NationStates Jolt Archive

Forty seven years ago

Nineteen year old Dan skulled the pint. “How did you go in that paper on hydrogen carbon properties, Dan?” said Jennifer.

“Professor Southwaite disputed my calculations,” said Dan, pushing away the empty glass, “I did make a minor mistake; but the principle is correct. I resubmitted the paper with the error fixed; but he refuses to see that it changes nothing.”

“You’re are only a second year,” said Jennifer, putting her arm around him, “Of course the academics won’t admit they’re wrong.”

Jennifer was in her fourth and final year of medicine, despite being the same age as Dan (Dan, like all Farminan men had to do two years compulsory military service at age fifteen). Women were not common at FNU (Farminan National University); the Holy Republic tended to feel a woman’s place was in the home. Dan ran his hand through his girlfriend’s silky blond hair, “Want to go to a movie?”

“What do you want to see?” asked Jennifer, finishing her orange juice.

“The Ministry for Culture has recommended ‘Libertad!’,” suggested Dan, “The tale of the great Farminan armies sweeping over the imperialists in the west.”

“I have heard it is better than most films,” nodded Jennifer, meaning that it was less transparent than most of the propaganda the Ministry for Culture tried ramming down the Farminans’ throats in the names of the Grey Catholic Church.

Jennifer wrapped her arm around Dan’s. Although he was still physically developing, slower through puberty than most, he had already developed significant upper body strength and was taller than most people. Dan’s hair was short and blond, with beautiful blue eyes, a sign of good breeding in Farmina. “Did you hear that Richard Grey has had another son?” said Jennifer, “Apparently they plan to christen him Tobias.”

“Two sons,” said Dan, standing up, “That securers the Great Grey line for another generation or two.”

Harkon Leverus Grey, Richard Grey’s father was currently Grand Chancellor, the most powerful figure in Elected Councils. Generally Grand Chancellor’s were not powerful, but Harkon Leverus Grey had connections; head of the Grey family and descended from the Leverus family. When he talked; everyone listened. That put the Grey’s in a powerful position for some time to come.

The two young lovebirds walked out of the tavern, when a man who could have only been a few years older than them blocked their path. “May I help you?” asked Dan, holding Jennifer tighter, disconcerted about the man.

“Is your name Daniel Grey?” asked the man; dressed in a very expensive suit, and an unnecessarily large top hat (although they were currently all the rage in Farminan upper echelons).

“No sir,” said Dan politely, “They call me Dan Rickhart.”

“Daniel Rickhart,” nodded the well dressed man, “That is what I meant to say. The Grey birth is on my mind.”

“Very good news isn’t it sir,” said Dan, noting that Jennifer was nervously tugging on his arm, “Just heard about it myself. May I ask who you are?”

“Good news indeed,” said the man emotionlessly, “My name is Professor Michael James Walter. Daniel, I’ve read your paper on hydrocarbons, your work was very interesting.”

“Why are you interested in hydrocarbons?” asked Jennifer, “I know that you teach the humanities not the sciences.”

“I am a professor of all things,” said the Professor gruffly, before adding more politely, “However you are correct, I’m not interest in hydrocarbons, I’m interested in the mind that wrote about them.”

“Lord Professor,” said Dan, showing the professor the correct reverence, second in line to the title of Lord Walter, “Why are you interested in me?”

“You showed a widely applicable brilliance,” said the Professor, “Potential that I feel others, including Professor Southwaite, cannot comprehend. You not only did very thorough calculations; but you understood them and were able to see around your own mistake rather than being trapped by it. That potential needs to be harvested.”

“What do you want of him?” snapped Jennifer.

“I am offering him private tutorage my dear. Preparing for war if you will,” said the Professor, the metaphor of war striking Dan and Jennifer as strange, “A comprehension of game theory; to be able to play a hand several moves in advance. Are you interested Daniel?”

“I suppose Lord Professor,” said Dan, “I suppose I am.”

“See me in my office on Monday at ten. Enjoy your movie,” smiled the young professor, in a way that made Jennifer shudder.

“Ten it is Lord Professor,” Dan nodded.

Dan and Jennifer continued on towards the cinema, when suddenly Dan paused, “How did the Professor know we were going to the movies?”

“Come in,” said the Professor, opening the door for young Rickhart, “Take a seat, would you like a cup of coffee?”

“Thank you, yes,” said Dan, “I want to ask how you knew we were going to the...”

Professor Walter sat down and poured two cups of coffee, “Have a look at that map; what does it tell you?”

Dan sat down and pulled in his chair, before examining the map, “It’s a map of Farmina, and there in the south is Arandior, the red bit, appropriate really.”

“Well I’m glad you can identify the map,” said the Professor, passing Dan a cup of coffee, “But what does it tell you.”

“I don’t know,” said Dan, grabbing the cup and placing it in front of himself, “Farmina is still where it was last week?”

“Imagine the nation isn’t Farmina, imagine it isn’t a nation,” chuckled the Professor, “What does the situation look like?”

“It looks like there is a red hole stabbed into a blue blob,” said Dan, tracing his finger along the Arandior-Farmina border, then tracing his finger along a dotted line heading north, “Five years ago that stab wound looked even bigger.”

“Okay Dan,” said the Professor, “Now remember it is Farmina.”

“I’m not following,” said Dan, taking a drink of his coffee, “Are you saying Farmina’s been stabbed?”

“The entire continent is now Farmina,” said the Professor, “Except Arandior; and we bit off half of that five years ago.”

Dan Rickhart ran his finger along the coastline of Farmina. Over the years, Farminan governments had been taking territory and now the continent was nearly united. Dan Rickhart spoke softly, “There is going to be another war, isn’t there? The Church is going to try and smash the heretic leftists of Arandior.”

“Exactly,” said the Professor, “As soon as the government gets another excuse; they are going to storm in and take over what’s left of Arandior.”

“They had a good excuse five years ago,” said Dan, “Why didn’t they take it all at once.”

“First we are talking about politicians,” said the Professor, “Secondly it would have been diplomatically hard to justify invading the Socialist south; considering out excuse for war was to ensure Arandior was in two separate parts. Thirdly, it’s easier to subjugate a nation by parts. Finally, and probably most importantly, Farmina wasn’t properly prepared for full scale war if another nation interfered on Arandior’s behalf.”

“Farmina is stronger now but,” said Dan, with the confidence naturally embedded in youth.

“Stronger,” said Professor Walter, “But not strong; however that won’t avert a war. I sense a great dedication to a complete naval boundary and the government won’t let an excuse go to waste when it appears.”

“Farmina is strong,” insisted Dan, “We have many tanks and planes and ships.”

“Not as many as we should have,” said the Professor, passing Dan a piece of paper, “Especially ships. But there is more to power than the number of men and machines. Have you see this petition?”

“I’m not interested in politics,” said Dan firmly.

“Perhaps you should be,” said the Professor, “Read the petition.”

“Industrialization of Farmina,” muttered Rickhart as he sipped his coffee reading the details, “Stinking factories making unneeded consumables. We have enough factories polluting the air.”

“Power comes from industry Dan, to build tanks and planes and bombs we need factories and ports and roads,” said the Professor with great conviction, “Next to many nations modern nations we look like the Amish. Industrialization on this scale will take decades; but before that can even begin we need to make the government listen and stop its current efforts to effectively smash industry.”

“I don’t like it,” said Dan, realizing that Professor Walter probably had a point, “Plus government statistics show Farminan production rivals international levels.”

“My numbers are more accurate than government claims,” responded the Professor passing Dan another page, “World class production techniques will allow us to build a strong military, put the unemployed in jobs, ensure enough food and goods for everyone, build schools and hospitals; not to mention export the surplus at a healthy profit.”

The Professor paused and completely changed the topic, “Talking about statistics I’ve had the mark on your hydrocarbons paper changed.”

“You talked to Professor Southwaite?” asked Dan, finishing up his coffee.

“No,” answered Professor Walter, “The stubborn fool would be convinced that there were only four elements were he raised by an alchemist. I went over his head.”

“Who to?” said Dan, wondering just what connections this young professor had.

“A friend,” the Professor responded, “And your girlfriend is waiting outside; she wants to go for some morning tea.”

“How in blazes did you know that?” asked Dan, “And how did you know I was going to the movies on Friday?”

“You knew war is coming for just looking at a map,” retorted the Professor, “You’ve looked into the future; all I did was note the direction you were walking, your expressions, your situation, leading me to a reasonable deduction.”

“Then how do you know she is here now?” Dan questioned distrusting the Professor.

“Behind you is a window looking into the foyer,” said the Professor, pointing past Dan.

Dan turned around to see that there was in fact a window. He gave a small wave and blew Jennifer a kiss, who did the same in return. “Take a break Dan, you have other things on your mind,” said the Professor, “Then I shall help you think clearly and to make precise deductions.”

“To see the future,” said Dan standing up.

“To see the universe,” responded the Professor, “And to control it. Meet here at one o’clock.”

“What if I happened to have a class?” said Dan.

“You don’t,” responded the Professor confidently.

Dan was tempted to ask the Professor how he knew that; but he had a very good guess and didn’t want it confirmed. Instead he walked quickly out the door. He turned towards where Jennifer was sitting and kissed her on the cheek. She stood up and put her arms around his neck, lifting her lips towards his. After a brief kiss, she kept her hands around his neck and asked, “So what did you talk about?”

“I don’t have the faintest idea,” said Dan, removing her left hand from his neck and placing it in his right, “Lets go down to the river and have some chips.”

“I am perfectly capable of walking,” said Jennifer, as Dan carried her firmly in his powerful arms, while she hung her arms around his neck, “God gave me two legs you know.”

“Very nice legs too,” noted Dan, giving an exaggerated look.

“You didn’t need to carry me all the way to your house,” she insisted, kissing him briefly on the lips (not too long in fear of causing him to drop her in distraction), “So what did the Professor bring up in your second discussion in one day?”

“Its strange,” said Dan, for a moment turning distracted, “First he seemed very panicked and tried to teach me the entire works of John Nash in ten minutes. Then he beat me in a game of chess before thrashing me in several hands of poker. Strange fellow I say. He wants me to go back tomorrow, after I’ve read Nash’s PhD.”

Jennifer however observed the distraction, “You seem bothered.”

“That blue car,” said Dan, “I’m sure it’s the third time its driven past us.”

“There are a lot of blue cars,” observed Jennifer. This was certainly true; blue was one of the few colours of car that the Ministry of Culture hadn’t banned as ‘subversive’.

The answer didn’t comfort Dan; although the fact he was nearly home did. The rest of the journey was ominously silent. For a long time Dan had felt a presence watching him. Never acting; just watching and waiting. He thought that it had been the same car three times; and if it was, they, whoever they were, had been far more careless than usual. Perhaps his visit to the Professor, brother to Lord Walter, had pricked their attention. Perhaps he was being paranoid.

Dan stopped on the front porch of the small house he shared with his aunt; using hands to open the door, while still supporting Jennifer in his arms, “You can put me down now if you want.”

“I want to hold onto you forever,” insisted Dan, using his foot to push the door all the way open.

“Showing off won’t do your back any good young man,” said a wearied voice from inside the house, “One day you’ll be old and weak. Then you’ll feel every moment you put too much weight on your back.”

“Hello Aunt Dorothy,” said Dan, like all youth, not truly believing that one day he would be old and weak. None the less, he slowly and gently allowed Jennifer to stand on her own feet.

Aunt Dorothy came into the hall. A middle aged lady, time had worn on her worse than most. She had raised Dan since his parents died when he was very young. She never had children of her own; Dan was the closest thing she had to a son. Her face had wrinkled and her waist and widened. Her hair was more grey than blond. She didn’t approve of Jennifer; no one would be good enough for the closest thing she had to a son, she did however tolerate.

“Our Dan,” said Jennifer diplomatically, as Dan began putting her down, “Thinks ‘they’ are following him again.”

“Do you really think the Church has the resources to go around watching you, your entire life young man?” said Aunt Dorothy, “Especially now.”

Dan had never mentioned that he thought it was the Church (although there was not many other options); but it was the last two words caught his attention. Jennifer slipped an arm around Dan’s lower back (Aunt Dorothy made it clear there would be no kissing under her roof, though she had allowed hugging…grudgingly) and beat her boyfriend to the punch, “‘Especially now’, what?”

“At midday the Cardinals began an emergency conference. They then summoned the Elected Councils as of three o’clock,” began Dorothy in her tired voice, “Something has rattled the Church’s cage.”

Dan placed his arm behind Jennifer and led her to the living room where the small black and white television was on, displaying the government newsfeed, “Supreme Commander White has ordered an increased alertness in the military and has sealed all land borders. Grand Chancellor Grey has not commented, noting that it would be inappropriate to comment on matters still in proceedings.”

Jennifer looked a little puzzled by it all; never having paid much attention to politics and international relations. This explained the Professor’s panic. Dan recalled his conversations with Professor Walter earlier in the day, “I think we are going to war.”

The older man in his sixties looked out of his window. It was late at night, but with the spotlights, guard patrols and the occasional police vehicle, it made the ground quite visible. He disliked having to run this curfew, or the whole damned martial law. It was close to the 30th aniversary of the martial law implimentation, where he and two others took control of this God-forsaken continent. Damn those selfish bastards! The people have no clue to how to run a country, or keep themselves in check! Although he and the two others disliked running a totalitarian police state, it has, so far, kept crime very low, and with all of the more lax restrictions since the infamous criminal-clensing protocol, people are now more happier with the system. Over two-hundred fifty-thousand dead from the clensing alone. The continent used to be home to over six billion people, then post-war count counted nine-hundred-thirty million people. So many dead. He saw his world get destroyed in a blink of an eye.

However, he and the other two leaders that he got together, and rebuilt what was left from the ashes of the world's most devastating continental civil war in the history of mankind. The standards of living are better, government jobs were plentiful, and he forced the government to work for the people.

No matter, he thought. The restrictions were terrible. And something about the future security of the MES needed to be completed. They were getting old. If anything happened to the three of them...

"General Reiff," a voice replied.

The General turned towards the guard standing by the door. "Yes Corporal?"

"Sir, that information you requested has arrived." The guard produced a large packing envelope, and handed it to Reiff. "Thank you, you are relieved," Reiff replied.

The guard saluted, and walked out of the room, leaving Reiff holding the envelope. He read the name.

To: Supreme General Arik Reiff, Central Command
From: Maj. Killia Sheppard, Intelligence Bureau

He opened it as he walked towards his desk. He sat down, as he pulled a CD out of the package. He put the envelope aside, and put the CD into the drive. He loaded up the disk to reveal statistical data retreived by a general census.

"I think it's time for that change," the General mused.

========


“Yee-haa!!!”

One of the aircraft flew in a tight loop, as another maneuvered his XG-20 Fighting Fury, and came in sights of the other fighter. His aimsight filled with the view of the fighter, at which point he fired a quick burst of modified bullets into the fighter in front of him. The other fighter spins out of control, and his landing and navigational lights flash in a brilliant display of lights. His fighter drifts away in a spin, downwards.

“I admit it, mister Ricky Dasch… you have guts. You nearly rammed me in mid maneuvering. One of these days you’re going to get killed, either by that or by me.”

Ricky laughed at Jonathan Ackvick’s comment over the communications system. They had known each other since the academy days, and had been good friends and ‘bitter rivals’ ever since. As Jonathan's XG-20 gained altitude to match Ricky's height and speed. “Hey, Johnny Boy, up for another?”

“Nah…I’ve had enough dogfighting today. Oh, and I do not have an ugly mug. Yes I know you are wondering how I knew you were thinking that, but I could tell by the looked of your face.”

Damn he’s good… Ricky thought humorously. “Alright, race you to the Defiance!” he yelled, as he gunned his jet engines to full. John reset the systems of his own XG-20 and they flew back towards the Defiance.

Down below, the Defiance filled their view. It was a large carrier, about nine-hundred meters long, designed as a catamaran, and with two carrier decks. A island with various pieces of equipment and systems sat in the center, dividing the two runways. Ricky throttled back, lowered his landing gear, and dropped his landing hook as he lined up for the runway.

"See you at debriefing," Jonathan yelled as he throttled up to try to beat him back to the carrier.

The clock struck eleven as Dan flipped through the newspaper. In the past he hadn’t paid much interested to the world of politics; but Professor Walter had insisted he pay more attention. It was Wednesday and Dan was on his way to another meeting with strange academic. Then Dan saw something on page 12 of the paper, “Lord Tony Prescott returns to Verica. Personal welcome from Grey.” The Professor had mentioned Lord Prescott; he was the ambassador to Arandior. The Professor’s secretary broke Dan’s train of thought, “You may go in now.”

Rickhart looked up from the paper, folded it and walked into Professor Walter’s office. “So you have started paying attention,” said Professor Walter, spotting the paper, “Shame the papers are so heavily censored; but you can still read between the lines.”

“Farmina has withdrawn its ambassador,” said Dan, taking his seat in front of Walter’s desk, “It appears war is coming sooner than anyone predicted.”

“You can read between the lines,” observed the Professor, “The timing is very unfortunate however; we have so much still to discuss.”

“I haven’t been called up yet,” said Dan, immediately realizing how silly that sounded. He had performed very well during his national service and been made a corporal; that was only two years ago. He would be at the top of the list of conscripts; his only mild protection being that he was a university student.

The Professor sat silently, then Dan realized something else, “Some of your things have been packed up. They haven’t called you up have they?”

“No actually,” said the Professor examining (much to Dan’s discomfort) the student’s physical form, “Simply a matter of too much clutter; but I suspect they will be calling you up very soon unfortunately.”

“We’ll lick’em,” said Dan confidently, “The fight will be over before our enemies know it has started.”

“Perhaps,” said the Professor, “I fear that foreign leftists will support the Arandiorians this time. I suspect politics will dominate tactics on the Farminan side. The Arandiorian military is weak, but that doesn’t mean they can’t hurt us. With an ally; they could cause us significant pain.”

Dan smelt the foul stench of truth on that statement, “I suspect you may be correct; but we have God on our side.”

“Aye, God,” said the Professor, “I fear we need more tanks and ships; God is good, but he cannot win this for us without acting overtly.”

Dan sighed, “Perhaps the government is too bold in taking this course of action.”

“Perhaps,” said the Professor, “But what happened if the Church didn’t order a return to hostilities now?”

“Why is the militarizing mobilizing?” asked Dan, “Other than to remove Arandior from the map? What is the government’s excuse?”

“Haven’t you heard?” said the Professor, “The military caught the People’s Republic of Arandior shipping weapons north into occupied Arandior to leftist rebels. Not that we didn’t know they were; simply they hadn’t been caught in the act until now.”

“Then we would look soft if we let them get away with it,” said Dan, not entirely surprised by the news, “They’ll push the envelope some more and become even bolder in their weapon smuggling.”

The Professor nodded, Dan was good at reading the situation and could see moves in advance. “Then we should fight?” asked the Professor.

“Even if we lose,” responded Dan, “As long as we don’t lose badly. We need them to be hurt. A reminder we won’t be slapped in the face without giving a nasty bite.”

“Even if we lose,” repeated the Professor; although he wasn’t as optimistic as Dan, Farmina losing was hard to contemplate. Stalling, yes. Losing wasn’t something he wanted to think about. The Professor nodded his head solemnly; Dan could certainly had the capacity to see the moves in advance and he would undoubtedly improve with practice and time.

“Your poker game is very bad,” said the Professor, “You need to have more bluff.”

Dan however didn’t see the relevance, “I don’t like taking big risks. Small risks cancel each other out. Big risks end in big losses.”

“Or big gains,” said the Professor, “A riskless strategy is predictable and beatable.”

Dan nodded, there was some logic to this. He certainly wasn’t completely risk averse, but some risks were also too great, “Like this war. There is a risk; but we must take now, else our resolve look empty.”

“If it is a must,” said the Professor, “Is it really a risk, a gamble?”

Dan paused in thought, unsure of the answer, as the Professor dealt out a hand of cards. They played several rounds of poker. Dan was beaten; but not as badly as he had been two days before.

“That’s enough for today,” said the Professor, realising it was past midday, “I shall see you again soon.”

“Shouldn’t we organize another session?” asked Dan.

“We will,” confirmed the Professor, “Later.”

“Goodbye sir,” said Dan giving a small nod to the Professor, before hurrying off to the Chemistry library to work on a paper.

With Dan Rickhart was gone the Professor picked up his telephone, “It seems he is all you claimed and more. He has the strength, the mind and the appearance. He is clearly spoken and a good dose of sheer aggression. I do however have fear there is a flaw in your Mister Daniel Rickhart…”

Who could possible write a paper with a marching band playing just outside the library? It took a moment for Dan to realise that the FNU didn’t have its own marching band. Packing up his books he proceeded out of the Chemistry library towards FNU’s main oval. Men in military uniforms paraded around banging drums and blowing brass instruments. University students stood either side of the path taken by the soldiers, cheering with the fierce and invincible patriotism, that stemmed from the arrogance and ignorance of youth.

Dan looking into the crowd; military recruiters signing up the university students. “Avoid the draft,” was one cry being called out, which struck Dan rather silly; six of one, wasn’t an evasion of half a dozen of another.

“The women love a man in uniform,” yelled another recruiter.

“Employers respect heroes,” said yet another, “Make your nation proud.”

Dan felt a sudden tugging on his arm and said, “Hello beautiful.”

“Hi Dan,” said Jennifer, “Apparently Arandior has been caught smuggling weapons north. The Elected Councils have publicly issued a list of demands to prevent war; Arandior has so far refused.”

There had been evidence of diplomatic tensions since Monday, now it was public why, “When did the news break?”

“Midday,” said Jennifer, holding Dan’s arm tight, “Why do you ask?”

“Professor Walter mentioned it a little after eleven,” said Dan, “How wonderful to have friends in high places.”

“And enemies,” said Jennifer recalling the long running dispute between the Grey family and the Walter family, “But I have something to tell you.”

Dan, watching the parading military men, said, “And what would that be?”

“Don’t I get a kiss first?” asked Jennifer.

“I suppose I could oblige,” said Dan, before locking his girlfriend in a long and passionate kiss.

When the kiss finally broke, Jennifer commented, “Much better.”

“The news?” asked Dan.

“I’ve signed up,” said Jennifer, glowing with pride.

“You’re a lady,” pointed out Dan, sounding a little confused.

“I already know that,” said Jennifer, “I’m going to work in a military hospital. Since I’ve finished my core units; I can get credit from the experience, hopefully enough to finish my degree. Have you signed up yet?”

“Not yet,” said Dan; not completely approving what he saw as rash action, but trying to hide it.

“I assume you plan too?” said Jennifer.

“Actually I don’t,” said Dan cautiously, “I suspect I’ll be called up to my old unit any day now. The letter has probably already reached home.”

The look on Jennifer’s face was anything but impressed, “Your country needs you now Dan; not when some letter arrives. Your country needs to be strong. If we let a poxy nation like Arandior kick us around what stops someone bigger thinking they can kick us around too?”

Dan was about to talk, when she continued her patriotic outburst, “One island, one nation. We need men in uniform; especially ones as clever, brave and strong as you. You beat everyone at everything Dan; I’m sure you can beat a bunch of soft Arandiorians. If you fight Dan, this war ’ll make you a hero, I’m sure of it.”

It occurred to Dan that Jennifer had obviously never seen his appalling poker game. He also wondered if she considered a single bullet could end his life. Even it didn’t kill him; a bullet planted in his spine would mean he would no longer be able to walk. He certainly wouldn’t be able to continue in the university gymnastics or athletics team. He wouldn’t even be able to play soccer or…the list of crippled activities went on. But even dying or a spinal injury shrunk when compared to surviving with a brain injury.

“You just want a man in uniform,” retorted Dan mockingly.

“You got me,” she laughed, putting her arm around his back.

“I suspect you’ll get your chance,” said Dan, “Professor Walter hasn’t arranged for another of his strange lessons. He must know I’m going to be shipped west.”

There was a brief silence, for no good reason other than they had finished the conversation; and both turned their attention to the marching band.

“I have to go and get some forms filled out by the Medical department,” said Jennifer, breaking the silence, “I need them to approve credit for military service.”

“Bye,” he said, putting both his arm’s around Jennifer, pulling her close before giving her another long kiss.

The kiss came to an end and Jennifer looked up into his eyes and said, “I do love saying ‘goodbye’.”

With that she exited his hug, walked off for a small distance, giving a wave and blowing a kiss.

Dan paused for a moment. The marching band was still making a ridiculous amount of noise; and more importantly was the point of continuing his work on the paper if he would be called up before he could finish it. So Dan decided to keep it simple and head home.

Dan opened the door to the house he shared with his Aunt. Since he hadn’t brought Jennifer home, his Aunt hadn’t mysteriously appeared out of thin air to keep an eye on what she saw as a young, impressionable boy of very strong qualities; who was being stolen by some middleclass bimbo who just wanted Dan for her own selfish reasons.

The black and white television had been left on in the small Rickhart lounge room. That wasn’t usual behaviour for Aunt Dorothy. Money was scarce and his dear Aunt had to scavenge every Haren she could. But since the television was on; Dan sat down and watched the government news channel. Talk of war was public now. The segment showed Grand Chancellor Harkon Leverus Grey was explaining the ‘peace’ offer the Church and the Elected Councils had made to Arandior, “…we require an end to weapon smuggling by the People’s Republic of Arandior. In reparation for said illegal weapon smuggling we require the PRA to completely fund all law enforcements if Free Arandior. Furthermore the PRA must place the Guarn Plateau and all its national waters to Farminan control to prevent further illegal weapon smuggling. Also the People’s Republic of Arandior must surrender all military aircraft, naval vessels and two thirds of its armoured vehicles to Farmina to prove that it has no hostile intentions. One half of the Worker’s Council of Arandior shall be appointed by the Grey Catholic Church, to control militantism in the Arandoirian government…”

The Church and the Elected Councils had delivered an ultimatum that the PRA couldn’t accept. Then when the PRA refused repeatedly; Farmina could jump and down yelling, “We made our peace gesture.” Dan could see that now. A soft noise urged him to turn off the television. As the screen disappeared and the sound stopped, the noise became louder, a sobbing from beyond the wall.

Walking into his Aunt Dorothy’s bedroom, pushing the half shut door open, he saw her sitting on the bed. She was sobbing, but not crying, over a yellow letter. How long she had been there would be anyone’s guess. She could have been crying earlier; Dan dared not ask. Instead he simply took the damp yellow letter and read it slowly; it was as he suspected.

“They’re taking you away from me my boy,” Dorothy sobbed, “What am I going to do without you my boy? Promise you’ll come back.”

“I promise to return Aunt Dorothy,” said Dan kneeling down, “Have I ever let you down?”

Dorothy put her arms around Dan, “Never my boy. You’re all anyone could want for a child.”

“You’re the closest thing I’ve ever had to a mother Aunt Dorothy,” said Dan, a tear rolling down his cheek.

“And you my son,” said Aunt Dorothy, realising unlike Dan, the true irony of the discussion.

“My dear Aunt; my dear, dear aunt,” returned Dan, “How I shall miss you.”

Aunt Dorothy broke off the hug. Dan could see how burdened she looked, “But I will return for you and for Jennifer.”

Aunt Dorothy sobbed, upset about losing Dan to the war, but also to evocation of the name Jennifer, whom also threatened to steal Dan.

“I will return.” But first young Dan Rickhart had to leave for “Free” (that is to say occupied) Arandior; the very next morning.

[OOC: Tag, since I like this alot and subscribe didn't seem to work.]

"This is unfortunate."

A small of piles were put down on the table. A man of Asian descent, who appeared to be in his mid-fifties, looked over his glassed up at the other people at the table, as he withdrew his hand from the pile. "I was hoping that this relative peace would hold."

Another man, to his left, a cockasian in the same age with a tint of his old haircolor of light blond hair showing his orginal heritage. "Zis is vary unforzunate, Arik," the man replied in broken english, his Zarmanian accent from the old coninental nation still strong. "Butz you hat to hadmit, zis had been comingz for quitz some time."

The third man looked towards the former Zarmanian. "I hate to say, it is unfortunate, but time that we moved towards the second phase," an African-Messian said from his seat. He was easily the oldest looking of the men, even though he was only a few years older. His white hair deeply contrasted to his black skin. "Alex, Arik, do we have everything ready for stage two?"

The other two looked at each other. "Jes Osmund," Alex replied. "I haz zee filez you requezted right herez."

Alex then leaned over to the side to grab a carry bag. He put it down on the table, opened it up, and brought out a large binder of documents. "Here are zee new requirementz for owar replazementz."

He took a decent sized paperback folder out of the mass, and put it on the table. He then pushed it to the middle of the table. "Theze Force Commandars, do zoo thinks that thiz system vill vurk?"

There was silence at the table. "If we fail here, then everything we've worked for will have been for nothing, and the nation will again fall into anarchy," Osmund replied. "Our best lawyers, specialists, psychiatrists and level-headed thinkers have put these requirements together, and after a final lookthrough, we shall make this official."

The other two Generals nodded. "I'm getting too old for this," Osmund commented, while he tugged on his sleeve. "We need to leave a legacy for our children to fourish. Now, about phase two..."

After a short pause, Alex turned to Osmund. "Do zit."

Alexander Hines
Osmund Kirkland

Outside the great government building, which has stood the test of time and the great war, decorated with old-style building decorations, the great patio, overlooking a major square and normally used to address the nation, the Generals walked onto the patio, overlooking a large waiting crowd. Alex and Arik stood to the side, as Osmund took to the podium. He was by far the most popular of the Generals, but that didn't make him the most liked person on earth.

Osmund took some papers, looked at the crowd, tested the mike, cleared his throat, and looked straight at the crowd.

"Today, citizens of the Militia Enforced State," he said before being cut off by booing and yelling. Guards stood at the ready at ground level, as well as snipers on the roof, and the elderly General waved at them to back off somewhat. After letting the crowd yell some more for a moment, he nodded to the sound operator to boost the volume. The volume went way up, nearly defening those in front. "Today, citizens, I have brought you here to announce a new piece of history for our nation. Today, I bring you freedom."

Instead of cheering, there was more booing and yelling. Some people yelled very vulgur language at them, while others yelled at them being liars, while others still yelled 'democracy now!'. The General looked back at his papers, and kept reading. "Today, I give you freedom," he said over the booing crowd. "We have listen to your appeals to be saved from the restrictions of the fifty-year martial law, we..."

Suddenly, a loud bang echoed in front of Osmund, as a bullet hit hard into the bullet proof glass in front of him. "Liars!" people yelled from down below, as more shots rang out. Some people carefully moved away from the shooting so if the guards fired out in revenge which was commonly known, they wouldn't be shot.

Osmund didn't flinch as he kept reading. "Today, marks a new day for the *Bang* Militia Enforced State. *Bang* Today, the martial *Bang* is over."

Suddenly, everyone went silent. They looked at the General with a stunned look. "I said, the martial law is over."

Suddenly, a loud cheer from the crowd below was heard. People hugged and kissed, others jumped for joy, while only a few kept yelling 'liar!'. "Today, my children," Osmund said with a tear, "Today, it is time for you all to grow up. Your fifty year punishment for the continental civil war, is over. You are free within reason. No more curfews, no more common police checks, no access restrictions."

More cheering filled the square. Osmund looked at the other Generals, smiling. Arik returned the smile, although Alex was not. He looked disapointed.

After the cheering died down to a few whistles and yells, Osmund turned back. "Onto more serious notes, there will be some restrictions, still."

The people went silent again. "Although our crime system will no longer have the judge-jury-executioner approach, and have proper due process, we will be keeping the death penalty to all violent criminals."

There was a little bit of cheering to it, though the rest were listening. "As well, the security camera system will still be used. We will no longer monitor in the home, but for your safety and ours, those will stay."

A little bit more murmuring and cheers came from the crowd. "And as well, we will be setting up the Force Commander system, to replace us when our time comes. We are not immortal, nor Gods. We hope with a very selective and rigorous filtering system, we can bring new, uncorrupted individuals into power, and work for you, the people!"

There was some more cheering, but still not as much as earlier. Some yelled 'democracy now!'.

"Now, citizens of the MES, today will be a national holiday, which I will coin "Humanity day", for today, where you can live mostly normal lives. Now, get out there, and enjoy your new freedoms!"

There was loud cheering from the crowd as the General walked back. The other two Generals twisted on their heels and followed in behind. "Now," Osmund said, "We now look for Force Commanders."

“Selvak station,” called the instructor; announcing the steam train’s arrival at the capital of Free Arandior.

Hundreds of men in the green-grey of Farminan of military uniforms emptied out of the train onto the platform. Some were anxious while others were nervous to join their units. Young Dan Rickhart was faceless among the many. Soon hundreds, thousands, and more, of these faces of youth would to be brutally extinguished in the flames of war.

Dawn was barely breaking in Arandior; but this city was clearly smaller than Verica, if it counted as a city at all. Looking south, Dan could see the Guarn Plateau was very close and that meant the People’s Republic of Arandior. On the height of the plateau he could see the dark specks; the enemy. They were no doubt looking down the steep plateau greedily; eying the capital of Free Arandior with a hope, no, an intent, of returning it to the PRA. Between the Arandiorians and their goal stood the Selvak Forest and the Farminan military.

Dan pulled out his map, trying to work out how to get to his platoon. After a small walk with a hefty pack; Dan eventually reached the 12th Infantry Battalion at the front, the CO: Lieutenant-Colonel Daniel Grieves. Dan was still assigned to his old platoon and old officer, Lieutenant Peter Wallace in B Company. B Company was headed in turn by Major Stan Warden, a questionable appointment made by his old friend Grieves. A crude trench works ran amongst the pine trees; hastily thrown together to try and protect the Farminans from the enemy on top the plateau, in fear of the rapidly approaching war. “Surely,” thought Dan, “The Farminan government should have commenced construction here long ago; we have had five years to prepare.”

“Corporal Rickhart,” announced a familiar voice, as Dan made has way through the trenches.

“Lt Wallace,” responded Dan, putting out his hand, “Pleasure to see you sir.”

“A pleasure under different circumstances Corporal,” said the Lieutenant, shaking hands with old friend and subordinate, “These circumstances are anything but a pleasure.”

“Aye,” confirmed Dan, “Talk of war is bad. The front they placed us only makes it worse.”

“So I’m not the only one who sees the disadvantage in being placed right under an enemy occupied hill,” said Lieutenant Wallace, “Though Supreme Commander Frost is putting a fair amount of infantry on this front; most of the armour and the artillery is being deployed in the east. Flatter landscape there apparently means they can get more use out of it. Trying to charge up the Guran with tanks ain’t too bright, I admit. Doesn’t strike me as too bright to do it with infantry either. That won’t stop the Duke mind you.”

“The Duke?” asked Dan, knowing that no such rank existed in Farmina.

“Lord Cameron Walter,” said Wallace, “He likes to think of himself as the Duke; and now he has been given command of the Guarn front.”

Now there was a familiar name. Coincidence? A huge chunk of the Farminan military was probably under the command of the so called Duke, Dan was not alone on this front. Plus if the Professor had sway here; would he have really sent Dan what looked set to be the most brutal front for the Farminans.

“No doubt it’s the view of the brass that since we have the weight of numbers; we should use it,” said Dan, “Though that won’t hold up if too many of the leftists try jumping us. Scores of nations have been quick to discourage us enforcing our ultimatum. A few have even mobilized troops as though to show off.”

The Messians fell into that category; but not quite. The Messians were always mobilized fearing democrats or ethnic groups or a powerhungry general would tear their fragile peace apart. Last Dan heard, the Messian leadership was planning something big to put an end to the threat of chaos in the MES. Another purge was the thought that struck Dan; the Messians liked to call it ‘criminal cleansing’. Several Farminan academics had suggested the cleansing certainly was criminal; an suggestion that no doubt came from the Church.

“It’s is a shame we’re the numbers they’ll throw up the Guarn,” observed Wallace, “Speaking of numbers, with all these numbers swelling the low ranks; we need more for all the other ranks. My platoon sergeant got himself his own platoon and a commission. You want the job?”

“If you think I’m the man for it,” said Dan.

“Indeed I do Corporal,” said Wallace, “You went off and got educated; you should be applying for a commission of your own; get a real career.”

“I left the military two years ago despite promises of a career. I don’t plan on staying now,” said Dan, “And if I was; I wouldn’t want to fight a war using high caliber pencils and machine sharpeners.”

“I wonder how long you will hold that position once everything starts blowing up,” said Lt Wallace.

As though to underline the point an explosion shook the ground not far to the east. Dan dove to the ground; throwing his hands over his head. Lt Wallace just stood there and laughed, “Sergeant Rickhart; that’s just us digging some new trenches the quick way.”

Dan thought that was rather a risky way of doing it. What if they accidentally caused a trigger happy Arandiorian to think the war had started? Then another thought occurred to him. What if it was the aim to trick the Arandiorians into making the first move?

OOC: Back from Canberra. I’d like thank our TAGer. TAGs always make me feel important and identify the readers.
Arandior (http://i4.photobucket.com/albums/y145/Farmina/Arandior.jpg)
The map reads “Selvay.” It should read “Selvak.”

As Jonathan Ackvick climbed out of the cockpit of his XG-40, he could see Ricky Dasch walk towards him, mask hanging off to the side, carrying helmet, and with a big grin on his face.

"I win," Ricky announced as John hopped out of the fighter. "You should know better than anybody that the ATC would wave off speeders."

John shook his head, then gave Ricky a pat on the back. "Good work, but next time, try not to do hari-kari on me when you do a practice dogfight." The two men laughed before being interupted by a high ranking official from high command, standing in their path. The two men stopped, then quickly stood at attention. "Admiral," John spoke.

"Jonathan Ackvick and Ricky Dasch," the officer started, Ricky and John both nervous and wondering what it was about. "You two are requested to be immediately transfered to central command. You are to take the first plane out."

The two men stood there stunned, as the Admiral turned on his heel. "You are dismissed," he said, gesturing them away while facing away, walking towards the central island of the double-runway carrier.

Dan found himself trudging back north through the forest to Selvak. Yesterday, as a young Corporal he had trudged his way south down the same muddy forest trail to the border. “‘The Duke’ has asked to see you personally,” Lt Wallace had said; interrupting rifle drills.

“Now I know the Professor is involved,” muttered Dan; as an explosion behind him indicated the 12th Infantry Battalion was digging more trenches.

Dan made good time entering Selvak; before looking for the Bed & Breakfast that the Duke had made his command post. That took longer. The military had made sure it was hard to find. All signage was taken down and the military presence didn’t appear higher at the B&B than anywhere else in the town that was Farminans logistical center in Free Arandior.

Dan knocked on the B&B door briefly; heard the lock click and the wooden door swing open. A private stood stern and simply pointed Dan toward a group of men huddled over a large series of maps. A youngish man in very fine civilian garb stood out. “Corporal Rickhart,” said the man in suit and cape, “My brother has told me a lot about you.”

“Sergeant actually Lord Duke,” said Dan, then pointing to the markings on left shoulder, “I need to get these updated.”

“Very well Sergeant,” said the self styled Duke, “Come sit at my table. Will you be having a drink?”

“A glass of water will suffice,” responded Dan, taking a seat at the table.

The Duke returned to his chair as a serving girl placed a glass of water in front of Dan. The Duke continued, “These gentlemen are my divisional commanders. Very able gentlemen. And it will take very able gentlemen to get up the Guarn Plateau.”

Dan looked around the table, noting the ranks of the low level generals that surrounded the Duke. “Recommence after lunch,” said the Duke, “The situation isn’t going to change, no matter how much we look at the map.”

The division commanders nodded to that stood up and said their goodbyes. After the division commanders had left, Dan looked over to the Duke. The Duke was similar to brother; however the differences were also clear. The Duke carried a handful more years in his age; but his face and waist suggested a few more after that. Where the Professor was a thin man, the Duke had a more muscular body protected by a moderate coat of fat.

“You’re wondering why I called you here,” said the Duke, “And the answer is simple; to meet the lad my brother talked of. Though you certainly seem fit enough; I suspect that my dear brother got carried away in his evaluation. He often does. Take a look at this map. What does this suggest to you?”

Dan sipped his water as the Duke passed a map of Arandior that appeared to mark the deployment of divisions along the border. “We have a lot more forces in the east than we did last time,” said Dan, “Any idea what Arandior is planning?”

“The downside of that they shouldn’t pick up exactly what we are planning,” said Cameron Walter, “Is that we have the same problem. Where are they building up more? East or west? If they concentrate enough here in the west; they could march north straight over our positions and into town crippling our efforts across Arandior; and end resistance in the west. If they strike hard enough in the east; they could reach Genear and cut off our access to eastern Farmina and the main source of resources.”

Arandior reaching the rail line would hurt. Dan could see that. Farmina’s capital was a small town west of coast, Abbey Village; but the bulk of the country was east of Arandior. That had put Arandior in a bad position for Farmina five years ago, practically carving Farmina in half. It was worse for Arandior since Farmina was happy to fix the problem. Farmina had carved off enough land to deal with the logistical problem somewhat; but if Arandior managed to push far enough north Farmina could be carved in half all over again.

“This doesn’t make a great deal of sense,” observed Dan, trying to uncover a grand strategy, “I can’t see what on earth Supreme Commander Frost plans to gain, by sending this front straight up a hill into all sorts.”

“There is more to this than what the Supreme Commander wants,” said the Duke, “In the east our forces are under Richard Grey.”

A light bulb flashed on inside Dan’s head. “The son of the Grand Chancellor, great grandson of Thomas Grey,” said Dan, skipping a mention of the long rivalry between the Walters and the Greys, “You’ve been given infantry and a hill. Richard Grey has been given all manor of equipment and flat land. The Arandiorians are expected to concentrate out in here in the west to fully exploit the Guarn; allowing Grey to sweep south and then west, enjoying major victories while you struggle to get up the hill. While you’re are trying to storm the Guarn, Richard Grey will be able to strike south of it and cut off most of the Arandiorian army making him a hero and ruining your career.”

“So it’s not just me being cynical,” observed the Duke, “The plan has its merits I admit; but military merit is no doubt secondary in why it was chosen. However it is the plan Sergeant Rickhart; you and your men shall pay the price in its implementation. You will be going up that hill. We must force the Arandiorians to fight on this front.”

“Is this why you wanted me here sir?” asked Dan, “To tell me you are going to throw me into a meat grinder.”

“It does appear my brother was somewhat accurate about your ability to read the situation. That is why I called you here,” said the Duke, “But he also mentioned you can play poker.”

Dan saw straight through the Duke, realising the man wanted to take what he saw as easy pickings. Dan sighed and played. The Duke was a slightly better player than Dan (though this wasn’t hard); but not much better. Dan knew he was a bad player; but the Duke however dismissed his own losses as bad luck (of which some certainly was). Dan could imagine that against better players among the officers, the Duke would be stripped clean repeatedly and just think it a stroke of bad luck. Dan shuddered for a moment. Perhaps the government wouldn’t need to do anything to ruin the Duke’s military career…

"Have you seen the news lately?"

Arik turned towards Osmund's voice, and got up to look at the TV that the man was looking at. "What today? Someone again saw the vision of Christ?"

"No," Osmund replied. "Those Farminans are planning on taking over the last nation on their continent, Arandior, claming various things."

Arik shook his head and sighed. "Those damned religious nutcases...always doing things for their so called Gods. Always think they're right because God says so." He turned to see Alex walk into the room. "G'day Alex," the general said, giving him a small wave.

"Hallo," Alex responded. "Hai ovarherd gou talkingz bout zee Farminans," he replied, again in his notorious broken english.

"Yes," Arik responded. "Another legitimate country being invaded by a superior foe. If only we could get the planet under one banner...all this bloodshed wouldn't happen!"

"Now now," Osmund replied, his kindness still showing. "Perhaps we should speak to the Arandiorians to see what their current position is. And talking to the Farminans wouldn't hurt either."

Arik sighed. "I suppose not. I better make that phone call."

--------

"General Arik Reiff," said the aging secretary, "I'm putting him through now."

Premier Phillip Rotterdam picked up the phone, "Good evening General. Premier Rotterdam here. I'm sure you're calling about the mess the Farminans are trying to create; so cut to the chase."

"I suppose so," Arik responded gruffly. "What is going on down there?"

"The Farminans are trying to fit us up to justify stealing our nation and making themselves a continental hegemony," said Rotterdam, skipping over the fact that Arandior had in fact been smuggling weapons north, "And no one wants those Grey Catholics running the whole show, won't take long before they decide the continent is to small and start building lots of ships to prove it."

The General hummed in a thinking tone. "I'm not fond of the psycho-religious types myself," the General said. "But there still has to be a underlying reason for them to choose now to attack."

"My guess is that they've got tired of waiting. They think they can kick us around because their bigger," said Rotterdam, "They seem to have forgotten the licking we dished out last war." Rotterdam seemed to have conveniently forgot that Farminans had stolen half his nation five years ago.

There was a pause from the general. "Can you hold on a moment, Premier?" the General asked.

"How quick can you be?" said the Premier, "I have a meeting with General Rosenburg soon."

"How about two minutes?" the General responded.

"Too long," said Rotterdam, "Get what you have to say said. When General Rosenburg arrives; you'll have to talk with the embassy."

"Well," the General explained, "I want to hear both sides of the story before I make a decision. But in any case of a larger nation attacking a smaller nation, I favor the smaller groups, unless they are criminal. If you can connect me to the Farminan government, I can give you your answer."

"If you want the Farminan story, listen to those raving nuts on the TV and the radio," said Rotterdam, knowing full well Harkon Leverus Grey along with the Church were quite capable of bellowing till they turned blue, "That nonsense is their version of the truth."

There was a pause. "I've seen it. Ah....alright, I will help you on one condition."

"I don't take well to conditions," said Rotterdam, "That's what the Farminans tried to give us. But I'll give them a thing or two. A bad licking comes to mind."

"I could just let you die," the General commented. "You're no match for the Farminans."

"They'll throw troops up the Guarn," said Rotterdam, "Half an army munched by our machine guns. Just like last time."

"Yet, you'll lose in the long run," the General replied. "With our help you'll probably survive the enslaught."

"General Rosenburg assures me we can beat them," said the Premier, "He has it all worked out. That doesn't mean I don't want your help; otherwise I would have hung up a long time ago."

"Then are you going to hear my condition, or are you just brushing me off to let your men die in an unglorious slaughter?"

"Do I need to ask you to say it?" queried the Premier.

The General paused, slightly annoyed. "My condition, is that we help with planning the defense of your nation. If we're going to be involved, I want to make sure that our two militaries can work together properly."

"I shall have General Rosenburg incorporate your representatives into his command structure as soon as you send a list," said the Premier, "Now that we have that settled the Farminans are truely beat. Between us we outnumber and outproduce these backward Farminans." It never occured to Rotterdam even if he won this round; the Farminan population was growing faster than that of either the MES or Arandior. Farminans bred faster than rabbits. One day their population would overtake the MES; then it would over take the two allies. If Arandior survived; it still faced a bleak future.

"I have one other offer," the General replied.

"Oh," said the Premier, "What would that be?"

"If you lose this battle, my C-5 Galaxies can evacuate as many citizens as possible, if they still want to remain free," the General replied.

"I'll have no mention of losing General," said the Premier, "We are more numerous, better armed and smarter. Even geography supports us. The only thing the Farminans have is their God; who I am more than happy to send them to."

"As I said, if you lose," the General replied. "If you need it, let us know. As for troops, what do you need?"

"Several armored divisions for the west would be of use," said the Premier, "And a few infantry divisions. Use your own judgement really."

"I'll see what I can do," the General responded.

--------

Arik hung up the phone. "And?" Osmund responded.

"Prepare to mobilize," Arik responded. "We need to create a buffer zone."

“Rickhart, Daniel,” called out the thin medium height man.

“Aye,” responded Dan, positioning himself to catch his mail. Within moments the parcel landed firmly in his hands and then the postman continued to reel off the names of B Company.

Dan hastily opened his first mail at the front, as he walked towards Lt Wallace’s command post. Inside was a letter from his dear Aunt Dorothy and another from the lovely Jennifer. As one would expect of a boy his age, the letter from the lady friend got the first attention. Dan tore open the letter, dropped the envelope on the floor and read as he walked. “From your bit of skirt Sarge?” called out a private by the name of Henderson.

“None of your business Private,” retorted Dan, “Is that letter from your boy in tight denim pants?”

Several other privates burst out laughing.

“That’s a hit below the belt Sarge,” said Henderson, lighting up a cigarette, “If you must know it’s a letter from my pa. Mum’s ill; badly ill.”

“Sorry to hear that Private,” said Dan, stopping to turn around and face the private, “I lost my parents. I’m really sorry, honest to God.”

“Thanks Sarge,” said Henderson exhaling a small cloud of smoke, “Glad to have a superior who gives a damn.”

“Plus,” added Dan, “I have to hit below the belt; I’m practicing for when I do it to the Arandiorians.”

That got more laughs from the amassed privates; but Dan didn’t stay to chat. He continued on his original route to the Lt Wallace’s command post; while reading the letter.

Jennifer had been attached to the 3rd Medical Corps in Richard Grey’s front. Her field hospital was in Graham’s fields. A lot of the information beyond that was censored. There was all the usual romantic things as well as spur of patriotism.

“Sergeant Rickhart,” said Lt Wallace, stepping out of his command post, “Looking for someone?

“Yes sir,” said Dan, folding up the letter and putting it away, “You sir.”

“Good,” said Wallace, “Get in here; you should hear this.”

Wallace’s turned on the radio as Dan stepped in. Dan obediently listened. …In news just in, relations between the Holy Republic of Farmina and the Militia Enforced State have collapsed. Grand Chancellor Harkon Leverus Grey has expelled the Messian ambassador only a few hours after he through the ambassador out of the his office in a fit of rage, when the Messian insisted he drop his demands against Arandior…

“That would be bad,” said Dan, “The Messians outnumber us. With the help of Arandior they outnumber us badly.”

The radio continued, …Farmina and the Militia Enforced State are now in the process in of closing down their respective embassies. In addition, the Farmina and Arandior have advanced the shut down of their respective embassies. In these dark times God will protect us…

“Then war is inevitable,” said Dan.

“That’s why I’ve contacted you,” said Lt Wallace, “The platoon is moving red alert. They’ll be throwing us up the Guarn within the week.”

Ricky and Jonathan walked into the main office area of the central command headquarters. They immediately walked up to the receptionist, a young woman in her twenties. "We're here by request," John said to the woman.

"Yes, you're being expected," she said. She turned to a guard. "Wilson, please escort these two men to their meeting."

He nodded, and motioned the two men to follow. "This way please," he said. The three men walked to the elevator of the extensive complex. As they entered, they saw the guard take out a key, and turned the lock that represented the 22nd floor, which was the top floor of the structure.

"Must be important," Ricky whispered, noting the high-security floor. When they arrived at the top, they were face to face with one of the Generals. The two men couldn't believe it. "S...sir!" Dasch said, kneeling and bowing his head, with John quickly following suit.

"At ease, gentlemen," Osmund said in response. "Please come with me."

Dasch looked up as both men stood back up. They started to walk out of the elevator, following Osmund. Osmund turned back, waved the guard back to his post, and took them to his office.

The room was filled with antique Audorian artefacts, ranging from pictures to random knickknacks. As the two men sit down, Osmund looked at his collection. "This collection," he started, "Is a grand piece of my heritage, heritage of the Audorian peoples that I grew up as."

Dasch looked around the room as Ackvick intently listened. "This collection, is pretty much what is left of my nation's heritage. Most of it was destroyed from the great war, and from militaristic and nazi bastards. They slaughtered our people, and it was amazing that any of our people survived to this day, and in the numbers that we have."

He turned to the two men. "Our system has restored hope to our minorities like my own, and life has gotten a lot better."

He sat down, and turned his chair towards them. "But I, with the other two Generals, are getting old. We cannot do this together. I brought you here...in an attempt to find a successor to us old farts."

The two men were stunned. "Yes, we have been developing a rigorous testing and training regimine for what we will call the Force Commanders. You two have been chosen to be brought into testing when it is conveinient for us to do so."

"...Sir," Ackvick replied, "I...I don't know what to say."

"Say nothing," Osmund said. "Because this won't start immediately, because we have a task for the two of you to start in a week."

The two men looked towards Osmund in attention to him. "We are going to move to support the Andiorians in a bid of defense towards their soverignty, and we need your leadership on the ground there. Your skills have been outstanding, and I want each of you to command two of our divisions."

The two men looked at each other with dread. The last known war that their nation was in was the great war. The fact that they were going to war was a major change in foreign policy of isolationism.

"Sir? What's the reasons?" John responded.

"Well," Osmund responded, sitting up, "The war against Arandior is religiously based, and quite illegal. It's an intentional power grab, even if the rumors of illegal weapons sales is put into effect. We need to set up a buffer zone to defend the Andiorians. Your task, is to hold the line at all costs, or until we call a pull out. You are dismissed, and good luck."

The two men looked at the each, looked back, then stood up and saluted. "Sir!" the two men said, as they left. As they left, Osmund called out "And good luck on becoming a Force Commander!"

Reentering the elevator and choosing the main floor, Ricky looked at Jonathan. "I have a bad feeling about this mission," Ricky said.

"So do I," Jonathan responded. "So do I."

Young Dan Rickhart wondered how appropriate he was for a platoon sergeant. Apart from normal sergeant’s duties, the platoon sergeant was supposed to be a soldier of practical experience to help their freshly commisioned lieutenant move from the theory to the reality of wars. Dan hadn’t much practical experience and hence perhaps bad material for platoon sergeant. On the other hand, Lieutenant Wallace wasn’t trapped in the world of books, nor freshly commisioned.

“Sarge, aren’t we moving out?” asked Private Henderson.

“Seems not,” said Dan, “The government is very quiet. With the Messians moving troops onto the Guarn, I reckon the Parliament is turning white.”

“We can lick then,” said Henderson, “God is on our side. Not to mention our bloodlines are far more pure than theirs.”

“I hope we can lick them,” said Dan, “Things are might get very embarrassing if we don’t.”

“And we are still on red alert; ready to move the moment at first word,” said Lt Wallace passing by, “And the 12th Rifle Battalion will be ready gentlemen.”

“The 12th Rifles and their new rocket launchers,” said Dan with a nasty smile.

“They’ll give the PRA a nasty shock,” said Henderson.

“I suspect the PRA thinks they’ll give us a nasty shock,” said Dan, “Anything interesting happening Pete?”

“Sabotage in Selvak,” said Lt Wallace, “Slowing down the delivery of supplies. The weapons that did get over the border are now coming back to bite us.”

The lieutenant then continued on his way. Henderson asked Dan, “Do you think there are people on the other side of the border who would cause trouble to help us?”

“Honestly I doubt it,” said Dan, removing a pad to begin writing a letter to Jennifer.

He wrote the normal loving comments. Mentioned he was serving with Pete Wallace again; serving under and meeting “Duke” Cameron Walter. He commented on the sabotage although he expected that would be censored. He mentioned the old attack date had been abandoned, hoping a passed date would not be censored. Finally he added that trench construction in Selvak forest was finally finished.

As a small local explosion showered Dan and Henderson with dirt, the sergeant crossed out the last line. Perhaps Farmina would have its trenches ready next year…

OOC: My necromancer tells me this thread can be resurrected.

IC:

General Rosenbug knocked over his mug, spilling hot tea all over his map of Arandior. The center of the People’s Republic of Arandior, went soggy, brown and a little torn. “Bugger,” he muttered, as a Corporal rushed him over a fresh map and cup, in the large command tent of Guarn Plateau

Once the mess was cleaned, General Rosenburg scratched his beard. The Farminans were stronger than five years ago; but so was Arandior, with MES sworn to defend her. Each side had spent the last five years preparing furiously for the rematch, now it was here.

The sound of a command car could be heard outside, there was only one person that could be. Rosenburg straightened his uniform, “Everyone, get ready for our Messian guest.”

A minute or so later, a man, in grey dress military fatigues, walked into the tent, escorted by two men. “General Rosenburg, I presume?”

“The hairs are greyer, but its still me,” said Rosenburg, “And how are you General Arik?”

“Well,” Arik responded with a smile and a handshake, “We have things to discuss?”

“Indeed,” said Rosenburg, “This time the Farminans seem serious. Their amassing like insects in Selvak forest and Selvak itself at the bottom of this plateau; their also gathering resources on other fronts; but nothing on the scale of that they're doing in Selvak.”

“Well,” Arik replied, looking at the map, “That can be problematic. Do you have any ideas, or should I bring out my plan?”

“I was planning to order a general offensive all along the border between free and occupied Arandior,” said Charles Rosenburg, “After the Farminans exhaust themselves trying to get up this hill.”

“We should play our cards carefully though,” Arik responded, pointing at a few points of Farminan resistance. “We could overextend ourselves, and they can come knocking again.”

“We outnumber them,” said Rosenburg, “They should worry about overextending; not us.”

“What about their economy and war machine?” Arik asked.

“Backward,” said Rosenburg, “Very backward. From what we saw in the first war, so are their generals.”

“Now what has your spies and scouts reported?” Arik asked. “Surely you aren’t basing your opinions on old opinions and hearsay.”

“Our spies suggest the Farminan government is only now beginning to consider more industrialisation. They have been updating their military since the last fight; but their budget is stretched,” said Rosenburg.

“Then the time to strike is now?” Arik suggested.

“The Farminans obviously think they have a chance,” said Rosenburg, “But I fear a time when the threat posed by Farmina is far greater than what it poses now.”

“Alright,” Arik replied, convinced.

“So what are your ideas?” asked Rosenburg.

Arik took out a folder from his jacket, and placed it on the table. He opened it, and took out a few sheets, showing the different divisions, squadrons, and fleets he had available. He handed them to Rosenburg’ “This is what we can support you with.”

“We’ll need everything we can to bolster the northern border,” said Rosenburg, “The real wild card is enemy airpower. We haven’t seen much of it in the past; now, who knows?”

“Biplanes with Colts?” Arik said jokingly.

“I think even the Farminans are beyond that,” said Rosenburg, “The final question is how do we divide up our forces.”

“To start,” Arik said, looking towards some pictures of Arandiorian military hardware posted on the walls of the tent, “What do you have in the way of technology, as in tanks, guns, aircraft, and how modern? It could be a deciding factor whether or not we can fight them.”

“Two hundred thousand infantry, but only five thousand tanks to support them,” said Rosenburg, “Only one thousand aircraft.”

“And are they Great War relics, or are they up to date with the competition?” Arik asked.

“They were effective five years ago,” said Rosenburg, “Some are newer.”

“Excellent,” Arik responded, “We can give you an additional seven-thousand tanks, or more depending on battlefield conditions. And as many aircraft to be sortied as needed.”

“That still doesn’t explain how you want to deploy the troops,” said Rosenburg, looking over to the map, “I’d say the main fronts are going to be here in the west and over in the east. 50-50 or do we split them up another way?”

“What about opening a new front?” Arik suggested, pointing to a point in Farminan territory, a border city of about twenty-thousand. “If we take this city, the patriotic commanders will want to take it back, taking pressure off the main fronts, at which point we can counterattack. We can also hold the city until their resistance is too strong, then retreat.”

“The question is whether we would be stretching the enemy or stretching ourselves. We do want to get back what we lost, especially Graham’s Fields,” observed Rosenburg, “But it would be a significant boost. The nearest large cities are Heran and Borck.”

“We can greatly boost your numbers,” Arik observed, “We can take that whole front ourselves if you so wish.”

“Very well,” said Rosenburg, “You can fully man all the tertiary fronts. That still leaves two main fronts in the north. The west will be the most brutal; with Selvak and Guarn so close.”

“What about carpet bombing the fronts with napalm, and cook some burgers for the troops?” Arik asked.

“Do you realise how many planes that would take?” said Rosenburg, “The degree of accuracy? The hope that the Farminans are in the open?”

“Napalm won’t protect many...they’d have to be inside fortified structures to survive a firebombing,” Arik replied. “And besides, a thousand aircraft, spread out along the front should suffice. It would just leave the tanks with some very hot crews.”

“I don’t think you understand the magnitude of what we are up against,” said the Arandorian general, “There is enough room down there to fit millions of Farminans. They have been busy constructing very elaborate trenches and shelters. They have built air defences and I'm sure they've stockpiled napalm of their own.”

“Hmm...” Arik mused, “Then maybe if we sent tanks with bulldozers into that network, the bulldoser giving a small degree of extra protection, as well as being able to push soil into the trenches themselves?”

“That could work,” said Rosenburg.

“We could also bring in our new T-47 Samus heavy tanks in for shock factor,” Arik replied.

“So how are we going to split up your forces on the major fronts?” asked Rosenburg.

“A fifty fifty split?” Arik asked, “Or is there some differences between the two lines?”

“That seems reasonable,” said Rosenburg, “But I propose that my own forces only be deployed here on the Plateau. You out number us several times over; so you should be able to hold the other fronts alone.”

“Very well, but I do wish to have some presence, so that way we know the area better. Command figures of any sort,” Arik suggested.

“I will submit that your highest official be made supreme commander,” said Rosenburg, “You outnumber us several times over.”

“Then if we fail,” noted Arik, “Its my fault.”

ooc: Outstanding thread. I'd be interested in joining it except for the fact that MES is an ally, and I'm more for Farmina.......

So you won't be pleased to know I beat MES an RP set 47 years after this one then?

So you won't be pleased to know I beat MES an RP set 47 years after this one then?

Doesn't bother me in the least. Allies should ask for help if needed. He didn't, so there you go.

Selvak Forest

Rickhart passed the binoculars back to Lt Wallace, “Messians, lots of them. Arandiorians as well, nearly as many.”

“That’s how I read it,” said Lt Wallace, “They’re waiting for us.”

Private Henderson lit a cigarette, “There is a lot of trench mortars around today. A lot of our infantry too. I’ve heard there are even some big guns lined up. Lt-Colonel Grieves is also at the front; spending some time with his precious 12th. Lots happening.”

“How’s your mother?” asked Rickhart, changing the subject abruptly from the reality of what was about to happen.

“Not well,” said Private Henderson, “Dad says she’s in the balance. Anything could tip her into death.”

Suddenly a siren blared, adding to the clues that had been given throughout the day. There was yelling from officers, as thousands of men swarmed into the complex network of trenches that filled Selvak forest. As suddenly as the siren started, it halted again.

Rickhart began counting off the platoon members, they were all present. Everything was silent now. Eerily so; something seemed to have changed in the atmosphere. Rickhart turned on the platoon’s transistor radio, to see if it had begun. National radio was playing the anthem “Glory Under God.”

Wails could be heard overhead, tearing the silence (beyond the pitiful radio) to shreds. Shells screaming south, from heavy Farminan field guns, close to Selvak, towards targets on the plateau. Hundreds of shells came smashing down on the plateau, in a horrific piece of orchestra.

Rickhart turned the radio up, as the anthem came to an end. “May I present, Grand Chancellor of the Holy Republic of Farmina, Harkon Leverus Grey.”

There was brief silence and then the booming voice of Harkon Leverus Grey could be heard, “The People’s Republic of Arandior shipped weapons to terrorists. We demanded they take action, to right this situation and they did not. Not one compromise was given. We warned them, and they ignored us. How can our warning be credible, if we do not respond with a show of strength? The Grey Catholic Church, the Elected Councils and myself; regret the actions that have been forced upon us, by our enemies. The Council of Cardinals has approved a declaration of war against the People’s Republic of Arandior.

Furthermore, the Militia Enforced State has actively involved itself in our affairs against our requests. Their active support for the People’s Republic is an act of war against Farmina. If they do not withdraw, we shall treat them as enemy combatants.

May God have Mercy on their souls, and bless them with swift defeat.”

“Glory Under God” began playing again; shells wailing in both directions as though supplementary instruments. The ground shook as a shell hit close by. Major Stan Warden was creeping through the B Company trenches, “Get ready. Plan Charlie is going into effect.”

Rickhart took his rifle off his back, turned off the radio and moved to the front of the trench, along with the rest of the platoon. Everyone knew Plan Charlie involved attacking on this stretch of the line, attacking the eastern part of the Guarn Plateau. “Ready yourselves men,” warned Lt Wallace, “We’ll have our chance soon enough.”

The bombardment went on for another five minutes. Then the shells wailing changed; big guns extended their range, targeting the enemy rear and its ability to reinforce. Smaller pieces of artillery much closer to the front now peppered the enemy forward positions with death, just as they thought the bombardment was over.

Rickhart clutched his rifle desperately against his chest, shaking on the parapet. Then B Company’s Major Warden blew his whistle.

***

Meanwhile at Sea

The Messian troopships cruised towards the Arandiorian coast. The war wasn’t going to start for another week at least…or so they thought. It didn’t matter, Farmina had no navy…or so they thought.

Deep underwater, lay the Church’s new toy. Silent, cold, lethal.

The submarines released spread after spread of torpedoes at the unsuspecting and undefended Messian reinforcements.

There were thousands of screams of terror as furious explosions tore the convoy apart. For a few moments there was the moans of agony…and then there was silence but of the hungry gulls.

***

Graham’s Fields

Major-General Arnold Bashar shook General Richard Grey’s hand. “Take my eastern corps, take my reserves, take my artillery and take my armour,” said General Grey, “Expel the God-less heretics from the one true God from Bastial.”

“As you wish Lord General,” said Bashar, breaking off the handshake and climbing onto his tank, “I shall bring Bastial under the Church’s domain, or I shall die trying.”

Bashar was only a young man, much like Richard Grey. The former had risen by sheer aggressiveness in the last war. Richard Grey, the older of the two, was born to privileged and hence was entitled to rank.

Artillery could be heard duelling in the distance as the column of tanks started to move.

“Victory or death.”

OOC: Xeraph, we're allies? I don't remember that. :p

Well, I think I can slot you in. TG your MSN, and I'll figure something out. As for in the future, I have some ideas for you...

IC: Ricky Dasch looked out the window of the military transport aircraft; it was a state of the art Jet, though his faith in Jets, being the new technology they were, was still shaky at best. He looked over beside him to see Johnathan Ackvick resting for the long flight to Arandior. He looked back outside to see two fighter jets flying escort beside his aircraft. He sighed. Going to war, in command...

*BAM!* The aircraft shook heavily, as things flew everywhere as the plane's interior depressurized from a number of sudden impacts. The emergency oxygen masks fell from the ceiling.

"Shit!" Ricky yelled as the plane doved down in an evasive maneuver. The fighters he could see started to break and engage whatever hit them.

*BAMBAMBAM!* The aircraft's hull shook even more as the plane started sounding like a loud whistle and the plane dropped lower.

"What the hell?!" Johnathan yelled over the noise, obviously awakened by the shots.

*BAM!* The left engine explodes in a huge fireball from enemy fire, the blades of the jet's fan flying in all directions, some right through the fuselage. Some people screamed as they were sliced by the flying blades.

"All hands, brace positions! We're going in!" the pilot yelled through the intercom. The plane shook violently as the plane got closer and closer to the ground...

OOC: Xeraph, we're allies? I don't remember that. :p

Well, I think I can slot you in. TG your MSN, and I'll figure something out. As for in the future, I have some ideas for you...

IC: Ricky Dasch looked out the window of the military transport aircraft; it was a state of the art Jet, though his faith in Jets, being the new technology they were, was still shaky at best. He looked over beside him to see Johnathan Ackvick resting for the long flight to Arandior. He looked back outside to see two fighter jets flying escort beside his aircraft. He sighed. Going to war, in command...

*BAM!* The aircraft shook heavily, as things flew everywhere as the plane's interior depressurized from a number of sudden impacts. The emergency oxygen masks fell from the ceiling.

"Shit!" Ricky yelled as the plane doved down in an evasive maneuver. The fighters he could see started to break and engage whatever hit them.

*BAMBAMBAM!* The aircraft's hull shook even more as the plane started sounding like a loud whistle and the plane dropped lower.

"What the hell?!" Johnathan yelled over the noise, obviously awakened by the shots.

*BAM!* The left engine explodes in a huge fireball from enemy fire, the blades of the jet's fan flying in all directions, some right through the fuselage. Some people screamed as they were sliced by the flying blades.

"All hands, brace positions! We're going in!" the pilot yelled through the intercom. The plane shook violently as the plane got closer and closer to the ground...

ooc: yeah, allied a long time ago. but I just discovered I'm also connected to Farmina. I think I'll sit this one out and just enjoy the story.....

Sgt Rickhart pulled himself up over the side of the trench with his big arms. A bullet cracked past his head. Machine guns and rifles spurted death down the Plateau as the Farminans struggled to clamber out of the trenches. Their foul noises could barely be heard over the struggle between the artillery.

Farminan machine guns, rifles and mortars returned fire, trying to force as many Messians and Arandiorians to keep their heads down as possible. As soon as Rickhart was out of the trench, he landed chest first on the dirt and began to drag himself forward with arms. Others were also moving forward…barely. “Fire and move,” yelled Lt Wallace, “We have to keep moving.”

Rickhart took aim at a Messian machine gunner and pulled the trigger. The man crumpled. Rickhart couldn’t claim the credit; a lot of bullets were flying everywhere, not to mention shells and even a few rockets. Still his stomach lurched in revulsion. Still he looked forward, never backwards, as knew the Farminans were receiving worse than they dished out. How many never even got out the trench?

Rickhart crawled forward further, into the relative safety of a crater, before readying another shot. He’d lost his squad in the chaos of the massed assault. Private Henderson crawled up beside him, “Tim didn’t make it out trenches. I lost the rest of the squad.”

“Just shoot,” yelled Rickhart, over the immense racket of the battle, taking a shot, to no apparent effect.

Lt Wallace and most of the surviving members of the platoon soon caught up. “This is bloody disaster,” yelled Wallace, “I’ve a lost a bloody quarter of my men and we’re only a bloody quarter of the way up the slope.”

“So we’ll use up the other three quarters by the time we reach the…” began Henderson, before making a horrific gurgling noise then falling silent.

Rickhart felt the warm, wet flesh land on his left shoulder, but could not bear to turn and look. “God, bless this warrior in your kingdom,” whispered Lt Wallace, “Honour him with the glory he is entitled and forgive his sins. Amen.”

“Amen,” repeated Rickhart solemnly, not for a moment taking his attention away from shooting the soldiers at the top of the Guarn.

Someone with a light machine gun joined the platoon and started making more racket than Rickhart could hope to, though the young sergeant didn’t bother to see who it was. Lt Wallace looked over to Rickhart, “I pity the bugger who has to tell the parents that their son now has a large hole in their face.”

“I doubt his mother will survive the news,” said Rickhart, reloading.

Lt Wallace looked back, to see how the other units were going. Upon surveying the situation he bellowed, “Forward!”

“Forward,” echoed Rickhart, throwing himself deeper into the meat grinder.

Despite the horrific cost, the Farminans continued forward, as Farminan artillery continued to pound any attempt by the enemy to bring reinforcements to the sector. “Forward,” repeated Rickhart, after pausing to take a shot at a troublesome machine-gunner.

As the Farminans went forward, so did their trench mortars, allowing the small shells to hammer the enemy trenches with great and great accuracy, tearing apart those unfortunate enough to be in the trench at the time.

Somehow, as the afternoon wore on, the Farminans reached what was left of the enemy forward trenches. Rickhart was one of the first to tumble in, the two surviving members of his squad following him shortly after. Rickhart saw a Messian and took a potshot. He missed and the Messian disappeared.

More and more Farminans poured into the forward trenches as the artillery barrages died off. Rickhart searched for the enemy, but didn’t find him, although it was clear plenty of other Farminans were finding Messians and Arandiorians to drive out.

Calmly Rickhart led his two remaining men to the front of the captured trench, looking onto the next line, from which a spurt of machine gun fire came. The young man ducked and decided not to take another look until the order came to exploit the gains.

B Company’s Major Stan Warden was clutching his bleeding arm, observing the clearance of the last elements of resistance, “We aren’t going any further forward. Plan Charlie has been scrapped.”

“We need to exploit the gains!” exclaimed Rickhart, “After all we spent getting up this forsaken Plateau, there isn’t much further to the top.”

“I agree,” said Lt Wallace, emerging with several of his platoon as well as several prisoners, “We should bring up the reserves to launch a fresh assault.”

“I’m told the reserves have been already been deployed,” said Warden, “The orders come from the ‘Duke’ himself. We are to hold our gains until we receive reinforcements; by which time the Arandiorians will have reinforced their positions.”

Rickhart walked to the other side of the trench network, as the gunfire petered out, looking back down the hill at the thousands of Farminan dead. So it had all been for nothing? And how many mothers, like Henderson’s, and wives would die of a broken heart?

EDIT - Missed an entire whack of dialogue. Oops.

Ricky woke up in intense pain, vision very blury. He looked to his side to see Johnathan out cold. The plane interior was filled with smoke, but somehow held together from what he could tell. He knew the plane could combust at any time.

His vision passed into darkness, as his eyes shut. They opened again, and he could see the plane bellowing in flames in the middle of the street. The tail broke off during landing, the engines sheared off, and the wings badly mangled. "Welcome to Arandior," said a plump man, with a trimmed beard and mustache, "The government promised that help would be dropping in. We didn't expect this."

"I...uh...where are we?" Ricky said, dazed beyond all recognition.

"On the pavement," said the man, in a blurry brown uniform, "But you must work on your parking."

"Everyone...else?" Ricky said, still in severe pain.

"You've got a couple of others alive," said Arandiorian, "Just be glad you didn't come by sea. Radio says the Farminans have been tearing the shipping lanes apart with their new submersibles."

"I..." Ricky said forcefully before passing out again from the pain. A thin, yet aged Arandiorian Colonel was passing by, and looked at the Messians sprawled on the pavement, "Better get these reinforcements up to the front; the Farminans have began their offensive." The tubby Corporal shook his head. "These men are injured, some are dead."

"Barely a decent excuse in these times," scowled the Colonel.

Suldanor hospital was busy. Suldanor morgue was also busy. Messian reinforcements were turning up in truckloads; dead and wounded, a massive distance from the front. An Arandiorian Major was touring the hospital meeting the wounded, when he was the two Messian's lying next to each other, deeply plastered, "Lucky bastards." Upon hearing the man's voice, Ricky turned his head towards the voice. "Thanks...now where are we, and who are you?" he said, weakly, but understandably.

"I'm Major Timothy Grand," said the portly man, "Looking for anyone to fill the trenches. I may have to resort to the mirror test soon."

"I...I'm one of the commanders for the Messian forces in Arandior," Ricky said, with some added strength. "I was flying in by transport aircraft, but then got shot down."

"But I can't put you in a trench with all those plasters," noted the Major, "Thus you're no good to me, and a lucky bastard."

"I don't need to fight to be useful," Ricky said, then grunting at a sudden pain. "I'm a divisional commander, not a lowly sargeant."

"That's very nice," said the Major, "Nice chatting; but I need to find some cannon fodder to bolster our rather thinly spread defences."

Suddenly the hospital shook as an explosion sounded off to the left and the Major dropped to the floor, in a well rehearsed routine. There was wail. Then there was another two explosions and shakes; followed by two more wails. It was only then that emergency sirens began to blare. Ricky cursed under his breath. "Damnit! What the hell was that?!" Ricky wheased.

"Rockets," said the Major, "Crude, medium range rockets that are hard to aim, but easy to make. Throw one at a city and you're sure to hit something. The Farminans have apparently looked into the technology and built...one or two. They've been hitting major cities all afternoon. They travel faster than sound, which is why you don't hear the wail till too late." He stood up and brushed himself off. Ricky shook his head. "Silly Farminans."

"Silly!" exclaimed the Major, "Its a terrible pain. Parts of the city look like swiss cheese."

"God-damned Farminans," Ricky corrected. The Major walked over to the window to see where the rockets had hit, "I see one of the intersections is gone and there is a hole in the apartment block across the street. Worse to come yet I fear."

"You've got to get me in touch with my people in Arandior," Ricky said, then moaning in another burst of pain.

"They don't know you're here?" said the Major surprised.

"I have no clue, between all the Messians here and us, I don't know if the word came out yet or not," Ricky replied in pain.

"I'll contact someone at the Messian embassy," said the portly man, "They'll investigate. Now I must be off, I have to find people who are fighting fit-ish." He gave an Arandiorian salute and walked. Ricky rolled back flat on his bed, wishing he didn't wake up to fly to Arandior that morning.

It was the morning after the night before. Like a man with a hangover, General Charles Rosenburg poured himself a warm cup of coffee as his head pounded. The explosions that had gone with the Farminan attack the afternoon before had continued throughout the night. Even as the sun returned to the sky, the Farminan rocket barrages resumed, trying desperately to hit something.

The only reprieve from the makeshift projectiles had been darkness, and that was when the Farminan bombers came out to play. Rosenburg hadn’t been into the city of Guarn; but the intensity of the air barrage gave him a good idea how hard the Farminans had hit it.

“What’s on your mind, General?” Arik said, as if he appeared from nowhere.

“Good morning. The answer to your question is nearly everything,” said Rosenburg, putting his coffee aside, “But how are you? Did you sleep well?”

Arik shook his head. “Didn’t sleep barely at all. Got woken up permanently after a rocket landed really close to my area.”

There was a series of explosions somewhere near the east edge of the camp, followed by the rockets’ wails as though to underline the point. “I hope they run out of those very soon,” said Rosenburg, “They are an extreme...nuisance. You’ve seen the reports I presume, they’e hitting cities all over the country.”

“Then perhaps it’s time to strike back?” Arik suggested, “Surely you have rockets of your own?”

“We have some,” said Charles Rosenburg, “Our supplies are limited, so I want to choose our timing carefully.”

“What about their own rocket positions?” Arik suggested.

“Their positions are mobile,” said Rosenburg, “Notice how the barrage isn’t constant. They set off a handful at once, then silence.”

Arik shook his head, “Then what on earth do you want to do about this outrage?!”

“Disrupt their main train line,” suggested Rosenburg, “Drive them back far enough so they can’t hit our cities. Its not just cities that they're hitting obviously, but still.”

“Then do what you can,” Arik replied, “I’m losing men left right and center here, and I’m starting to lose my patience with your nation, and their inability to properly judge their opposition.”

“The war is only twelve hours old,” retorted Rosenburg, “And our spies suggest the Farminans took massive casualties in their offensive along the eastern part of the Guarn.”

Arik looked away in frustration, “Well, at the rate we’re taking casualties, we'll have lost the war in a week.”

“It isn’t that bad,” insisted Rosenburg, “The Farminans have exhausted themselves out here in the west. I admit the casualties amongst your reinforcements are...disappointing...but now we know they are exposed, resources can be dedicated to protecting the convoys.”

Arik sighed. “Where the hell are my new divisional commanders anyways?” he muttered.

“How should I know?” exclaimed the Arandiorian General, “I’m having enough trouble keeping track of my own units in this chaos.”

Arik shook his head again, “This is madness...I suppose I will have to take command personally.”

“Something needs to change,” admitted Rosenburg, “Our counteroffensive against the new Farminan advances here in the west came to nothing other than more casualties on each side. The Farminans are still making progress in the east, and those are your men holding the line out there."

Rosenburg searched around for a moment, looking for a map of the sideshow in the east.

“What are you looking for?” Arik asked.

“Here it is,” muttered Rosenburg, pulling out the map, “The eastern front. As you know, Richard Grey has released his best General against your forces, along with nearly all of Farmina’s armor.”

Rosenburg licked his lips for a moment, then continued, “Would you agree their target is Bastial? Its our main route for supplies to that theatre and the Farminans must know this.”

Arik grimaced. “Likely so,” he said.

“I’ll organise the local militias to report directly you to your divisional commanders,” said Rosenburg, “Hopefully we can stop the drive at the city. There is a massive amount of armour in this punch; you will need to use both hands to grab it.”

“Very well,” grinned Arik, “I have a plan.”

Daniel Rickhart scratched the blade against his skin, in the crisp cold of the Arandior morning. The sun had risen an hour before, but the night’s vengeful chill was not yet gone.

The cold metal unevenly tore away the fine blonde stubble that was both hard to see and hard to cut. Three days since the war began, three days since the horrific attack to seize the small chunk of the Guarn on which Rickhart now stood. The Messian and Arandiorian counteroffensive had followed immediately after the Farminan attack. The counteroffensive had quickly collapsed into disarray as the enemy went in undermanned and under planned. The Messians still had the advantage of numbers; Rickhart’s calculations left him in no doubt they would attack again and soon.

Rickhart folded up his shaving blade and shaving mirror, then returned them to his pocket. “As Farminan forces on the Guarn continue to resist relentless Arandiorian counterattacks…” blurted the radio.

The platoon sergeant shook his head, the counter attacks weren’t relentless. There had been one and that was it. Rickhart looked up to see Lt Peter Wallace grinning, “We’re bigger heroes than I realised, preventing ‘relentless counterattacks’.”

A series of explosions rung out around the Messian-Arandiorian trenches; followed by wails of the crude Farminan rockets. “I wonder how much damage they do,” pondered Rickhart, aloud.

“Reports say they are giving the Arandiorians fits, we can hit them whenever we like with little cost,” said Lt Wallace, lighting himself a cigarette.

Different sounding wails could be heard. The ground shook as explosions rang out in and around the Farminan trenches, as well as some distance behind the Farminan lines. Screams of agony rang out as Rickhart and Wallace fell to the floor, the cigarette going out in the mud. Messian artillery was taking its revenge

“You were saying?” sneered Rickhart.

“Be quiet Sergeant,” snarled the Lieutenant.

Soon Farminan artillery opened up; more wails going over head followed by explosions deeper in Arandior. For ten minutes the Farminan trenches were deathly silent as the artillery dueled, until the fighting wound down, as though both sides were bored and decided it generally best not to agitate the other. In a victory for the Arandiorians and Messians opposite, no more rockets were thrown at their stretch of the line for the rest of the day.

Rickhart stood up and wiped the mud of himself, “I’m off to get breakfast.”

“Join you shortly,” said Wallace, “I have to deal with something first.”

With that the two men headed off it opposite directions.

Soon enough Rickhart was sitting in the makeshift bunker that doubled as a mess. Around him were a lot of new men. Some were reinforcing his platoon. James Rook sitting across from him, saw a new Corporal in Rickhart’s squad.

“In closing his address, General Bashar has vowed to bring his forces in range of Bastial by week’s end,” crackled Rickhart’s radio.

“Damned straight,” said the Corporal.

“I didn’t realise victory was a logical fact,” said Rickhart, to which the corporal responded with silence.

The radio continued on, ignoring the conversation of the lowly soldiers, “In international relations, the Council of Cardinals have released a statement calling for a Messian withdraw from the war.”

The voice of a faceless spokesmen seized the airwaves, “If the Militia Enforced State does not withdraw all its forces from Arandior within the next 36 hours; it will face unprecedented carnage.”

The message ended as suddenly as it started. “Nothing like being to the point,” noted Corporal Rook, “What are you supposing it is?”

“Nothing,” said Wallace, taking a seat with his breakfast, “It doesn’t cost them anything to puff up their chests and tell lies.”

Corporal Rook nodded eagerly.

“If its nothing; then it costs prestige,” observed Rickhart.

There was a sudden silence. “You have the brains to be an officer,” said Wallace, playing on a previous theme to restart the conversation.

Major Stan Warden, the B Company Commander, entered the mess. “Gentlemen, this stretch of line is being handed over to 16th Fusiliers. The entire 12th Infantry is to report to Camp 6 outside Selvak, by order of Lt-Colonel Daniel Grieves. Countersigned by the Duke himself.”

“What in blazes is going on?” asked Dan, in a tone some would consider insubordinate.

Major Warden looked at Dan Rickhart suspiciously for a moment and then said, “The Duke has decided to form a new division. That’s all I can tell you.”

Dan Rickhart’s eyes flicked back and forward, then he whispered, “Something is very wrong.”

*kicks MES firmly in the rear posterior*

http://www.nationstates.net/images/flags/uploads/militia_enforced_state.jpg
Militia Enforced State
Official Communique
------------------------------------

In response to the demands of Farmina, we wish for a counter offer of an extended deadline, in exchange for negotiations to end this bloody war. We wish for this war to end as soon as possible, and although we refuse outright, immediate withdrawl, we are willing to negotiate a lasting peace treaty between the Militia Enforced State, Farmina, and perhaps, Arandior.

We know full well the costs of war. The war over sixty years ago destroyed my former nation, and killed billions. We know the financial, militaristic, but most importantly, the human and family costs of war, and we wish for it to stop as much as you do.

Looking forward to a response,

- General Osmund Kirkland
Militia Enforced State

OOC: Oops, sorry I took soooooooooooo long. Oh, and the flag is only the new flag, because it's linked to my profile. The flag is normally grey.

Lake Mungo, near New Canin

The Lake Battle Fleet was operational. The great, though aging, ships floated upon Lake Mungo, barely visible in the dark.

“New Canin in range,” reported Captain Stein.

Rear Admiral Dean Jamison nodded, “Very well, commence demolition.”

“All forces commence operations on my mark. Mark!” ordered Captain Stein, saluting the Admiral, “For workers, for the People’s Republic, for Arandior!”

The heavy guns of the aging fleet opened up in a furious rumble. The night sky light up as flames spurted out the Arandiorian cannons.

“For workers, for the People’s Republic, for Arandior!” repeated Jamison as the first shells hit the Farmina city New Canin.

Alarms could be heard in the lakeside Farminan city, as fire began to take hold. The cannons continued to roar. A single Farminan artillery piece responded briefly; then halted as it was destroyed in the intense barrage. Several Farminan rockets howled towards the Lake Battle Fleet; but all expect missed the ships by a good distance. The single impact only caused minor damage to the hull of a single battleship.

“Perhaps we should halt the bombardment?” suggested Captain Stein, “Give the Farminans a chance to evacuate civilians from the city.”

“Our orders are clear,” said Jamison, “If they are allowed to evacuate civilians, what stops them evacuating their garrison in the city; or worse bringing in heavy artillery and airpower into the area. The bombardment will not cease until New Canin is ruined or our ammunition runs out.”

“Very well sir,” sighed Stein.

What Jamison had said was the truth and Stein knew it. Stein also knew he didn’t like the truth one bit. As he turned to face New Canin, the semi-illuminated plume of smoke rising lazily above the city spoke of a horrific cost.

The ground shook under Jennifer’s feet as a Messian shell exploded nearby. “We have another three needing amputations,” she said to Captain Rellian Driver

“Sedate them all Sister Blaine, and bandage the wounds,” said the head of the field hospital, as he continued the delicate surgery to remove a series of bullets from a young blonde sergeant, “Place them up on the board, I’ll deal with them as soon as I can.”

“It’s already done,” said Jennifer, “Even the Messian wounded are fully prepared.”

Often the wounded Messian and Arandiorian POWs were simply sedated, as they only received surgery once all at risk Farminan patients were treated. It was that at this moment, the surgical team had a brief moment of urgency, but never panic.

“Good work Sister Blaine, you learn quickly,” said Captain Driver, removing his rubber gloves, “Sergeant Albert Stone, aged 22, deceased. Time of death…3:42pm.”

A pair of orderlies was on hand to quickly cover up the body that had formerly been Sergeant Stone and remove it from the hospital tent. “Another young man joins the butcher’s toll of Bashar’s attack,” said Lt Fredrick McKinnon, a young military surgeon, also removing his gloves, “Shall I start on the amputations?”

“Yes,” said the commander of the field hospital, reviewing the list of critically wounded, “Sister Blaine will assist you. Move quickly.”

Jennifer and Fred went to the first person on the list waiting an amputation; but he had already passed away. The next one was still alive. “A shot of morphine,” prescribed McKinnon, “He’ll need it.”

“I’ve already given him one Fred,” said Jennifer, cautiously.

“And he needs another Jennifer,” sternly instructed McKinnon, as he un-bandaged the wound to examine it.

The young private was missing most of his left leg. The bone was broken unequally and flesh laid hanging in uneven chunks. Parts of the wounded were already going rotten. The stench was foul. Carefully, McKinnon calculated the correct point for amputation as Jennifer Blaine injected the morphine.

“Ready?” asked Lt McKinnon, cautiously.

“Ready,” confirmed Jennifer, her stomach turning at the sight of the wound.

With one swift movement, McKinnon lifted a surgical axe and brought it down with furious precision. This was the fast and brutal Farminan approach to surgery. McKinnon moved aside the amputation from the amputee, so he could examine the new wound. “Perfect severance,” noted McKinnon, picking up his notepad, “Jennifer, treat the wound and bandage it; then have the orderlies take Private Sterling a ward. Do it quickly, the amputation list is long today.”

“Immediately,” said Jennifer, as she began administering disinfectants to the still horrific wound.

“We can’t move now,” yelled Captain Driver, “We are in the middle of several operations.”

“Colonel Standing insists,” said another voice Jennifer didn’t recognise, “The front has moved a good deal closer to Bastial and the field hospitals need to keep pace. People are dying in transport due to the extra distance.”

“We will move to the new site soon enough,” responded Driver, “But currently we have to deal with the cost of moving forward so far, so fast. Could you relay to Colonel Standing the urgency with which we require more supplies…”

Jennifer lost track of the conversation after that, as it became increasingly quiet and increasingly civil. The rest of the day, she spent working with Fredrick McKinnon on the brutal task of amputation. Thankfully the flow of wounded and dying became a trickle; allowing the field hospital to spend the night relocating to the high ground above Bastial, where Major General Bashar had stationed the bulk of his forces in the vicious pursuit of the retreating Messians.

After moving the hospital so far south, it was one o’clock the next morning. She had not written to her beloved Daniel for several days, and could not delay any longer. Turning on her radio, she sat down at her desk and picked up a pen.

Dear Dan

She paused for a moment as the Farminan national anthem came over the radio. There was going to be an announcement. She tried to think of how to begin the letter and then it came to her.

I have seen things no person should ever see. These horrors are beyond my worst nightmares. I wish I had not come here.

The third sentence was only a half truth. She was saving people. She was helping her beloved nation.

The national anthem ended and a non-descript voice came over the radio, “His holiness, Carl Leverus has an important announcement to make to the people of the Holy Republic of Farmina and the good people of the international community.”

Next was the voice of the Farmina’s most powerful figure.

***

The submarine surfaced in the pitch black of the Dylarian night. Ten submarines in total sat in the darkness. The engineering crews raced onto the hulls of the submersibles, setting up rocket launchers. These were not the horribly inaccurate rockets used to slowly demolish Arandiorian cities; but a specific weapon with specific targets. Two launchers were to be placed on the hull of each ship, five rockets per launcher. That made 100 rockets in all.

Admiral Varian looked through the darkness towards Dylaria. “Look at them load their ship full of explosives to drop on Farminan children and mothers, on churches and schools. This port is the heart and soul of the Messian killing machine. Now I will slow them down.”

“All launchers ready,” said the chief engineer.

“Good,” said Varian, throwing his cigarette into the ocean, “Get everyone below. As soon as we open up on that port, we submerse.”

Five minutes later; everything was ready. “Break the chain,” instructed Admiral Varian, “Prepare for submersion.”

The tails of flame lit up the night sky, like shooting stars.

***

“Good morning fellow Farminans.

Yesterday, the Farminan government received a communication from the Messian authorities; rejecting the notion of a Messian withdrawal from the conflict. Instead the Messian authorities had the gall to propose that Farmina halt its retaliation to Arandiorian aggression.

And why did they propose this? Because the heretics of Arandior and the Militia Enforced State are on their knees. Farmina has occupied part of the Guarn Plateau and forced the heathens into an untenable position in Bestial. The destruction of supply lines and factories in Arandior continues as we launch nightly bomber raids and daily missile attacks. This ultimatum the Messians tried force upon the free people of Farmina is a sign of our enemies’ desperation.

And what tactics do we see from our enemies when they are desperate? The destruction of civilian cities like New Canin. Our newspapers fill with stories of the horrors deliberately perpetrated against civilian populations by the callous Peoples’ Republic. Not Messian ships, no; but be left in no doubt, that this cowardly attack was done with Messian munitions and Messian backing.

By continuing to emphasis its role in this conflict and failing to declare its neutrality; the Militia Enforced State has made itself a legitimate target. I have therefore decided to commence a limited bombardment of purely strategic targets with in the Militia Enforce State to remind them that they are not invulnerable in this war. I regret the casualties that will be endured by a nation that should be a third party; but these actions have been forced upon us by Messian actions.

May God Bless Farmina in her hour of need.”

Alexander Hines personally oversaw the reinforcements moving in and out of the port city of Dylaria, which was also home to the second largest Messian military base in the country, the Dylarian shipyards, home to some of the most advanced naval construction facilities in the world. Hundreds of supply ships, destroyers, jeep carriers, battleships, fleet carriers, and other ships of varying sizes moved through the ports every day. Alex was thinking about the times back at home, with his long-time wife of thirty-two years, and wishing that he could get home soon enough. This war put a lot of pressure on him.

Suddenly, he heard a buzzer go off inside the control room he was sitting at, on one of the observational chairs in the back. "Sir! We're picking up something! Rockets! Tactical weapons inbound! Enemy subs spotted!"

Alex stood up quickly and stormed up to the window. He could see the streaks coming from the distance. "Damnz..." Alex said low, but firmly. He picked up the communicator, a much more primitive device than the ones used many years later. "All perzonnel, movez to impazt shelterz, all militarzee perzonnel, battle stationz!"

The alarms sounded as personnel took cover inside designated blast shelters in the port, while other men manned the defenses on the shore. Shore guns quickly loaded and opened fire on the subs, as anti-aircraft-artillery opened fire on the rockets. Their fast-firing flak guns took out some of the rockets, but most made it through the wall of flak.

Explosions ripped through one of the ship manufacturing plants, while another hit a shipping and loading dock, blasting crates and personnel all over the place. One body slammed against the bulletproof window on the command tower, leaving a huge bloody streak across it. Another hit a destroyer dead-on, blasting most of the superstructure away, while another hit a battleship, taking out its two forward turrets. Alex cringed, as he barked orders. He then looked up through the small sky-window to see a rocket screaming down towards the command post.

"Oh Zhit..." Alex muttered.

16 Hours Later...

"I can't believe this!" Arik said emotionally through the communicator's earpiece to Osmund's waiting ear. "They killed one of us!"

"I know, it's a terrible day Arik," Osmund replied, trying to soothe Arik's anger. "But we must be strong for our nation, and we must be rational..."

"NO!" Arik yelled furiously. "I've known that man for most of my life, and now that he's gone...those bastards...they should PAY!"

"Rational, Arik."

"They should all die in FLAMES!"

"Rational, Arik!"

"Please nuke them bastards!!"

"Arik!" Osmund noted he wasn't getting anywhere. "I suggest you take fourty-eight hours leave until you can get settled. I'm suffering too, but right now is not the time to jump the gun."

"Just you wait..." Arik replied. Just then, the phone went dead. Osmund's spine shivered at that cold response. He knew that Arik was about to do something, so he had to act fast.

http://www.nationstates.net/images/flags/uploads/militia_enforced_state.jpg
Militia Enforced State
Official Communique
------------------------------------

Alright you bastards, you killed one of 'us'! You have the gall to kill innocents, to kill those trying to help stabilize a helpless nation from your religious psychopaths?! You killed one of my best friends, and you goddamned bastards are going to pay for your religious bullshit! You goddamned assholes!

I'm going to wipe you out with our stockpile! Watch my hand of retribution show our own 'god's wrath!' Let's see them...what?! WHAT?! Access denied?! What the hell?! Osmund! You goddamned traitor! I swear! If I ever get my...

- General Arik Reiff
Militia Enforced State

http://www.nationstates.net/images/flags/uploads/militia_enforced_state.jpg
Militia Enforced State
Official Communique
------------------------------------

We appoligise for our previous communique. Although his response was inappropreate, the loss of one of our own, was horrible. We will not take such acts of villany with inaction. Because of this, we are formally declaring war against the Democratic Republic of Farmina. All military bases are open targets, and we will not stop until surrender.

Regretably,

- General Osmund Kirkland
Militia Enforced State

Major General Arnold Bashar’s long military coat protected him against cold howling night wind. For a change the night was quiet, the fighting between Bashar’s Eastern Corps and the enemy holding the Farminan onslaught out of Bastial had wound down two days earlier and had not recommenced as both sides stockpiled supplies and reinforcements.

“You have served me well General Bashar,” said Richard Grey, his gloved hand waving his cigarette in a meaningless gesture supposed to relay education, “You have made good distance and at great cost to our enemies. I suspect Premier Rotterdam never expected we could threaten a city as important as Bastial. How I would have loved to have seen his face, when his Generals warned it was at risk of falling.”

“Thank you Lord General, your compliments are most gracious,” said the bulky Major General, “However to drive the Arandiorians and their Messian minders out of Bastial and secure our supremacy in the theatre, I will need more men, more supplies and more armour.”

“And you won’t have them,” said Richard Grey, dropping his cigarette on the floor and stamping it out with his boot, “You have captured the high ground around Bastial putting the city within range of artillery; this is enough to rattle the cages of our enemies. We need to preserve our resources; simply they outnumber us. Things aren’t good in the west either; ‘the Duke’ has gone got himself bogged down in the Guarn, and having supposedly garrisoned Selvak, he know faces it rising up in revolt against him.”

When General Grey said ‘the Duke’, he said it laden with contempt.

“Do you wish me to sit on my hands?” asked Bashar, “Surely driving our enemies out of their greatest bastion in this theatre is a worthy goal.”

“Resources need to be reassigned and that is all there is to the matter,” said General Grey, looking down at the battered city of Bastial, “You raise the matter of the city’s importance to our enemies. They will fight tooth and nail to prevent us having it; we both know that. This can be turned to our advantage. We will use the high ground to lay siege to the city and bleed them white, instead of attacking the city directly and letting them bleed us.”

Bashar, who had always solved problems by battering them flat, was clearly unconvinced. “If I am to be a babysitter, may I request transfer to a more active assignment,” asked Bashar.

Richard Grey smiled, revealing of a mouth full of perfect teeth, “I may have just the job for you.”

The Vengeance Division; ‘Duke’ Cameron Walter’s amalgamation of the best infantry units in his force. Now the Division finds itself deployed in Selvak against a rising of the locals sympathetic to Arandior; attempting to recapture the railway line and the roads leading to the front. Policy makers must have wondered how many weapons and men the PRA had smuggled north before they were caught out. Now those policy makers are getting accurate evidence. Good men are on the receiving end of that evid…

Bullets cracked through the air, entering the flat through the empty window frames.

“Stop writing your stupid love letters,” yelled Corporal James Rook, “We’re under fire.”

“That’s stop writing your stupid love letters Sergeant!” replied Rickhart in a tone that left it clear that Corporal Rook had been scolded, although he returned his notepad to his pack.

“Stop bullying the new guy and shoot at the bad guys,” retorted Lt Peter Wallace, reading through his mail.

The radio could be heard faintly in the distance, repeating the words of Department of Virtue, “…Infighting amongst delusional and psychopathic Messian leaders has not halted their continuing war of genocidal hatred against the Farminan people...”

Rickhart checked his rifle then took position beside the window frame. “I’d rather we didn’t kill all these damned rebels,” said Rickhart, “The longer they hold out, the sooner we don’t get sent back to the Guarn.”

“Rumour has it there are plans to redeploy the Vengeance Division to the western end of Selvak Forest once we put down this revolt. Nothing like deploying an elite unit on an inactive front,” said Lt Wallace, “I suppose it’ll free up more troops to fight on Guarn.”

Rickhart took aim at the one of the windows across the street and released a spray of bullets, before returning behind the safety of a brick wall. “A nice peaceful walk in the forest suddenly sounds very attractive,” suggest Corporal Rook.

“Good,” said Lt Wallace, opening one of his letters, “Because B Company is going forward today and clearing out the block of buildings you’re shooting at. The sooner we clear out those buildings the sooner we get our next assignment. We move out in an hour. Sergeant Rickhart’s squad will be one of two from this platoon charging that building across from us. I’ll keep the remainder of my squads here for cover fire.”

“Thank you for endangering my life…again,” said Rickhart, releasing a burst of bullets at the building opposite, “Intelligent, university educated people aren’t meant to be cannon fodder.”

“Oh so its only for the likes of me,” retorted Private William Sarzo.

“Oh aye we’re fine fodder,” responded Rook.

“Oh shut your traps,” snarled Rickhart.

“If you want to get out of the firing line do your officer’s exams,” retorted Lt Wallace, “Otherwise don’t bother me with your unfinished degree.”

The next hour passed quickly, with occasional firefights to pass the time.

“Ready gentlemen?” asked Lt Wallace, although it was not really a question.

“Ready!” echoed Rickhart’s squad, along with that of Sergeant Stevedore.

Rickhart checked his submachine gun one last time. Unlike the assault rifle he usually fought with; submachine guns were used for tight quarters combat against unprofessional soldiers.

The sudden sound of whistles initialised the attack. Suppressing rifle fire opened up and followed by short range rockets blasting door’s out of their frames.

“Go,” yelled Rickhart, as he feet pounded forward across the gravel road.

Despite the suppressing fire, machine guns and rifles opened up at the charging Farminans. Rickhart was first across the street and through the doorway, spraying the room with his submachine gun before checking if there was anyone present.

Two Arandiorians fell to the floor clutching their bleeding chests. One begged, “Help me.”

“Clear out the upper stories,” yelled Rickhart at his men, as he walked over to the closest of the wounded.

“Help me,” begged the rebel.

Rickhart slung his SMG over his back and unholstered his pistol. “I’m sorry, but the law is very clear. Captured rebels are to be executed without trial,” said Rickhart.

Calmly, although hesitantly he placed a bullet in the rebel’s head. The man’s skull broke under the pressure, blood oozing out the open wound as his splattered brain became visible.

“I have a family,” cried out the other wounded rebel, reaching for his weapon.

“I’m very sorry,” earnestly responded Rickhart as battles could be heard upstairs.

Rickhart pulled the trigger and the second rebel stopped as dead as the first. “Building cleared,” reported Corporal Rook, returning down the stairs.

“Good,” responded Rickhart, sitting down in the corner. He pulled out his notepad and began his letter to Jennifer over again.

I too have seen things no person should ever see. I have done things no person should have to do.”

*kicks MES*

General Rosenburg stirred the cup of warm tea. It had been another restless night on the Guarn as the Farminans threw blind rockets at their enemies and sent wave after wave of bomber to try and keep everyone awake.

Rationing meant no more milk. There was still water and tea bags but, and so life went on. His moment of relaxation was partially disturbed by the ruffling of footsteps inside.

“Enter."

He turned to see Arik, walking up to him.

"I see you're taking a moment," Arik replied, taking a seat.

“Studying reports and maps," said Rosenburg, "Trying to work out what went wrong out east. How in blazes did the Farminans lay siege to Bastial? The only good news, is that the mad bastards seem to be winding up their operations out there."

Arik looked at the map from where he sat. "Well, the good news is coming soon; we have a large group being shiped to Arandior. This force should be strong enough to hold the line from any further deterioration."

"That is good news," said Rosenburg, "Will the forces arrive before the winter?"

Arik shook his head. "With the ports blown sky-high, it will take longer. But I don't think it will take too long. But I can tell you that when they get here, they're going to be looking for blood."

"A spring offensive?" suggested Rosenburg, "The Farminans have turned their attention on rebels for the moment, but that won't last forever. The winter months will make logistics impossible. That brings us to Spring."

"How much snow are we looking at?" Arik asked.

"An inch at most," said Rosenburg, "The problem isn't the snow. Its water. We'd be better off having a naval battle than throwing armies at each other."

"Then I better bring out our ships then," Arik said jokingly.

"Spring?" said Rosenburg.

"Winter," Arik replied.

"Are you mad?" said Rosenburg, "We'll pay in blood."

"Not necessarily," Arik replied. "One of the things that we've developed over the years, is dozer blades, and mud tracks." He got up to grab some tea. "Our continent is a huge mix of temperate zones; Dylaria is mainly tropical, the middle is temperate, and the north such as Falcon City is quite cold. Because of this, we train our troops in a multitude of environments."

"I don't think you realise quiet how bad the mud will be," said Rosenburg, "You will be praying for snow."

He poured himself some water, then dropped in a tea packet. "True, but let me explain; dozer blades are a fairly common invention, but most of our tanks were developed with them in mind. They can be added very easily, and can be used to dig trenches, to lay low, or to dislodge when bogged down. Yes, we will be slowing down, but so will they."

"They will be staying perfectly still in their prepared defences," corrected Rosenburg.

"And who said that we had to advance...far?" Arik replied. "We bombard them, use our better agility, and knock them out when they try to retreat. Remember that their supply lines will be extremely slow."

"I am...not convinced," said Rosenburg, his tone suggesting it was understatement of the year, "In fact I don't intend to release a single tank to take part in this madness."

"True, but one other feature," Arik replied. "Our tanks are designed with wide treads, and we have some that are designed with 'overtreads', which spreads weight out even further. Sinking in mud would be hard to accomplish."

"I'm still not giving you any of my tanks," said Rosenburg, "Though I can't stop you from using your own."

"That's the idea," Arik replied, sipping his tea. "I'm counting on them to think that we'll sit back all winter. The time to strike is now, when their ability to counterattack, transport wounded, and to maintain supply lines is extremely limited. And besides, the Farminans hate the cold."

"I hate to tell you this, but the Farminans won't pack up and go home for the winter," said Rosenburg, "A few might take leave. But they don't want to miss the opportunity if we do attack in this weather."

"Alright, catch 22," Arik said. "We'll be exposed, but so are they. They can't run, they can't supply, they're literally bogged down. If they do retreat, likely they'll have to leave their supplies - and rockets, behind. We can stock up on their own stocks, turn their rockets around, and make a new defensive line."

"You'll be advancing over open ground towards prepared positions," said Rosenburg, "They'll have roads leading back into Selvak and the train line linking Selvak to the rest of Farmina."

Arik turned to the map on the desk. "That's why we send bombers. Blast the rail and road bridges, cut off their retreat. Then, we attack with tanks capable of the terrain, and modified APC's. The tanks can use bulldozers and chainwhips to move through any minefields, and we can literally storm their frontlines, crush them under their treads."

"Try if you want," said Rosenburg, "Its your career."

Arik nodded. "Then I will need to have your force cover our rear. We can't let them jump us."

"The Farminans will have zero mobility," said Rosenburg, "My forces will defend our positions on Guarn and that is all."

Arik nodded. "To speak frankly, you Arandiorians are way too mellow and conservative in your military maneuvers."

"And your's sound like the movie clique 'We'll attack when they least expect it'," said Rosenburg, "So many people attack when the others 'don't expect it' that everyone has come to expect an attack when they aren't supposed to be expecting them."

"Is that all?" asked Rosenburg.

Arik nodded, and immediately walked out of the room, almost as if he was in a huff.

At that moment an Arandiorian Major burst in, "My general, the Farminans are building up for an attack against Jork in the east. Our sources they move tomorrow."

"So they weren't abandoning their assault on Bastial due to the coming winter," exclaimed Rosenburg, "Err...where exactly is Jork."

"In the east...somewhere," responded the Major from the Inter-Theatre Planning Panel.

"Excuse me?" Arik blurted. "How the hell do you not know your own country's geography and cities?"

Looking carefully General Rosenburg found it, "Because its a small city in the middle of nowhere. Coal mining region. Wouldn't have thought the Farminans needed any more coal, they have plenty already."

Arik sighed. "Then in that case, we should hold off the counterattack, and have my forces push them back. At that point, we could continue rolling, force them continuously back."

"Like I said its the middle of nowhere. We have very few troops out there. I guess we could take some troops out of Bastial, but that the besieging Farminans will make that more difficult."

"Leave it to me," Arik replied. "Maintain your current troop levels. I'll see if I can scrounge up more forces. The first of our forces should be deployed within the next 48 hours at the most."

Rosenburg was convinced that was optimistic, "Try 52 hours. The railroads don't go straight to nowhere, you have to pass through somewhere first. I still don't have the first clue why the Farminans are attacking all the way out there; have they gone completely mad? What else do we know?"

The Major from inter-theatre planning spoke up, "The Farminans have built up a small sized Corps out there. Our sources suggest that General Richard Grey and Major General Bashar are in personal attendance."

Major General Bashar had commanded the nearly successful drive on Bastial, "Well if anything proves their serious that does."

"Well," Arik replied, "Their makes perfect sense to me."

Anything made sense to Arik and the Farminans was inherently suspicious to Rosenburg, "Oh and what are they planning, do you think?"

"Simple," Arik replied, pointing at the map of the area. "By committing a new, well fortified force into this flank, they will easily break through the defenses there. This will cause an overreaction on our side, saying 'oh shit!', and cause us to move forces to counter their move."

Arik then pointed at Bastial. "They think by doing this, we will reallocate from Bastial and other areas, leaving them susceptible to an advance. At that point, they'll take Bastial."

"And so in response, you want to deploy reinforcements, some of which were to help defend Bastial, and try and halt their advance," said Arik, "Well all right. As long as you think you know what you're doing."

"Sort of," Arik replied. "I was also going to say that it's catch twenty-two. I mean, if we let them cross, they'll encircle some of our areas, destroy supply lines, attack a core city, or all of the above. We need to step in."

Arik then pointed at the new forces deployed. "I'm sure their intel is not quite aware of our newly deployed units, arriving through hovercraft. This force includes a number of our amphibious medium tanks. Against infantry, or ploughing through difficult terrain, they should be able to reach the area sooner than they should expect. But at least fourty-eight hours."

"The fastest way across the country is by train and the tracks are riddled with craters. Even those won't take you the whole way," said Rosenburg, "You'll have to switch tracks and go to Cady, otherwise you'll take the main line to Bastial. From there its by foot I'm afraid."

Arik nodded, "Then tanks and APC's it is. Fortunately, as I advised, the next unit deployed, originally for the breakthrough, are all mechanized."

"Well that should speed you up a bit," said Rosenburg, "Fifty hours perhaps. Considering the number of men you are trying to move and the fact that Farminans have probably anticipated that we might begin shifting large numbers of troops when we realise we are under attack. Thank goodness for the early warning, or the wait might be longer again."

The Major received a radio call and exited. "Anything else General?" asked Rosenburg, returning to his analysis of the disaster at Bastial.

"No, sir," Arik replied.

"Good," sighed Rosenburg, examining reports from Messian units that had retreated in Farmina’s advance against Bastial, "I'll let you attend to your plans."

Major General Bashar hated the cold, but knew it was going to get worse. Winter would soon arrive in the Deep South and spread north rapidly. His long military coat helped keep him warm, at least for a little while.

General Richard Grey seemed more at peace in the cold, windy night. “The Messians and their Arandiorian allies are in an untenable position. If they withdraw from Bastial it will throw their entire position into disarray. Continuing to hold Bastial is nearly as bad, with our artillery smashing the city and its defenders from ahigh.”

“That doesn’t explain we are in the arse end of Arandior,” muttered Basher, wrapping his coat even tighter around his large body.

By comparison, Richard Grey was a thinner man, with less natural insulation, “Language!”

Grey then continued as in more tempered tones, “The Messians need to bring reinforcements through Bastial, before they can come here. This is made worse by our capture of several vital roads. Secondly, any reinforcements have to come from somewhere. Both sides are concentrating around Bastial as well as the Guarn. Here is far from the conflict. No one expects action here and our enemies will have difficulty responding to it. A brief offensive will be launched to capture Jork and its coal mines before winter falls.”

Bashar ran the possible outcomes very roughly through his head, “The Messians will be forced to strip forces from Bastial or use reinforcements needed elsewhere to stop us running too rampant out here. They can’t strip many, unless they make Bastial vulnerable.”

Bashar licked his dry lips, “Or the Messians will realize that our increased forces out here means we’ve weakened our positions around Bastial. They might take the opportunity to try and expel us from the high ground, while we’re weakened. But if they miss calculate our strength, they would incur a military disaster that would Bastial vulnerable to us again.”

Richard Grey lit a cigarette, “Plans within plans my dear fellow. I may have moved forces east from Bastial, but not nearly as many as it will seem. A frontal assault against Jork will naturally cause a reaction. I hope I can rely on you to smash the small Messian garrison here and make a major advance with a smallish-force.”

“Yes General,” said Bashar, “I will create the mother of all anti-diversions.”

“Good,” said Richard Grey, “I am on the next train to Verica; I have brief leave to see my new child.”

“The war will continue in your absence,” said Bashar, “The road to victory is inevitable.”

At six o’clock the next morning the tanks rolled south followed by the infantry.