoke in a politely formal tone.

"The 1st Jagiellan Regiment is happy to have you as guests, Lieutenant General, Major." Olbroz added simply. "If you would care to accompany us back to the base, we can be on our way."

The Xirniumite staff officers politely returned the military salutes of their hosts, their palms naturally facing out as was the custom in most civilised nations. Eúphrosyne executed her salute with formal coldness, Flávian with the charming hint of a practiced, slightly rakish flair. Neither, of course, compromised on formality.

‘Thank you both for such kind and courteous a welcome,’ said the lieutenant general, smiling cordially at the two Confederals. Flávian spoke softly, with a faint but unmistakably patrician lilt. His tone of voice was gentlemanly; or, rather, it was high but not arrogant, bespeaking a chivalric nature. His air of calmness and good humour seemed neither forced nor feigned.

The Xirniumites briefly introduced themselves and took turns to courteously shake hands; General Valtâriel rather amiably, his aide-de-camp with somewhat stiff politeness. The pretty adjutant seemed slightly embarrassed about something, although over what precisely Flávian could not tell.

‘Pray lead the way,’ smiled the count.

The two Confederals allowed their Xirniumite counterparts to precede them into the vehicle. It was a fairly short drive back to Radtke Civil Defense Force Headquarters in St. Casimir. The building was located atop a hill with several hundred yards of open space between it and the nearest other buildings. It consisted of offices, barracks (not currently occupied by any permanent inhabitants), fortifications, a parade ground, a mess, a sick ward and a formal reception area. After a brief tour, the Xirniumites were taken to this last where they found a rather more elegant setting with several more officers waiting in dress uniform and fancy hors d’œuvre being served on silver platters being carried about by the staff. The room itself was austere yet formal with walls covered in white artificial marble topped by a beautifully molded entablature with a crisp and clean classical design. Over the mantle was a full-figure portrait of the King of Jagiella, who was, of course, better known as the Head of the Commonwealth. In the portrait, he was in a Jagiellan dress uniform and wearing a ceremonial blade. The floor was of a dark gold parquet and the center of the room featured a crystal chandelier with a ruby-red glass center. The rug was enormous and done in regimental colors. The room was well furnished but not crowded, containing enough chairs and couches for people to sit comfortable and for the room not to look too Spartan and a large grandfather clock in one corner. The one area where the room lacked elegance was in its fairly crass artificial lighting, large windows being quite out of the question, even in this least practical of rooms.

Flávian feigned a polite level of interest as he was taken on a short tour of the complex, nodding occasionally at the explanations of his hosts and asking one or two brief questions. It was all fairly familiar, of course, though he thought the setting rather modest for a regional military headquarters. Even its most elegant setting, which seemed pleasant enough, yet unremarkable, appeared to suggest military asceticism. Most parts of the complex, however, were far less comfortable than the reception room, stressing functionalism over form. Flávian found it all a little depressing.

In Xirnium, the leadership of the armed forces was located at the imposingly grand Angläthmäthern Palace, built in the early nineteenth century to a plan vaguely resembling a vast crescent and completely dominating the square where it was situated. In his mind’s eye, the count pictured its solemnly colonnaded neoclassical facade and the massive triumphal arch that connected its two great wings, surmounted by romantic mythical figures and crowned by a splendid golden chariot drawn by six horses and carrying the pagan goddess of glory. Flávian remembered the exquisite contrast of perfect white marble columns against a delicate light cream background, the dazzling luxuriousness of the palace’s interior baroque decorations, and the multitude of finely sculptured heroic figures that lined its roof.

Eúphrosyne, for her part, seemed more than a little bored at the proceedings, although perhaps this was merely her show of professional disinterest. She did not speak at all during the tour and politely refused to touch any of the hors d’oeuvre, wrinkling her nose at them and frowning a bit when Flávian sampled one. Eúphrosyne decided that the lack of large windows, doubtless the work of some overly paranoid military mind, almost certainly a male one, annoyed her most of all.

As the Xirniumites settled in at the party, the two leading officers headed back out to the airfield to await the Amestrians with similar honors. The Xirniumites were left to mill about while they waited for the Amestrians to show up. They soon found themselves standing next to a plump officer who seemed oblivious to the poor manners of the Xirniumites themselves. He just gave them a good-natured smile. "You know, this room isn't exactly original. It was more of less copied from Empress Alexandra's Formal Reception room in the palace."

He shrugged slightly before turning to face his guests. "We are very glad to have you here. I'm Lieutenant Julian Olichwierczuk. I think it's nice that they put a room like this in here. It certainly isn't usual in a working military base, especially what was, at the time, a forward base."

A younger officer, a blond woman whose insignia identified her as a colonel, passed near and took a sample of some of the food, frowning slightly and moving past without saying anything.

Général de corps d'Armée Justin Léopold Joffre and his aides-de-camp, Major Jean-Pierre Roussel and Captain Maria Leuvielle, exited their plane.

The Amestrian’s dress uniforms were as simple as the Xirniumite’s had been grand. Dark blue military jacket and trousers with a gray trim, a little golden tassel across the right breast, an old fashioned silver pocket watch, and a smart képi. Each uniform’s most intricate detail was the small Amestrian Dragon stitched into the right collar with gray thread. Simple, practical, efficient, they also doubled for office wear and mess dress. Little changed since the days of Leader-King Bradley, they were a straightforward symbol of power, authority, and continuation.

General Joffre, 61 years old, tall, stocky, with a thick white mustache and grandfatherly face, was an aged giant of a man; a veteran solider and true warrior-intellectual. The son of a peasant farming family, he had spent his childhood earning a living as a shepherd in the south-central Amestrian mountains. His primary schooling had been erratic and he never learned to speak the Standard Amestrian dialect. Then one day, while watching clouds, the young man had decided “I’m old enough to take my baccalaureate degree,” and subsequently begun studying for it on his own while tending the sheep. He won it easily. The following year he came in first in the entrance examinations for the École Nationale de Génie Industriel. “You were made for the École Polytechnique,” his professors told him, “a man of your abilities should be serving in our State’s Military.” A year later he entered that elite military institute. After graduation at the head of his class he became a military engineer and rapidly began rising through the ranks, his career one distinguished success after another. Among his decorations was the Héros de l'état.

By all rights he should have been promoted to Général d'Armée and, eventually, Général de l'Armée. However, he was a Republican officer, not a Bradlian. Although he had the confidence of a majority of the overall military establishment, who believed in his institutional loyalty, too many powerful members of the Deep State were wary of him. If they ever felt it necessary to launch an intervention or coup, Joffre was among those officers whose support could not be counted upon. General Joliot Romand distrusted Joffre so much that he placed him and his entire family on an unofficial top-secret list of citizens to be detained upon a declaration of National Emergency.

Had Joffre been less principled and fostered greater connections he probably could have been a candidate for a seat on the Military Council, and possible promotion to the near ultimate rank of Général des Armées. Instead, he would have to be satisfied with a teaching position at Le Spéciale École Militaire and the hope of one day becoming head of the École Polytechnique.

Upon reaching the tarmac, the three Amestrians stood at attention facing General’s Gygax and Olbroz and saluted them.

‘I think it’s very lovely, such a refreshing change from the drab conference rooms of most bases I’ve visited,’ smiled the Lieutenant General politely. ‘Isn’t it, Major?’ he asked, turning to his aide-de-camp with an amused twinkling in his eye.

Major Findáriel concealed her bored annoyance with Flávian, as she did her resentment at being dragged into so insipid a conversation.

‘Most splendid, sir,’ Eúphrosyne sighed.

‘Actually, the Major was telling me on our way over here just how excitedly she was anticipating the upcoming manoeuvres,’ continued Count Valtâriel conversationally, turning back to Julian. ‘Of course, we’re both very grateful for your hospitality, the Major especially.’

‘Excuse me,’ said Eúphrosyne, politely taking her leave of the two.

‘Always so eager to meet new people, the good Major,’ Flávian explained with a wink.

Olichwierczuk laughed slightly. "I can see that, sir." he said as his eyes followed the attractive but rather unpleasant woman briefly. He looked back to Valtâriel. "We're very glad to have you here. The maneuvers themselves are just ordinary land maneuvers. The troops will carry out a plan to 'capture' a high point a few miles from the city. However, building relationships with our friends, that's the important thing. So how do you feel that the Amestrians have also been invited? I know Xirnium and Amestria do not always see eye to eye."

...

Gygax and Olbroz returned the salutes smartly and stepped forward. Gygax smiled broadly. "Welcome to St. Casimir, gentlemen, madam. We are most honored to have you as our guests. If you are ready, we can proceed back to the base. We've arranged a reception for our guests. The maneuvers themselves, of course, are scheduled for tomorrow."

‘Ah well... you know,’ the count began with a worldly sigh, ‘the Lady Amestria might have been a lovely woman. Perfect in form, elegant in proportion... an exquisite delight. Rather not unlike Emaèldiä or Dana. All the potential was there, I think. Instead, she became more like a hideous spider. Bloated and ugly, brooding in the darkness. Quite loathsome to look at, really.’

Flávian grinned wryly, rather impressed and amused with his own metaphor. At a somewhat sharp look from Eúphrosyne, however, he quickly changed the subject.

‘Capture a hill, did you say? Sounds like grand fun.’

General Joffre warmly returned the smile, but did not seem to understand what had just been said.

Captain Maria Leuvielle stepped forward. A woman in her early thirties, her face at one time would have been considered quite attractive, but now it was impossible not to notice the deep scarring that covered the left side of her face and extended down her neck. It was clear that at one point in her life she had been badly burned. The Captain’s hair was cut very short, ending at the ears, and as she stepped forward a sudden burst of wind blew a few strands across her face, giving it an almost ghostly quality. Her waist was thick and stiff, her arms and shoulders strong. There was a simple gold wedding ring on her left hand.

“I’m Captain Leuvielle, the General’s personal aide and translator.”

She repeated what Gygax had said to Joffre in Standard Amestrian and the General lunged forward, shaking their hands and jovially clapping them both on the arm, all the while saying something really quickly in his people’s regional dialect. Leuvielle smiled a little.

“I am equally honored to be here,” Leuvielle translated. “I look forward to the maneuvers and experiencing your country’s hospitality.”

Major Jean-Pierre Roussel was a small, curious, beetle-like man with coal black hair and large dark unblinking brown eyes. Joffre and Leuvielle both seemed to tower over him. He did not step forward or say anything, he just watched, his face inscrutable. After the General had finished greeting Gygax and Olbroz, Leuvielle motioned to Roussel.

“Allow me to introduce Major Roussel.”

The Major nodded. “A pleasure…”

Gygax smiled once more. "Very well then. If you'll come with us, the reception is waiting. The Xirniumite officers are already there." He gestured the Amestrian guests to the vehicles and the party was soon on its way.

Olichwierczuk shook his head slightly at the anti-Amestrian rant. "It promises to be interesting. We like to think that the Jagiellan Army Civil Defence Force is the best in the Confederated Peoples."

The count smiled with benevolent amusement.

‘Ah, how splendid! Good old-fashioned interservice rivalry, marvellous,’ he exclaimed, clapping Julian on the back. ‘I admire your youthful enthusiasm, young man. Indeed, I envy it. Oh, for the lost days of grand adventure! For my kind, there are not even windmills left to fight.’

When the appetiser tray neared again, Flávian lightly plucked a herring roe canapé.

‘Have you ever tried roe? But of course you haven’t. You really should, though, it’s quite nice,’ spoke Count Valtâriel. ‘I find it goes especially well with a lovely walnut cordial. None of that here, alas.’

The military dandy finished his hors d'oeuvre without leaving even the tiniest of crumbs on his glove.

‘Now, my dear sir, you really have been dreadfully remiss,’ Flávian continued, not giving the man a moment to speak. ‘How is it that you’ve neglected to tell me all about that lovely creature by the painting? Your commander, I presume?’ he asked, referring to the blonde colonel.

Olichwierczuk laughed slightly, "I suppose you could call it that although I'm not sure that inter-service is the correct word. Provincial might be better."

He shrugged as he took an appetizer himself, "I've never had roe. What is it? I think that this is excellent kielbasa we have here today, however. I've always been a great lover of traditional Polish food. It always seems so much more flavorful than a lot of the other foods I've encountered in my life and it never makes me ill."

He followed the Xirniumites gaze to the woman. "That's Colonel Stanislawa Charnowski. She's one of the few full time officers in the Defence Force at present. She also happens to be an extremely attractive woman and I'm fairly sure she's single. Would you like an introduction?"

He smiled at the Xirniumite as he ate another small sausage. "I see the reputation of Xirniumite gentlemen is justified."

As they drove and later walked along, General Joffre, speaking through Captain Leuvielle, politely asked a number of questions about the Radtke Civil Defense Force Headquarters, its history, and the architects who had designed it. Major Roussel remained silent.

‘Single, did you say, my dear lieutenant? Hah! But I knew it from the first,’ declared Count Valtâriel, not taking his greedy eyes off the lady. ‘Though of course marriage is hardly any insurmountable barrier, at least not in my experience. I tend to find it only adds to the thrill of the chase,’ he said, clapping Julian on the back again.

The military dandy removed his peaked cap and swept his dark hair forward. Flávian had never taken to the practice of colouring his hair, and so it contained a number of handsome streaks of pepper grey, giving him the air of a crafty old fox.

‘Well...? Lead on, my good man, lead on!’

Joffre's questions were answered in tedious detail by his hosts, passing the time on the long journey. When they did arrive, he was shown into the same room with the Xirniumites and he and his staff were told to make themselves at home.

Olichwierczuk nodded and led the way over to Charnowski, "Colonel, I wonder if you've met Count Valtâriel?"

"Not as yet," she said without inflection, extending one milky white hand, palm down.