NationStates Jolt Archive

[OOC: This is the present day, since I use a different Calendar which is like 60-65 years behind our current one. So you can itnerpret this as happening right now in the NS world.]

Present Day: 4th June 1948

The Questarian Military was peaking at its highest yet - employing over 280 million nationwide and over 30 million colonially, with over ten thousand ships and three hundred thousand aircraft, it was certainly and surely one of the biggest proffessional militaries in the world. To some, it was too large, and to some, just right. To many, it was too small. To many Questarians, the Empire represented the free-est state in the world, the epitomy of Liberty. It was the responsibility of the State not to interfere with the lives of its citizens but to actively protect the Liberty said citizens enjoyed. Of course, this Liberty meant a low tax rate, so the State had to balance it all out. The Social Liberals who had ruled the country had reduced the military to unacceptable levels in the name of social welfare programs and poured money into medical support. As a direct result, the Questarian Military developed to a state it had not been in for thirty years - overstretched, underfunded, corrupt and rusting. Aircraft lay on the tarmac, their engines burnt out.

All that changed two years ago when the Liberals won a landslide victory, thrusting Prime Minister Winston Foxbury into the headlight of the eight billion citizens of Questers, and the some thirty odd billion of the Commonwealth. Foxbury began rapid and effective remilitarisation programs and it was only a week ago these came into fruition when conflict broke out over the small Aequatian island of Valle Verde and the Navy and Army where called in to defend the Liberty that the Questarian nation held so dear. Rapid remilitarisation had hit its first barrier six months prior to the Aequatian situation when Foxbury simultaenously proposed cutting the VAT to 12% from 14% and also by scrapping free dentistry in favour of a 350 billion boost to the Army. Though the Liberals had won a landslide there was still considerable opposition to such a move from all parties but Liberal, and indeed the Liberals themselves where split over the move. It was the first time since he was elected that Foxbury had come up against real political opposition to his hawkish motives. But the PM was a clever politician and by exploiting elements of the country that where hardly politically represented he would gain the money neccessary to raise the military to "acceptable levels."

The first thing he did was pass the "Southern Corn and Crop Tax Bill" raising the Corn and Crop Tax to 12% in the four counties that made up the "Deep South Counties." Because the four counties of the Deep South where extremely large, and political representation was shared by county - each county receiving 2 MPs no matter its size, the representation for a large part of the country - almost a million kilometres squared, was extremely low, though to be fair the population was almost proportionaly low compared to the cities. Though the farmers where angry there was nothing they could do. There were minor riots and the Army was moved in to quell any violence, ironically the very same divisions the tax funded where stationed in the area. After raising their voice a little the farmers bowed down to the central government in London.

Next he targeted the woodcutters of the Northwest. The massive forests of Questers, stretching from the North and forming a sort of crescent around the country around the East and down to the South where thickest and most profitable in the North. The "North Forestry and Lumber Tax Bill" was passed raising the tax on chopping down trees from 3% to 5% and from selling logs and planks of any size over half a metre squared, which was still tax free, from 6% to 9%. Once again, the hardly represented counties of the North could do nothing but shout loudly. Their objections were heard but not recognised and the fighter aircraft and their respective logistical units paid for by this tax where rolling out of the factories by the time the next Bill was proposed.

This time, he proposed raising the taxes on the seven counties that made up the "Eastern Mountboard" that lay adjacent to the mountain range bordering Hattia in the east of the country. The Eastern Mountboard counties, usually exempt from many taxes because of their self sufficiency and the large number of troops donated from the Mounboard counties in times of war. Seperated by the river Somorac, the counties where essentially cut off from the rest of the country. They ran their own affairs and had their own assembly. Nevertheless, because of their low representation in Parliament, an act that Foxbury pushed through called the Caffeine and Alcohol Mountboard Tax, raising the tax on all drinks that contained alcohol and caffeine in the Eastern Mountboard by 5% to raise money to create over twelve new aircraft carriers. This time he met real objections, in the form of gunfire and burning effigies of the Prime Minister and his Cabinet. It is in the Mountboard that the crisis began and it is in the deep forests of Richmond Wood that our story begins.

Richmond Wood, 19th June 1948, two weeks after the Aequatian crisis began

Colonel Campbell surveyed the advance of his troops down the narrow forest pass that traversed through Richmond Wood. His regiment, the 331st Narhal Rifles had been brought from another county to make sure the taxes where being collected correctly. Their destination was the capital of the largest Mountboard County, Sandbrooke County and its capital Delaridge Point. The pipes and drums of the eight hundred riflemen and their small cavalry attachment played throughout the sunny Sandbrooke afternoon. Birds flew overhead and the bright sky was a shade of pale light blue, making some of the clouds unrecognisable as they drifted to and frow across the warm summers sky. The march of the boots, the singing of the Alpenhood County Anthem and the beating of the drums where a sight to be hold especially on such a day like this, Campbell reflected. As he looked into the trees on either side, the colours of the regiment and the union jack fluttering behind him, Campbell could swear he was being watched. He dismissed it and continued admiring the day.

An hour or two later, men from the front of the thin column where reporting the sounds of light vehicles. Expecting it to be civilians, Campbell wasn't phased by it, until the first bren gun carriers and accompanying lorries turned the sharp corner and halted immediately. Campbell quickly orderde his formation to do the same and watched as troops dismounted from the lorries. He then realised that the flag flying from the lead bren gun carrier was not that of any particular regiment of the union jack, but it was the county flag of Sandbrooke. There could not have been more than a hundred men that had quickly deployed out in front of him and they where not wearing any particular uniform. Some where dressed in combat fatigues and some with the uniform of a local militia that Campbell recognised but others where in clothes that could only be described in some unified way as something fit to march in. Campbell maneouvred his horse out in front and signalled his front lines to fan out to match the firepower.

"I say!" Campbell shouted out to the lead bren gun carrier. Already more militia where arriving and they had set up several light machine guns and had taken cover in no particularly organised way around various vehicles and trees. Campbell briefly counted again and it appeared that there were barely seventy of them. "Identify yourselves!"

No sooner had Campbell finished shouting out his order had a man stood up. He was wearing combat fatigues in the manner of a semi-proffessional soldier and his reply was instant. "I am Brigadier Armington of the First Sandsbrooke Volunteer Infantry Division! By demand of the Mountboard Confederate Assembly I demand you and your troops surrender your arms and are escorted to Delaridge Point."

Campbell knew what was coming. He waved his arm down and immediately the well drilled troops of the 331st responded. The first line dropped to their bellies, taking aim with their rifles. A moment later, the second line dropped to their knees, taking aim, and then the third line moved forwards with their rifles. In the rear lines there was general confusion but already Campbell outnumbered the militiamen by a figure of three, perhaps four to one.

"No such order will be given. Now I demand, as a Servant of His Imperial Majesty King Konoye I, you lay down your arms." The colonel shouted back.

"Nuts! To hell with your King! To hell with your Imperium! No taxation without representation!"

A murmur broke out around the Sandsbrooke militia, then a unified shout of rebellion against Imperial authority. A well known phrase with a well known meaning.

”Don’t tread on me!”

Campbell scrunched up his face with indignation. Another wave of his hand and throughout the first line, still with their bellies of a floor, the sound of cocking of lee Enfield rifles resounded around the forest path. Then, the second line, then, the third. The familiar click, click, chuk of the bolt action rifles being made ready for fire echoed through and created a deadly silence.

"I say, surrender your arms at once or be fired upon!" Campbell shouted back one last warning.

"Let me read you a little article, my friend!" Armington replied. "The Fourth Amendment of the Questarian Bill of Rights.

No Government proclaiming soveriegnty over this nation may tax its subjects unlawfully, unecessarily, or illegally, to do so being punishable by impeachment and any attempts to do so to be resisted with all force neccessary." Armington replied.

"Throw down your guns you fool, or you'll be shot where you stand!" Campbell ignored Armington.

"Noone ever said Freedom was Free!" Campbell replied.

Hamilton nodded to his 2IC, but moments before the order could be given to fire, gunshots rang out and the Colonels horse neighed. The shot had barely missed and the three round burst from the M16 had either missed or embedded itself into the horse. It whinnied again and the Colonel hadn't time to jump off before the expertly aimed shot was recorrected. All three rounds struck him in the chest and the Colonel drooped on his horse, blood oozing from the three exit wounds. The M16 was loaded with armour piercing m995 ammunition, penetrating straight through the Colonels body armour. Hamilton could barely wave his arm for the order to return fire but before he had the machine guns had opened fire and concentrated automatic fire from the militia began to rip into the Questarian troops. The well drilled troops returned fire and at at least a hundred metres deadly volleys of fire where exchanged between both sides as the militia held their ground against vastly superior numbers. The Questarian troops moved up to fill the gaps as their dying or dead comrades that had dropped where pulled away by medical crew. The militia inflicted terrific losses on the Questarians as the bolt actions simply couldn't keep up with the automatic weapons. Within six minutes the last shot had been fired and the militia lay dead, strewn across the path like chess pieces knocked down.

The price of blood they had inflicted on the Questarians was expensive to say the least. At least four hundred of the Imperial heavy infantry lay either heavily wounded or just dead on the path and their morale had been absolutely shattered. The first attempt of the Questarians to force their way through Richmond forest had not been repulsed, but it had been resisted. Imperial Authority had been defied, and perhaps if Hamilton had set off a day later he would have heard of the Mountboards declaration of independence and seccession. Four of the Mountboard Counties where in open revolt and the other three's Imperial military garrison was about to collapse, following which the 800,000km squared of the Mountboard would be united under the Mountboard Confederacy, in open defiance of the Imperial Government in London.

Foxbury wasted no time in mobilising the Army and the National Guard. Within four days at least a hundred thousand men where put on alert and took up position across the Somorac. Heavy resistance by the Mountboard military put a halt to any incursions and air raids from the Imperial Questarian Army Air Service where repulsed by brave resistance from the Mountboard Air Force with its outdated F-5s and F-4s that held off the Army Air Force. The lines where drawn, independence had been declared, and the Mountboard was recruiting its volunteer army which began to scale up and eventually match whatever Foxbury deployed. By two weeks over a million troops sat across the Somorac and in response just under 1,900,000 Mountboard volunteers were being trained and equipped for the defence of their newly created independence. The war was on.

1st August 1948, Somorac River

The Imperial Army was preparing for its first major assault across the Soromac. In the winter, the Soromac was a docile river, but in summer it became rapid and fast and it was wide. At five hundred metres wide, it would be neccessary for the Questarians to use amphibious tanks and RIBs to cross the river. These where in preparation. The Questarians knew that on the opposite side of the river the Mountboard troops where waiting for them. At this crossing zone, designated Area 12, over 40,000 troops, approximately two divisions would try to break through the Mountboard brigade guarding it. They where equipped with amphibious APCs and rigid inflatables that could hold 20 men. The two divisions, II Corps of the 1st Narhal Rifle Army would cross over six miles length of water and establish a beachhead for more supplies and reinforcements to arrive. In theory at least. Around five hundred BTR-50Ps and enough RIBs for the whole division to cross where assembled on the Questarian side of the river. The Mountboard troops where camped on the other side in entrenched MG positions, foxholes, trenches, sniper hideouts, with AT guns, 20mm AA cannons and anti tank missiles. Outnumbered seven to one, Imperial General Headquarters predicted an easy victory.

At 11 AM the troops began to cross and immediately they came under witheringly heavy fire and within twenty minutes the crossing was abandoned after losing twelve boats and four vehicles and over five hundred men to no loss off the Mountboard troops. Three hours later a wave of Questarian troops in RIBs behind the BTR-50Ps began to advance. Onboard one of the many RIBs, Private Ellingham gripped his rifle tightly, clamped his helmet down on his head and kneeled down in the RIB with three dozen other men. The RIB was moving at full speed down the river as murderous gunfire poured from the Mountboard positions. Ellingham looked to his right and momentarily watched a BTR full of troops with a flag fluttering behind it advance down the river. In slow motion, a missile rocketed towards the APC and Ellingham could, momentarily, see every detail on the face of every man and they where all the same - panic, horror, shock, knowledge that they where about to die. A whistle wetn over Ellinghams head and the missile exploded, ripping fire through the BTR and leaving a sinking, rusting shard of a hull, with twenty dead men floating around it, the blood spreading and spreading through the river's waters.

No sooner where the 20mm AA guns turned on the advancing Questarians than did Sergeant Tilburn stand up on the front of the RIB, a prime target for a sniper, to address the troops. He held on to his helmet with one hand and his rifle with other, steadying himself at some occasion when the boat rocked or when a bullet flew past.

'Alright boys, its hell out there, but together we'll get through this. Hold together and lets get out there and kill us some traitor bastards!' Tilburn cocked his Lee Enfield and a small roar of approval came from the RIB. Machine gun fire cut through waves of advancing boats and APCs but miraculously, Ellinghams inflatable was untouched. Evidently, some Mountboard gunner had spotted this and turned the full attention of a quad fifty calibre machine gun onto their RIB. It chewed up the front, killing almost half the fireteam, and Ellinghams natural response was to freeze. To accept death. Again, slow motion appeared to kick in, and he could see the bullets ripping his comrades apart. Moments later he wiped his face and discovered it was covered in blood from the man in front of him who had unknowingly taken four bullets - four that instead, would have hit the nineteen year old Ellingham and killed him too. Suddenly Ellingham realised that already one man had died saving his life, and it would be such a terrible waste if he just allowed himself to die. With tremendous force he flung himself off the RIB, using his dead comrades as a jumping board for his feet, and he flung himself into the cold, bloodsoaked water of the Soromac river. Only three survivors of his boat met him - Sergeant Tilburn and a few other privates, two of whom where missing their rifles. With a stroke of luck, Ellingham seemed to still have his.

"What do we do now Sarge?" one shouted over the gunfire. The battle was still raging and the Mountboard troops, fiercly outnumbered, hadn't the time to shoot at almost stationary targets.

"Can y'all swim?" the Sergeant shouted back. He was holding onto a piece of the inflatable and it was only then that Ellingham realised that so was he - and so where the others, and it dawned on him that he had been completely lost in the world for at least a minute or so. It probably appeared like something of a tea party, but somewhat more violent and lacking the tea.

"No sir!" "Yes sir!" came the two responses from the privates, and Ellingham had to compose and adjust himself before he could reply. Something was wrong but he couldn't put his finger on it, but he felt different. Detached. "Yes sir, I can swim sir!"

"Alright, lets get moving!"

Then Ellingham realised it. He opened his eyes, which suddenly had the itneresting urge to close themselves, and looked down. He was floating in a pool of blood. His own blood. He could see below the murky waters the blood was slowly replacing itself and he could see the dark gore where the blood was coming from. It was his own leg. He tried to scream but couldn't, and it sounded more of a cough or a "dry scream" than anything else. He couldn't manage another word when he collapsed on the wreckage of the inflatable.

Finally, the Questarians hit the shore. Taking over ten thousand losses in the water, the Questarian troops on the shore of the river found thesmelves in a touch predicament. Pinned down behind the natural trench that met the green of the plain with the silt of the river, they where too bogged down to move, and in any case there was nowhere to move. More and more troops where arriving and it was getting crowded. Mortar and shrapnel took their toll on the Imperial troops hedged behind the deep natural trench and bogged into the silt that supported it. There was only so much cover provided and the more that arrived the more targets the Mountboard mortars and gunners had. The Questarians where being ripped apart when finally their morale was enough to attack.

The arrival of General Harris spurred the troops on. His command team, by some stroke of luck, had arrived safely too and uncurled the banners of the 1st Narhal Rifles alongside other flags, and Harris himself, drawing his sabre and his TDX pistol, shouted to the troops around him to "Attack boys, attack! Charge!" before he jumped over the trench. As he did so, the whole line, one by one advanced too and over ten thousand men across six miles, which would quickly increase to fifteen and then twenty thousand, began the charge up the long hill with no cover towards the Mountboard brigade's positions. The fact that General Harris was struck down by a sniper almost immediately meant nothing, the advance had started and its momentum seemed unstoppable.

The Mountboard gunners had their ranges marked out with clear red flags up the hill. Mortars, AT guns, 20mm AA, "quad fifties", even a few artillery pieces knew every inch of the hill up to their defensive positions and could home in on it. The advancing troops where cut down as they charged up the hill. Claymores and anti personnel mines claimed almost as many as the mortars and the flak guns that where turned down on the attackers. As they reached the outer barricades, they found them abandoned, and rigged with all sorts of explosives. As the outer barricades began to fill with troops, it was obvious the position would not last, and someone with a remote controll blew the carefully placed explosives, lighting the entire forward trench with flame and killing everyone inside it. The smoke it made blurred momentarily the vision of the gunners and allowed more Imperial troops to poor in. It was hell, blood, mud, gunpowder, and guts. Inequipped for close combat fihgting with long and heavy bolt action rifles the best the Imperial troops could hope for was a bayonet charge. Pushing their way inside the complex with its mostly wooden and earth defences, the Imperials captured position after position in bloody hand to hand fighting, but heavy use of trap explosives - claymores, mines, grenade traps, bundle grenades, WP grenades, etc, inflicted terrific casualties. By nightfall the battle was still raging. By morning, the Mountboard flag was lowered and in its place lay the union jack. To guard it, just over a thousand Imperial troops from the once 40,000 strong II Corps of the 1st Narhal Rifles.

7th August 1948, Somorac River

Crossing the Somorac into Sandsbrooke was the most terrific large scale casualty list the Imperial Questarian Army had ever seen. Over 350,000 lay dead across the Somorac for a measly 55,000 Mountboard losses. Before they hit the deep forests of Sandsbrooke, the 1st Narhal Rifles and the 2nd/8th Narhal Cavalry, with fresh reinforcements, had to pass 90km of flat plainlands. Stopping them where the three tiers of the Stanford Line, the defence line that spanned 300km across and 15km deep and was manned by over one million determined Mountboard troops. Any time they left for reinforcements arrive would give the Mountboard time to regroup and support their defences. The three Armies, the 1st, 2nd, and 8th all together tally around 600,000 troops. They would have to attack the line on their own and hold it down for three days while reinforcements arrived, including tanks. Without artillery, it was practically a suicide charge. Field Marshall Hambrooke appealed time after time to Army Command East to no avail: the order was to be carried out - harrass the line for three days. Hambrooke personally apologise to his men before leading the attack.

It was plain suicide. The 2nd and 8th where semi motorised cavalry, but together they amassed 400,000 mounted troops with carbines and some even with submachineguns. Behind them, 250,000 infantry including assault engineers would make their charge towards the enemy positions. They where brave, but it was hopeless. The motorised and cavalry elements where cut down like clay pigeons. The stench of dead horses and burning metal clogged the nostrils of the soldiers, who had assigned themselves as dead men. Corporal West was marching with his platoon through the madness. The bodies lay everywhere, the carcasses of horses and the corpses of men intertwined. Every so often a tankette or a lorry was lying turned over, hit by either an ATGM or an anti tank gun. West wondered why they weren't being shot at yet. Over ten thousand men where walking in a straight line towards the enemy positions and no gunfire had been exchanged. It was as silent as the grave, which was quite fitting considering that every single one of them would be lying in their grave by the end of the day. The trotting of horses came from behind and General Hambrooke himself with his entourage, about five hundred, with their carbines and sabres drawn and colours in full flight. They advanced slowly towards the enemy positions and West himself heard Hambrooke begin to address the troops as his horses slowed down.

"I'm sorry men. Army Command East has sacrificed us so that they may bring in more troops. This is the end of the road. Its been a pleasure to serve with you all. You will die with distinction. You will die knowing that you will be heroes. God Save the King." Hambrooke was about to cry. He was a champagne officer, brought up on the estate, riding and shooting and participating in games of polo, cricket, and croquet. He did not want to die. Nobody wanted to die. Hambrooke never thought this day would come, but he had pissed off one too many Generals back at ACE after beating them in a game of cards. They didn't like him or trust him. This was the price he paid - 650,000 lives. At least it was almost over, at least the final wave was about to begin.

Slowly down the line a murmur broke out, and only a kilometre away from the enemy lines it could be heard clearly. "God Save the King." It is the nature of the Questarian, though he may question authority, though he may kick and curse those who have chosen him to die in some backwater province, away from his family, his friends, his children, his farm, though he may resent them, he will not disobey. Questarians are born disciplined and they die disciplined. From the Mountboard lines the cry was returned.

"No taxation without representation"

Hambrooke breathed in and his aide-de-camp blew a single bugle. Slowly his cavalry fanned out to form an arrowhead and they charged, sabres drawn, colours flying, at full speed with Hambrooke in the lead, towards the enemy positions while the infantry began to run. As soon as they moved, automatic fire exploded. From every bunker and from every trench and from every hill machine guns rained death down, bullets cutting through horses and blood spilling on the floor. The smoke was still clearing from the machine guns and the rifles and the cavalry lay dead. Now it was the time for the infantry. West ran forwards with his platoon, gripping his rifle, heavy boots crunching through the thick, blood stained mud. His last thoughts where of his family - his young pretty wife reading the telegram, his children, only three and four still not understanding. The unborn baby inside her stomach gurgling, the unborn baby that would never meet its father. West stopped. The gunfire had stopped. Was there peace? Was it possible? Had they just arranged it at the last minute? Surely not... He opened his eyes. There was noone. Nothing. Everyone around him was dead. Last man standing, literally. The eyes of every Mountboard soldier where on him. Thousands of guns trained on the last soldier. Slowly he raised his arms.

The next day, the tanks arrived. Tankettes and light tanks, with medium tanks and mounted infantry where poised to strike all across the line. Over eight thousand armoured vehicles with a million infantry had been moved up from the reservists line to make gigantic wave attacks against the Stanford Line - the only method that the Generals and Marshalls at Army Command East knew. It would taken thousands upon thousands of dead men to break through. Not all would be as lucky as Corporal West.

16th June 1948

Jerry Tadcaster was seventeen. Still a boy to some. His brown hair clung to his head, and a cheesy grin gave his well-rounded face an air of stupid glee as his arm rested so contently around the shoulder of his sweetheart Julie, with her pretty red dress that only looked pretty on her. Julie Barrot. She was pretty much all that mattered to the boy. That, and his duty. The Kriegos sun beamed down on the ridiculously happy pair, who gave off the irritating air of people who had the impression that all was perfect. A double-decker bus rumbled by, birds fluttered overhead, adverts adorned every wall and shop-windows were filled with whatever one could desire. The Questarians had given the Kriegos something they weren’t entirely used to, or knew how to handle: happiness. The Commonwealth, as it was known (and not with disdain) by the Kriegos, had brought wealth and new ideas to the extremely stagnant society of Kriegorgrad. The idea of ‘love’ was foreign to the Kriegos, as relationships pre-Questarian Liberation (as it was known) that took precedence over the state were crushed brutally by the ‘Regime’, as the dark times under the Collective Oligarchy was referred to, always accompanied by a wince or a cringe.

Julie commented on something rather mundane, like a bus starting and stopping, or a man dropping his hat, and the pair laughed for a minute non-stop. Jerry was utterly happy, but he understood that all this wasn’t free. His good shoes, his way of life, and Julie were not free. They were luxuries that he must be prepared to fight and die for. Jerry’s cheesy grin faded from his face, and Julie turned up, brown eyes wide and questioning. The mood had turned sombre, and amidst the sun and blue sky, the birds singing and the glorious day, misery had taken hold of two people.

“What’s wrong?”

The sweet, concerned voice pierced into him, and comforted him at the same time. His voice trembled, and he muttered. He didn’t want to speak about this.

“I got a letter. I need to go. I’ve been called up…something about a rebellion in the Heartland.”

She looked up at him, and blatantly didn’t understand. He looked at his feet, daring not look at the unfairly persuasive eyes that’d turn him from a good young man to a coward and a traitor. She didn’t want her sweetheart to go to war, especially not in the Heartland, as Questers was referred to in Kriegorgrad, for its being the heart of the Commonwealth. Her eyes welled up for a minute as she understood it.

“Why?”

“I just have to. I’ll be all right, please don’t change my mind, please.” She nodded. And they stood there in an embrace for what felt like forever. The sun had long since lost its cheery tone.

“Please don’t die.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

7th August 1948

Jerry stared over the plainlands and felt his heart knot. He wouldn’t falter, or flee, but he was fucking terrified. He felt in his stamped steel helmet camouflage band for it, and stared down at it. The Polaroid of him and Julie looked so pristine between his grubby fingers. He sighed with emotion, and would’ve cried at the futility of the situation if real men were allowed to. He put the only link back to his home that he had back in its guarded place. He looked about the faces of his fireteam, and saw a mix. Men his age, older, and younger all peered down at their mucky feet. The distinct clatter of Lee Enfield bolt action rifles being checked filled the air permanently, and the odd spark and hiss of the typically eight inch Kriegos, slightly curved blades being sharpened, or ‘Chorka’ as they were called in old, old, old tribal Kriegos culture. It was one of the few traditions the Kriegos refused to let go of, and it distinguished them from the similarly dressed Questarians, though the difference was blatant anyway. The two nations of men just stood in a different manner. Jerry, or Private Tadcaster couldn’t help but feel infinitely small in the midst of 400,000 other Kriegos men of the Kings Kriegos Rifles, and God knows how many Questarians. He felt about his dog-tags, and pulled the crucifix that always dangled near his heart, and gave it a kiss for protection. Good, God fearing men didn’t die. That’s what Father John, the Questarian missionary, had always said.

The troops began to mutter again, and the silence that had followed the ill-fated, but heroic charge had dissipated. Those men knew their duty. Those men died for it. God save the King! Jerry felt his negative emotion leave, as he saw the standard of the Commonwealth fluttering next to the green and blue, and black arrow pointing up from the green at the blue standard of new Kriegorgrad. The old state flag had been long-since burnt, abandoned, and became a symbol of hatred. The green meant the tranquillity of Kriegorgrad, the blue the glorious skies. The black arrow meant that such tranquillity must be defended. At seeing the standards, he felt patriotism, love of the Commonwealth and again understood why he was here with his fellow man. Still, Jerry hadn’t seen battle yet except from the distance. Whether or not the warriors and boys of the Kings Kriegos Rifles would fail in their task was uncertain, but they wouldn’t fail in their duty. Jerry took another look at the Polaroid, felt a stab of emotion, and looked at the flag. Real men didn’t run. God save the King!

9th August 1948

Shots rang out inside the bunker, signalling the last defenders of the Stanford Line had been gunned down. For twenty four hours, through darkness, rain, and mud, the Questarian and Kriegos troops had advanced into murderous gunfire from the line, losing thousands as they did so. With tank and artillery support the Line could be penetrated, even at an enormous cost. The Mountboard gunners where overwhelmed with targets, and silenced by an artillery bombardment much of the Line's anti tank emplacements had been crushed by massive salvos of artillery that ACE had brought in. Hopelessly outgunned, the Line was crushed faster than expected. Tanks rolled over the barricades and mines laid down and finally hit the Line itself, with infantry right behind them. The Mountboard resistance was heroic but thye where simply overwhelmed by tanks, armoured cars, tankettes, artillery, and massive waves of infantry.

Private Stonefield wiped the mud off his face and grinned as he watched the Union Jack fly high above the remains of the Stanford Line, though it extended beyond the horizon he assumed from the gigantic billows of thick black smoke the same had happened further down the line. Looking around for somewhere to rest, he noticed a lone soldier leaning against a wall in reflection. He walked over, slinging his rifle over his back. In the typical Questarian manner he met him with a flurry of questions.

"Hey friend. A Kriegos huh? What brings you over here? Pretty picture, who's the bird? Cigarette?"

He kept up his smile and put the pack forward, a single cigarette poking out for the Kriegos to take.

Parliament House, Dowland City

The sun was at the peak of its ascent into the sky, rays of sunlight bathing Dowland City in a wash of orange-yellow light; temperatures rose to an almost unprecedented height, and the tall skyscrapers that formed the Financial Sector reflected the bright light to form the eye-straining brightness that gave the city the nickname of 'The City of a Thousand Sunsets'. Nearly twenty miles away from the artificially-created illusion, in the section of the city referred to on maps as Government Centre, and known to the hundreds of thousands of employees who worked there as 'The Circle', sat Parliament House. This small and unimposing structure, with its faux-Edwardian features seemingly out of place when surrounded by modern glass-and-concrete structure, was the seat of government of the Grand Monarchy.

On the third floor of Parliament House was situated the personal office of the official resident of Parliament House - King Alexander I, King of the Grand Monarchy and All Her Colonies and Realms. At the large oaken desk that sat to the back of the large, well-lit room, sat the King himself. Reading glasses perched on his nose, one finger periodically pushing them back onto the bridge of his nose in an action that would be repeated a thousand times a day, Alexander sat reading. He was reading, for the third time, the small sheaf of papers that he had taken from the black folder sitting on his desk, delivered by courier only a few minutes ago.

He finished reading the papers and placed them back on the desk, sighing deeply and sitting back in the thickly-cushioned chair he sat in. The reports from Questers were truly worrying. If this Secessionist Movement that was festering in the southern regions of his country's closest ally was ever to spread to the rest of the country and attract more popular support, the results could be devastating. A Questers that was not under the control of the Monarchy, and was instead controlled by an anarchist, anti-democratic rabble, could destabilize the entire region.

He sighed once again, running through the options that he could take. There was, of course, the simple option of isolationism, Ignore the problem officially, and issue a statement declaring the neutrality of the Grand Monarchy. In reality, that was hardly an option; not only was Questers his nations closest and dearest ally, but they had supplied weapons, arms and volunteers to aid the Parliamentarian Forces in the Skinnian Civil War less than a decade ago - forces that included Alexander himself. No, isolationism was not an option.

Then, of course, there was the other end of the option range. Full military intervention; deploying the entire Rapid Reaction Force stationed in Haven and wipe out the Secessionist Movement. But that would hardly go down well with the public, Questerian or Skinnian, and the usual media images of dead bodies would hardly help his cause. No, to solve this problem and aid his ally, a more subtle approach would be needed. Alexander picked up a pen and tapped it against his teeth, thinking. Could he do it again? It had worked during the Czardian Crisis, for sure. But would the public but into it again. He grunted; only time would tell.

He pressed a button on the intercom embedded into the desk. "Hawksworthy, please ask Major-General Yardsworth to come in."

Alexander leaned back into the chair and waited. A few moments later there came a knock at the double doors that led into his office and they opened, admitting a single figure. The man who entered was a tall and graceful figure, perhaps a little over six foot and carrying the posture of a military man. Timothy Yardsworth, Major-General in His Majesty's Army, strode into the office and came to attention at Alexander's desk, hand raising in a crisp salute.

Alexander returned the salute and motioned at the man to sit. Yardsworth did so, bringing his features more readily to view. Yardsworth was a man perhaps sitting comfortably close to his 50th birthday, a small grey moustache present above his mouth and thin, red lips. He had grey eyes, that seemed unfocused until he looked at you, when they seemed to bore straight through you. He had his trademark cigarillo perched in his mouth; it was unlit in deference to Alexander's preference for a non-smoking work atmosphere.

"Your Majesty. It is a pleasure to meet you once again. I trust that you are feeling well?"

Alexander smiled. "Yes, Timothy, thank-you. Yourself?"

"I have never been better, Your Majesty. I completed a five-mile run just before your messenger caught up to me in Dargwell Park."

"Excellent. But, pleasantries aside, I have another job for you and your chaps. The same as what occurred in Czardas, but in Questers this time. I trust you've read the latest news on the Secession?'

Yardsworth nodded. "A terrible occurrence. I trust the same conditions apply? The equipment to be drawn from the warehouses and labelled as 'Lost' or 'Training Supplies'. Transport for the Volunteer Brigades to be non-sanctioned."

Alexander nodded. "The same as Czardas, Yardsworth. Deniability, but a chance for medals and crumpets if you make it. The five Brigades should be ready to depart within 72 Hours from the New Kaylee Airbase."

Yardsworth grunted and rose from his seat, snapping off another salute. "Aye, Your Majesty. They'll be ready, and we'll do you proud, same as before."

With that Yardsworth walked from the office, hand already groping inside a pocket for the lighter that would light the Cigarillo the moment he left the building and walked into the street. Alexander watched him go, a wry smile on his lips. Yardsworth and his men would get the job done in Questers.

1st of August 2007

Coronel Eimil thought long and hard about his decision. It was of the highest importance to be properly equipped, otherwise, he and his companions would not last a second. He grasped the instrument by it's handle. The weight was appropriate, it would serve well. Next, came the steed, even more important, if you could not move, you could not do anything. Eimil chose a good one, powerful, fast and agile, it should ride him to victory easily. He looked to the others, they nodded. Together, they walked onto the field, their animals beside them, with no knowledge of who the opponents would be. However, there was no one outside. Confused, he looked to his comrades, only to see the same look of confusion that he was sporting. Suddenly, Brigadier Garl rode onto the field.

"Gentlemen, sadly, todays polo match must be canceled."
"What?"
"The unit has been called up, we are to leave as soon as possible."
"Sir, what exactly is going on?"
"I'm sure you've read of it in the newspaper, theres some sort of rebellion in Questers, and, as a gesture of support, our government has decided that our unit, among others, shall go aid."
"Ah good, those Questerians are good fellows."
"Indeed, report to HQ in 3 hours."
"Very well sir."
"Have a good day."
"You too sir."

7th August 2007

Coronel Eimil looked at the rough waters of the Somorac, just 6 days earlier, tens of thousands of Questerians had given their life to seize it. And it showed, there were still bodies in the water, and vehicle wrecks along the shore. The view was but a mere glimpse into the brutality they would soon witness, and live.

"Coronel!"
"Sir!"
"We're having trouble organizing the crossing, about 3 divisions are stuck on the other side."
"How? We made it through fine."
"Apparently, a bunch of armored vehicles stuck further up the shore since the fighting broke loose due to the current, and now they've become stuck again. But in the middle of the river."
"Very well. What am I exactly supposed to do?"
"Make sure that everything goes alright, these buffoons in Army Command East would probably be incapable of beating Clandonia."
"They might be slightly inept sir, but I think that was too harsh."
"Maybe, just make sure that it works."
"Yes sir!"

Eimil boarded a small boat along with some other officers, and quickly made it across the river. 30,000 Franberrians of the "Volunteer Corps" were stuck on the wrong shore, and they were needed if the orders by ACE were to be fulfilled.

"Damn Questerians, no, damn Questerian hicks, can't even oppress their own populace right."

Tadcaster looked at the Questarian soldier. This casual, overly casual soldier after a cig and a name. He looked at him. His lips began to move to speak, but his consciousness was absorbed by it, the memory, the…

”MOVE UP YOU FUCKING CUNTS, YOU WANNA’ DIE IN NO-MAN’S LAND?” Was the shout from the brutal Sergeant-Major as the remainder of his fireteam pushed up. Over half of them had been massacred by the Mountboard guns and bombs and munitions.

Private Tadcaster’s heart pounded, and the last few stretches of no man’s land became the most awful distance he’s ever had to cross. The last few stretches of no-man’s land. The last few stretches of eternity. He’d seen awful things in the few hundred metres of hell, he’d seen Kriegos and Questarians destroyed utterly in ways too inhuman to imagine. The lack of humanity appalled young Tadcaster infinitely. How could a man so willingly destroy his fellow man? Of course, because the enemy was evil! God save the King!

He could see them now, the bastards spitting fire at his beloved comrades, at his brothers of blood and country! He felt hatred well up in him, Julie no longer existed for this moment, as the blood-lust consumed him. He dashed utterly for the edge of the trench-line. How he’d arrived here without being ripped apart by gun-fire didn’t concern him. He was going to fight, and die a member of the Kings First Rifles. GOD SAVE THE KING!

He leapt over the sandbags, and already his rifle was slung over his shoulder on its strap, and his wicked eight inch blade was out, a poor Mountboard soldier turned with a start, his M16 jammed from continuous fire on his his brothers in arms. Jerry Tadcaster, a young man with a girl he was smitten with back home, lashed out with his arm, and the poor Questarian with the M16 fell to his knees, blood spurting violently, horribly and horrifically from his neck. The Chorka blade peered back up at Jerry for a moment, its gleaming, blue-steel surface marred with the crimson of the enemy. Jerry had no idea how to feel, he just felt he had a duty to fulfil, and that he’d done something good for himself, the Commonwealth, and most importantly: for Julie. He’d defended her from the threat! What the threat was, it didn’t matter, as he’d defended her from it. God save the King!

“Kriegos is right. Bird’s Julie. Love her. Cigarette would be good. I haven’t smoked before, but I hear it’s a good thing for the stress. And you’re a Heartlander, ain’t you?” The young man took the cigarette from the foreign, but gracious Heartlander, and then sunk to his knees. Not out of fear, but out of emotion. The immensity of what he'd just gone through swept through him like a wave of fire. His head sunk into his hands and his body convulsed with the realization.

He’d killed a man. God save the King!

Narhal City Aerodrome, Narhal, Questers

Major-General Timothy Yarmouth crouched down to the cracked and weathered tarmac that the airfield had been built with, and scraped a match along the thick, black material. The top of the match crackled and began to burn fiercely; satisfied with the flame, Yarmouth stood up again and lit the cigarillo resting in his mouth. The end grew a bright cherry red and he inhaled slowly, favouring the sweet but harsh smoke of the cigarillo, before turning back to the aircraft he had been watching. The Aerodrome was in a state of organised chaos as the first C-130 and GalaxyMaster transport aircraft landed in the Aerodrome, wheels bumping into the tarmac and emitting a piercing shriek as their pilots applied airbrakes to bring them to a stop. To the uninformed observer, it would not appear to be a very impressive force. Perhaps thirty aircraft had landed, disgorging the 1st Battalion of the 13th (Dowland City) Volunteer Brigade.

However, as Yardsmouth watched the second wave of aircraft touch down and lower their ramps, khaki-clad soldiers and armoured vehicles exiting, he knew that this was but a fraction of the force to come. In just a few hours, the rest of the 13th Brigade would arrive, alongside the other five Volunteer Brigades that comprised the force sent to Questers to aid the government in the suppression of the Seccession.

Cigarillo happily burning away, Yarmouth turned to his aide-de-camp, Lieutenant-Colonel Michael Green. A short, stocky man, Green had served in the Civil War as a fighter pilot before retiring, only to be snapped up by Yarmouth as an aide for the coming campaign. He offered Yarmouth a clipboard that contained an overwhelming amount of paperwork, but Yarmouth took it anyway and began flipping through the paper. He nodded a few times and grunted once, then handed back the clipboard to Green. He pulled the Cigarillo from his mouth and blew a ragged ring of smoke into the air before suddenly patting his pockets. He quickly drew out a thin, battered cigar case and expertly flipped it open with one hand. "Awful absent minded of me not to offer you one Michael, I am sorry. Will you take one?"

Green hesitated for a second. He wasn't a smoker by preference, but he knew Yarmouth was trying to make up for seeming to be rude. He picked one of the cigarillos and placed it in his breast pocket. "I'll save it for later General, but thank-you. Just to confirm what's in that heap of papers sir, most of 1st Battalion is forming up as we speak, General. Able and Brave Companies are ready sir, and Charlie, Dog and Easy will be ready to move within the hour; one of the C-130s had a hydraulics problem that delayed the 15th Reconnaissance Squadron offloading until a few minutes ago.

Yarmouth scowled at the problem, but then set his face again. Even the best of plans went awry somehow, and he should be glad it wasn't something more serious. He nodded in thanks to Green, then snapped his fingers. "What about air support, Michael? Have those lazy bastards at 8th Squadron set up their Tactical HQ with the Command Staff

Green tried to hide a smile, but couldn't entirely. Yarmouth may have been rude, but he had an undeniably entertaining eccentricity at times. Regaining his composure, he replied. "Yes sir, they have. The Communication HQ has set up the usual links to the Squadron, and we'll have air support when requested. Our own air assets should be unloaded by midnight as well, but the SAM and ASAM Batteries are already set up around the Aerodrome to provide more security, and the Sapper squads are helping shore up the defences to make sure we don't have any unexpected visitors."

Yarmouth said nothing, and for a moment Green suspected he hadn't heard him. However, Yarmouth suddenly snapped into action. "That's grand news, Michael - thank the crews of the transports for their hard work in unloading the equipment and troops. But now we have more important things to be doing - we have to get to the First Battalion and find a Questarian liason officer." Before Green could react, Yarmouth was moving swiftly towards a Champion MBT that had just started it's engine.

Yarmouth jumped up onto the turret ring with a spring that belied his advanced years and began speaking to the exposed Commander of the vehicles. The man listened intently for a second over the racket of the engine, then nodded. Yarmouth grinned and tapped the man on the shoulder, then waved to Green to join him. Green climbed onto the tank and tried to balance on an ammunition box, but the tank immediately began moving. It was only Yarmouth grabbing his jacket that stopped him from falling off of the tank; he balanced himself again and thanked the General, before sighing unheard over the noise. Once again they were off into battle...

August 9th, 2026

It had been only seven years since Titus had been hunting the Questarians themselves as he was these people. They were all the same, with that annoying accent, and that annoying language, and their annoying heretic tea-drinking ways. But by God, the crumpet-stuffers paid well: five-thousand for a lieutenant, fifteen for a captain. The colonel he was stalking was going to rake in fifty-thousand. He had to admire the rebs: they were putting up an excellent fight, but then again that wasn't saying much considering their opponents.

He'd personally killed five-hundred sixty-eight (give or take ten) Questarians on Paralentum; he remembered all of their faces. It was the same old story: inept generalship on the part of the Questarians. He'd encountered few Questarians that he could truly call cowards: they were, in general, a brave foe, but after General What's-His-Face had been killed on Paralentum, thing's had gone totally downhill for them due to the fact his replacement was remeniscent of one of these borderline retarded champagne generals.

Well, that, and the fact that the Questarians were fighting the Doomani.

How was it, then, after he'd killed so many of these people, that the Questarians were now his employer?

It may be a bit more complex than money alone. Forty-eight year-old Centurion Titus Tranquilus could easily have made a nice personal fortune as a consultant, a job that didn't require him to put himself in the line of fire. But that simply wouldn't do: he was born and raised to do one thing, and that was to take human lives. It was the thing he was best at; it was work he enjoyed doing. The pay wasn't bad, either, especially for a sniper of his caliber (no pun intended).

Following his retirement from the Imperial Army after the Czardaian Crusade, he'd stayed in Haven, and, like hundreds of thousands of other former Doomani solders in his situation, made his living as a freelance mercenary, hiring himself out to the highest bidder. It was rather ironic that he'd ended up in the pay of a former enemy, but not an uncommon occurrence.

He'd sought out Questarian employment on his own after hearing of a rebel army numbering in the millions. Armies numbering in the millions tend to have lots of high ranking officers. In Titus' case, lots of high ranking officers equated to lots of money. And so it made sense that he was now laying in the prone position atop a ridge overlooking the densely forested valley that lay between him and his target's camp.

Insects had made a home of his guillee suit; it did not bother him at all, considering the shit he'd dealt with on Paralentum. Fresh morning dew dripped from the leaves of the bush he was hidden beneath dripped on his head; the fresh smell of the morning air filled his nostrils. In the distance, the chatter of automatic weapons fire was supplemented by the chirping of the birds. His target would be getting up soon.

An insect crawled across the netted scope cover as he peered through it. He smiled slightly- this was going to be the fifth officer he'd killed this week. This was a leisurely pace; a nice hunting trip. The game in question happened to be human beings, but for the Doomani such things were normal.

At around this time every day, Colonel Yoberman walked the guard picket that surrounded the enemy camp on the opposite bank, fifteen hundred meters in front of Titus’ nest. From what Titus had made out in the past few days, this was an enemy command post. At any given moment there could be anything from ten to twenty officers walking its grounds. At this time of day, Colonel Yoberman could generally be found along with a pair of captains, a major, and a few lieutenants. In other words, over a hundred thousand denarii’s worth of officers.

Keenly monitoring Yoberman’s tent, the canvas flap dropped down. Yawning, his arms stretched out, the uniformed colonel in his mid-fifties with graying hair wearily strode out of his tent, smiling at he was joined by another officer. The two walked down to the edge of the ridge, coming to the path they always came to. The other officer, a captain, turned his back as Yoberman continued down a narrow path running the face of the cliff to do his normal business.

Yoberman had a very strict routine; Titus loved it when the infidel worked himself into a routine. It made him far easier to stalk, and eventually kill. Titus’ ten-thousand denarii scope followed Yoberman down the path, coming to the same spot he usually stopped at. As usual, the colonel dropped his pants, proceeding to take a leak off of the side of the cliff. Titus wondered if taking a piss off the side of a cliff was really worth going out of your way to walk down a narrow path…he’d have to try it sometime.

Licking his finger, Titus checked the wind. Absolutely perfect. After adjusting his scope for range and wind a few clicks, he stared back through the lens. The colonel was pulling his trousers up by now. Carefully and with robotic precision, Titus brought his crosshairs over the colonel’s head.

Inhale.

”In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.”

Exhale.

Crack.

Even as the DRS-84 sharply recoiled against his shoulder, he was able to watch through his scope as the 8.8x77mm round curved going downrange, firmly planting itself in Yoberman’s skull. The feeling Titus had was one of indescribable bliss as Yoberman’s head sharply snapped back, slamming into the face of the cliff behind him and bouncing off, sending him careening forward off the face of the cliff. Even from fifteen hundred meters, Titus could see the enormous hole in the back of Yoberman’s skull as he plummeted several hundred meters off of the mountain; he could even see the exact spot on the cliff Yoberman’s brains had impacted after they were blown out the back of his head.

”Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum,”

He turned the bolt handle upwards, gently sliding it back and ejecting the spent case. The fresh smell of spent cordite filled his nostrils. God, how he loved that smell.

”Adveniat regnum tuum,”

Sliding the bolt forward, he chambered another 8.8mm cartridge, turning the handle back downwards. Peering back through the scope, he watched as the captain began to walk down the path to see what the hell was taking his colonel so long.

Titus lined up another head shot. The captain was beginning to become frantic; Titus could see the beads of sweat running down the man’s forehead as he tried to figure out where his colonel was.

Inhale.

”Fiat voluntas tua…”

Exhale.

Crack.

The captain had been looking directly at the spot where Yoberman’s blood and brains had impacted; it was almost ironic that an 8.8mm round entered the back of this man’s skull just as he was opening his mouth to yell for help, his blood and grey matter exploding out the front of his head rather than out of the back; his head smashed into the cliff in a similar manner, sending him careening off of the cliff, following his colonel in his descent.

”… sicut in caelo et in terra.”

Peering through the scope for a few more moments, he scanned the command post. The other officers were beginning to arrive, apparently confused about the absence of the other two. Titus could practically hear what they were saying:

”Where’s Colonel Yoberman?” one of them would ask some poor dumb enlisted man, only to receive a response along the lines of ”He went to relieve himself, sir.”

” Panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie, et dimitte nobis debita nostra sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris.”

He swiftly worked the bolt as the major began walking towards the edge of the cliff, towards the path’s entrance. As he slid the bolt shut once more, he again peered through the scope. The major was followed by the other officers in question along with several concerned enlisted men. Drawing a bead on the major as he began walking down the path, Titus fingered the trigger.

Inhale.

” Et ne nos inducas in tentationem, sed libera nos a malo,”

Exhale.

Crack.

It was almost too perfect. The major’s head had been nearly torn off around the same time as the last of the officers were about half way down the narrow path; chaos ensued.

”Amen.”

Rapidly working the bolt, Titus had another round headed downrange in a matter of milliseconds, this one driving itself into the chest of the enemy lieutenant at the rear of the group as he tried to run back out of the path, causing several others to trip over his body.

”Deus vult,” he growled with a vicious smile as he continued to send one round after another downrange into that path right into the packed group of officers.

It was beautiful. One after the other, an 8.8mm round would tear through the rebels as if they were made of tissue paper, occasionally sending a limb flying. There was a constant beat to the carnage; a round would fly downrange one moment, and he’d be working the bolt the next, only to put another one down, watching as his round from the previous shot impacted as he was sending the next round downrange. When it was all over, blood was running down the path, and only two of the eight officers that had gone down the path were still on it. They weren’t moving anymore.

That day he fired off a total of eight rounds, killing eight enemy officers at a distance of fifteen hundred meters. Shortly thereafter he was on his way back towards Questarian lines to collect his pay. It would take several hours for the rebels to realize just what had happened; by then Titus was long gone. He was already earning himself a fearsome reputation, both with his former Questarian enemy, and with his new-found Mountboard foe.

Mountboard Territory - Five Hundred and Twelve Kilometres East of Narhal Aerodrome

It was beautiful countryside, really. The sun was just beginning to set, slowly sinking towards the horizon, sending beams of pure yellow-orange light skittering through the trees and reflecting dully on a million leaves. A glittering panorama of a multitude of colours was formed; red and yellow, orange and brown, even a a smattering emerald-green could be seen. In any other place, at any other time, it might well have been called romantic. Images of young lovers, arms entwined as they walked between the trees, rich peals of laughter echoing through the forest; happiness personified.

However, as man is apt to do, perhaps inevitably considering his nature, he had seen fit to ruin this majestic scene of natural beauty with his own petty actions. Instead of peals of laughter and the giggling of young lovers, there was the hiss of bullets as they parted the air they moved through at tremendous speeds, and the crump of shells as they arced through the air and exploded in the ground, heaving great clods of earth and grass into the sun-lit air. Mingling with this cacophony of man-made weapons were other sounds associated with modern man waging war. The sharp crack of a tank's rifled cannon firing a round at a target, and the ear-shattering sound that shell made when it hit something; the insistent chatter of machine-guns firing thousands of bullets, sounding nothing more than the ripping of calico. And, of course, that singular and unique sound that is always present at the scene of men waging war; pain. The scream of a man hit by a bullet or shrapnel, and the sobbing of a soldier split asunder by a mortar or artillery shell; the dull gargling of a man as he expels the last few, shuddering, breaths from his violated body.

The location of this carnage was a large forest, through which ran one of the major roads in Mountboard territory, and which the Volunteer Brigades would need to advance any further into the Secessionist territory. The road ran through the forest, dissecting it into two halves; perhaps eight kilometres into the trees there was a bridge which spanned the fast-flowing Somorac River and allowed traffic across it at this point. It was this Bridge that the Volunteer Brigades needed to cross the Somorac at this point and penetrate the Mountboard lines; it was for this Bridge that the men and women of the Volunteer Brigades were fighting and dying for.

"Down! Down! Mortars!"

The cry came a fraction of a second too late for Major James Franklin. The Major was crouching behind a thin poplar tree when his ears registered the all-too familiar sound of mortar shells flying through the air. He barely had time to register the shout from the men in the slit-trench to his left before the barrage hit. The small shells slammed into the ground and the trees, scything off branches and bark and gouging great holes in the ground that vomited piles of thick brown mud. Most of the barrage fell to Franklin's left, but one impacted just a few feet away from where he crouched.

The concussion of the explosion tossed Franklin to the ground and spattered him in a foul mixture of mud and leaves. He was thrown onto his back, limbs akimbo as the concussion rolled over him and left him dazed. An ear-splitting whine shrieked through his ears and his vision was blurred. He rolled onto one side and tried to move his arms; they felt slow, as if tied down with a dozen weights each. As he tried to roll onto his belly, Franklin felt arms grab him around the chest and legs and drag him through the mud and into the slit trench.

He winced as he hit the trench, but his muddled mind realised that he was much safer here than where he had been. He lay still for a few seconds, breath rapidly re-filling his lungs, and watched as a Medic in blood-stained fatigues patted down his body looking for wounds. As the man finished his cursory inspection and moved onto the other men in the thin trench, Franklin shook his head; his sight cleared, and he managed to stand up, albeit shakily. He nodded to the men who had dragged him into the trench, muttering his thanks, before he picked up his M-8 from where it had been hurled into the trench.

Checking the assault rifle for damage and finding it satisfactory, Franklin pushed his helmet back into place and peered over the lip of the trench, keeping his head low; the Mountboards were excellent shots. The soldier next to Franklin testified to this fact; as he fired his last shot and fumbled for another clip in his webbing, he unconsciously placed his other hand on the top of the trench to balance himself. A second later the man fell into the bottom of the trench screaming and clutching the bloodied remnants of his hand, M-8 clattering into the trench.

Franklin grimaced, turning to help the man. He dragged the unfortunate soul, whose face was already albino-white from shock, into what little cover there was and ripped open his Emergency Medical Fieldpack. With fast, efficient motions that showed his experience, Franklin bandaged what remained of the soldier's hand to stop the bleeding. Leaving the maimed man to the hard-pressed Medic, Franklin returned to his previous position looking out over the trench.

What he saw was organized chaos. The slit trench he was in, shallow and rapidly-dug, was replicated perhaps twenty times all over the area of the forest he could see, other Volunteers crouching in them and returning the all-too accurate fire of the Mountboard defenders. Franklin swore viciously, slandering the Mountboards and their mothers; they were fighting for every inch of this god-forsaken forest. Able Company had been the vanguard of the 13th (Dowland City) Brigade, rapidly advancing through Narhal and into Secessionist territory. They had made good time at first, seeing nothing but open countryside and the occasional Mountboard position that had easily been overwhelmed.

However, as the Company had reached the edge of this forest, intending to bridge the Somorac and enfilade the local Mountboard positions, the Secessionists had struck. Travelling in loose-order, the Company had been easy targets. The first anti-tank missiles had streaked from camouflaged launchers hidden amongst the first trees, slamming into the first Champion MBTs and turning from the pinnacle of armoured warfare technology to burning husks. Franklin had seen the results of the ambush from his Command Champion in the middle of the column. It was a testament to the skill of the Volunteers that the Mountboards did not claim any more than the initial three Champions in their initial action.

Like a well-oiled machine, Able Company reacted to the ambush and moved into fighting order. The surviving Champions popped their smoke launchers, throwing up a thick smoke screen that blinded the Mountboard defenders for a few vital seconds. Engines roaring, these Champions advanced towards the now-revealed launchers, firing their Cannon and spraying them with machine-gun fire. As this occurred, the rest of the Company deployed out of echelon; the other Champions had moved to the flanks and engaged the other Mountboard positions that revealed themselves as they launched more missiles and machine-gun fire at the Volunteers. The APCs and Trucks that contained the Company's infantry slewed to a halt, disgorging their occupants. Officers and NCOs shouted hurried orders, moving the infantry into a thick skirmish line; men moved into what little cover there was in the exposed grassland, opening fire at the defenders. Fire-teams set up knots of resistance, machine-guns adding their chattering to the crack of rifles and the dull thuds of mortars.

Franklin had pulled down the microphone attached to his helmet, and began issuing orders to his command in a slow, deliberately unhurried voice. The remaining Champions moved to protect the infantry, guns still roaring as they raked the tree-line with heavy-calibre fire. Franklin could see through his micro-binoculars as Mountboards were thrown back or shredded by the fire-power of the tanks and the infantry. A missile-launcher fired another missile, the projectile streaking through the air and hitting an APC just below the turret-ring; the vehicle detonated in a greasy fireball, incinerating its crew and those men too slow to bail out before the missile detonated.

Franklin whirled around to locate the launcher and saw a small knot of men crouched around the weapon, shouting at each other as they hurried to load another of the lethal missiles. Kicking the gunner below him, Franklin shouted and pointed towards the launcher. "Anti-tank Launcher, Two-O'Clock, Eight-Hundred Metres!" The turret of the powerful tank slewed to the left and the gun barked once, its roar temporarily deafening Franklin despite his thick ear-protectors. The shell hit the launcher, destroying it and turning the men around it to paste. Franklin shouted his approval, and the Champion moved forward with the rest of the tanks, the infantry advancing behind.

Franklin ducked as another mortar barrage rained down around the trench, shredding more bark and sending thousands of lethal splinters into the ground and the sheltering troops. Glancing at the watch he wore on his wrist, he realized that had been nearly twenty-four hours ago. After the rapid initial advance into the forest, the advance had slowed to a crawl. The Champions had been all but useless; the road was barricaded and mined to an almost unbelievable degree which had cost three more of the vehicles before Franklin had retreated, and the rest of the tanks could not move through the thick trees that clustered so close together.

As such, it had become a bloody, attritional battle as the Volunteers moved forward in small groups, fighting in savage hand-to-hand battles to clear the forest of its stubborn defenders. The bayonet and the rifle-butt were the weapons of choice, and this style of fighting was bleeding Able Company dry. In the past day it had suffered more than 60% casualties, which had led to Franklin reluctantly ordering that the trenches be dug. Each shallow trench - more a rut in the ground - was a small victory in of itself, as it represented another few hundred yards won against the Mountbard's. Franklin glanced over the top of the trench again, ducking a stream of bullets from a Mountboard machine-gun. He could see the bridge from here, the one and only objective for Able Company. If they didn't take it very soon, he realized, there would be very little of the Company left when the rest of the Brigade arrived.

Pulling down the microphone on his helmet, Franklin patched himself into the command net. "Able-One to Able-Ten, come in, over." He checked the magazine of his M-8 as he waited for Able-Ten to respond. Able-Ten was Captain Granger, who commanded the Engineer Platoon attached to the Company, and who had been tasked with clearing the road of its booby-traps and barricades. Franklin could see Gardener now; clean-shaven and sallow-faced, but with a smile that seemed to light up his entire face and seemed entirely inappropriate for his facial features.

"Able-One, this is Able-Ten."

Franklin grunted. "Gardener, have your men cleared the road? I need those Champions up and running to the Bridge right now."

A burst of static and a moments silence. "Aye, Able-One. The roads cleared, although I've only a few of my lads left with me. So you've got one chance, and thats it."

"Very good Able-Ten. Over."

Franklin digested the information. The road to the Bridge was clear, and although the Engineers had suffered, the Champions now had a clear route over the Somorac. Now all Able Company had to do was get to the bridge before the Mountboards realised the road was clear and blew the bridge into rubble. Patching into the command net again, Franklin contacted Able-Seven, commander of the remaining Champions. Speaking briefly, Franklin outlined his plan; it was simple, but brutal. There was a brief discussion, and the Franklin clicked off. The Champions now knew what to do. All that remained was for the Corps Artillery.

A few minutes and a rapid discussion with Major-General Yardsmouth himself, and Franklin had secured himself the cooperation of the Corps Artillery. The plan was in place; now he just had to alert the troops. Flicking down the microphone for one last time, Franklin opened a channel to all Officers and NCO's.

"Attention, this is Able-One. Able-Ten has cleared the road for the Champions to advance. Now we just have to secure the objective. The plan is simple. In twelve minutes, Corps will have every artillery piece in the sector land a creeping barrage onto the Mountboard positions, ending at the objective itself. When this begins, the Champions will move up the road to the bridge, and the infantry will rapidly advance into the Mountboard positions and secure them. That is all."

There was a chorus of assents from those Officers and NCOs that remained, and Franklin severed the connection. He looked at his watch; ten minutes were left. He looked to his left, and saw the other men in the trench look at him. He realized he was the only Officer left, and they were looking to him for instructions. Clearing his throat, he crouched down and motioned for them to crowd round as best they could. Shouting to be heard over the cacophony around them, Franklin briefed the nine men.

"Right, chaps. We're about to end this battle once and for all. In about eight minutes, there will be one hell of an artillery stonk hitting the 'Boards. The tanks will gun their engines and run pell-mell for the bridge, and we'll be advancing alongside them. This is the last act; our chance to end this hell once and for all."

He saw the men nod in agreement, a mixture of relief and fear flashing through their faces. Relief that the battle would soon be over; fear that they might not make it. Franklin clapped the nearest soldier on the shoulder. "Look, we'll make it. Just make sure your weapon is loaded, and don't stop until you reach the bridge. You'll all be fine."

With that, Franklin turned away. He didn't want to see their faces again, to see their eyes; if he didn't recognise them, he wouldn't have to feel so guilty if he found their maimed bodies after the battle. Glancing at his watch, he realized the speech had taken more time than he had thought. There was less than a minute to go before the barrage started. He checked his rifle again, and took a deep breath; his heart was thudding away at a dozen a second, and adrenaline coursed through his system. Was he afraid? Yes, he admitted to himself. He was petrified. But he had to go through with it; the men beside him, and throughout the Company, were relying on him. That was really all there was to it. So, he waited.

The barrage was right on time. They screamed through the air and slammed into the ground, throwing up huge piles of mud, the sound of the barrage deafening many of the combatants and drowning out the noise of the other weapons. Dozens of artillery batteries were flinging hundreds of shells into the forest, raining death down onto the Mountboard defenders. Trees exploded and Mountboard positions were obliterated by the barrage as it began to slowly move towards the bridge.

As the first shells hit, Franklin let out a cheer and clambered out of the slit-trench, his men following him. He ran as fast as he could, the sound of his heart and the shriek of the shells and the stutter of machine-guns blending into one hellish noise. As he ran he risked a glance to his left and then his right. To his left he could see hundreds of other Volunteers running towards the Mountboards, a ragged cheer coming up from them. To his right, the remaining Champions were gunning their engines and roaring towards the bridge; their cannons fired as fast as shells could be loaded, and machine-guns blazed away.

Although the barrage had evidently caught the Mountboards by surprise, they being used to the static nature of the last twenty-four hours, and had inflicted casualties, tearing open gaps in their defences, it had not killed enough of them. As Franklin ran, Mountboard machine-guns and rifles opened up, chattering and cracking at the advancing Volunteers. The man next to Franklin grunted and slammed into the ground as bullets tore into him. But there was no time to stop or even slow down to check the man; they had to reach the Mountboard lines.

It seemed like an eternity as Franklin ran for the bridge; it seemed to stretch and get further away the nearer he got, as if taunting him. His heart was beating furiously and breath only came in sharp, ragged gasps, and suddenly he was there. The bridge was only a few yards away and he was in the Mountboard defences. Lips curled back as he screamed a wordless cry, Franklin jumped into a crater that had been turned into a machine-gun emplacement. He pulled the trigger on his M-8, cutting down the gunner and loader of the weapon, aware of other Volunteers following him and clearing the position. He fired again and again, killing several more Mountboards before the magazine ran dry; reversing the empty rifle, Franklin moved forward through the Mountboard trenches - proper trenches, with firing steps and sandbags, not like the ones that he and his men had sheltered in for the past day - kicking and punching and slamming the butt of the rifle into Mountboards. Ribs cracked and noses broke and men were trampled under the feet of others; blood sprayed up the walls of the trenches and men screamed as they died.

The first trenches were cleared, and there only remained the reserve trenches to eliminate and the bridge was theirs. Shouting again, his throat hoarse from the effort, Franklin followed a group of Volunteers as they shot and hacked their way to the bridge. He smashed the rifle into another Mountboard who threw himself at Franklin, stoving his head in with a sickening crack, then threw down the ruined weapon and grabbed the dead man's weapon. He didn't recognise the make, but it hardly mattered. It had a long, wicked bayonet attached to it, and Franklin put this to good use, stabbing and thrusting. He bayoneted another Mountboard - an officer this time from the uniform - who tried to shoot him with a pistol, the bullet cracking past his head. The man screamed and fell to the ground; Franklin tugged at the weapon but it was stuck deep in the corpse. Frustrated, Franklin pulled the trigger, again and again, until the bayonet could be pulled out.

Spattered with blood, sweat beading on his forehead and his whole body aching from the battering it had taken, Franklin raised the bayonet to look for another Mountboard. It was then he realized that there were none left; they were either dead or retreating from the forest. The Volunteers had won. It took a second for that fact to register. The adrenaline pumped through his body still, but it tingled and itched now that he could feel it. His breath slowed down until it was somewhere near normal. The rifle felt heavy in his hands; he dropped it, his ears barely registering the thud it made.

He swayed to one side, suddenly exhausted beyond normal human limits. He sat down on the lip of the trench, dimly realizing that he was standing on the corpse of the officer he had bayoneted. He didn't care. They had won, and that was all that mattered for now. Soon he would come to his senses and realize much had to be done; tending to the wounded, recovering damaged equipment, and coordinating the advance with the rest of the Brigade as it arrived. A gargantuan task, but it was in the future. For now, there was nothing he could do but sit and stare at nothing, his hands shaking and his throat burning with the need to vomit.

They had won.

War Stories and Lions led by Donkeys

Paralentum, 1st August 1944

Stonefield pulled his fighter into a sharp dive. It was utter chaos in the air. The Doomies had dropped right ontop of the carrier group, five minutes after the Doomies had burnt through the RADARs on the task groups long range detection with their electronic warfare suites. The Questarian carrier group was being besieged by constant air attack from the Doomani carriers. It was a fucking disgrace, Stonefield thought. All they could do was hope their forward scouts or subs could find the Doomani carriers while the Questarian planes held off the constant attacks. He came down right on top of a wing of planes and while his wingman distracted the fighters, Stonefield gunned down the bombers. He got two before the other shot upwards and out of Stonefield's forward-scanning RADAR. He was in the thick of the dogfight, with hundreds of planes around him finding the right targets on the RADAR was extremely hard. Earlier he had managed to take down a Doomani fighter, purely by luck, but he realised he was damaged - holes through his wings. He couldn't dogfight, not in this thing.

Before Stonefield could register a request to land, he had turned his plane over towards the carrier Shokaku. Four missiles streamed from the air, then another two, slamming into the carriers deck and sides. They exploded, the munitions going up and fuel too - the carrier's deck was a burning mess. The thick black smoke billowed from the wounds suffered to the beast and it was obvious that the Shokaku would never make it back home.

"Uniform One Four to H.M.S Shokaku, whats your landing gear like, over." Not so long later he got a response. "This is the Shokaku to Uniform One Four. The whole port sides ablaze. We can take one plane, over."

"Confirmed Shokaku. I'm damaged, permission to land, over."

"Affirmative Uniform One Four, we can-"

A desperate voice cut through the radio.

"Uniform One Twelve, mayday mayday, taken heavy damage and need to land, over."

Stonefield thought about it. The Shokaku was done for. But they needed all the pilots they could get. His carrier and its comrades had swept the islands of Paralentum from the Doomies for six months, taking victory after victory from the vaunted ACID. Now the Doomani Air Force was hitting back. They'd need all the pilots they could get after the battle... and there was the pilot to consider. Uniform One Twelve, he knew, was about to become a father. Any day now. Stonefield made his decision.

"Uniform One Twelve, take my landing spot, over."

After some brief arguing, Stonefield pulled up, and gave his landing spot to Uniform One Twelve. His intentions where to land when the decks where cleared but as the damage spread it was obvious that the Shokaku was permantly scarred and the damage would be raging for quite some time.

Stonefield flipped through the radio channels, and was about to consider trying to fly back to a friendly airfield on one of the many islands before hearing something.

"Jaguar Three Three to any units, come in, come in, this is Jaguar Three Three over."

Stonefield answered. "Jaguar Three Three this is Uniform One Four, over."

"Uniform One Four, position of enemy carriers discovered, please relay information back to Zuikaku, over."

Stonefield did so, and just after the pilot had finished giving him the information he was shot down by the Doomani fighters. At least now, after four hours and six carriers sunk, the Questarians knew the position of the enemy.

But Stonefield, knowing he couldn't land, decided to do something about it. The location was under a minute away and the Doomies didn't know whether the Questarians knwe or not, so he took the initiative. They had the right intelligence and had studied it - they knew the landing doctrines for Doomani aircraft. He switched his IFF to "friendly" and soon was over the Doomani fleet. They had figured it out, however, and flak was surrounding his plane as the first missiles where picked up on his RADAR. Stonefield knew he had to act, and found a carrier launching aircraft. Diving on it and siezing his opportunity, he dived his fighter straight into the open elavator of the Doomani carrier.

If everyone cared and nobody cried
If everyone loved and nobody lied
If everyone shared and swallowed their pride
Then we'd see the day when nobody died.

Remnants of the Stanford Line, 9th August 1948

"Sure it is. Hell, I wouldn't trust a man who don't smoke." Stonefield lit it up for him, and was taken aback when the Kriegos shrunk to the ground. Stonefield sat down next to him and took a drag from his own cigarette. "I know man, war is hell. But you got someone back home, hell, I ain't got nothin'. My mom died in childbirth and my dad was a naval aviator, shot down over Paralentum. Been raised by my uncle ever since. But hell, I'm proud to be fightin', following my folks footsteps. Ya see this?" Stonefield reached inside a pocket and pulled something out. Its shine contrasted to the dark mud of the fortifications and the dull concrete of the bunkers so much that it looked like it was from a different world, but it was clear that Stonefield had taken immense care in cleaning it.

"Its a King Richard VI Cross. T'highest military decoration ya can get. Its my old man's. This is what keeps me goin' man. If there's somethin I can't stand its a fuckin traitor. Or a Catholic. Fuckin' Doomies." he spat on the floor. "So." Stonefield leaned back against the wall and propped his rifle up against it. "This girl of yours, she hot?"

Evidently Stonefield didn't understand.

Army Command East

The dark was beginning to set in. Outside the trees swayed ever so slightly, indicating the winds where slowing down for the night. Field Marshall Terauchi and his six generals were sitting in armchairs.

"Alright chaps, the first volunteers arrived this morning."

"After we breached Stanford." the disdainful General Howe snorted. "Those foreign buggers haven't helped us one jot."

"Now, now." Terauchi said. "I already have a list of promotion and decoration recommendations for at least a hundred Kriegos." Terauchi unfolded the paper. "But, as you know, there's only a limit we can give out, and our own chaps come first."

"Pardon?" Brigadier Auchinleck looked astounded. "That's just not fair game old chap. Those colonials won those fair and square."

"Bugger off Auchinleck." Howe replied. "They're colonials. If they want medals, they'll bloody have to buy them off an auction. I shan't be giving any colonials decorations under my command."

"Thats just not cricket General." Auchinleck replied. "I was under the impressions you where an honourable man!"

"He's right." General Yamagi butted in. "It seems our colonial friends are partial to running into machine guns. While they may be brave, they certainly have not the intellect to understand the concept of a medal." Howe sniggered.

"Actually Yamagi, it seems you're the one partial to charging them into machine guns. I'd say you're not capable of developing a strategy to escape a wet paper bag, let alone a bloody war."

"I say!" Yamagi was infuriated at this insult but it could not be continued further as Terauchi slammed his fist on the table.

"Gentlemen! Stop this bickering immediately!"

"This whole operation is a farce. I shan't have any part in this bloodbath." Aunchinleck took out a piece of paper and ripped up his tank brigade's operational orders. "Either you grow up and figure out this isn't playing with toy soldiers in a sandpit or I'll take this matter to I.G.HQ." Aunchinleck stood up, digging his officers boots into the expensive oak floor of the mansion and cast the ripped up orders into the raging fire.

Yamagi and Howe both drew their service revolvers and pointed them at Auchinleck. In an instant Auchinleck had his webley out and Terauchi, in one of his many rages, kicked over his footrest and screamed.

"All three of you, put down your weapons! NOW!"

As they lowered them, Auchinleck turned to leave.

"Go, you traitorous bastard." Howe spat after him. "General!" Terauchi, now clearly red with rage, shouted back. "Enough! he will have to be dealt with." Terauchi picked up a rotary telephone from the windowledge and made a phonecall.

Outside A.C.E Mansion

Auchinleck's driver saluted him and the brigadier returned the salute, opening the door and getting inside. The wind was actually stepping up and getting worse, but Auchinleck was protected by his great coat. Unfortunately, this would't protect him from a high velocity bullet to the head. The Questarian Army sniper watching him through the crosshair knew this too. He ducked down and whispered to himself. "Easy money, motherfucker..."

"There's plenty of your devil gold in hell, you traitorous fucker."

The sniper hadn't the time to respond before the chorka was around his neck. "Rot in hell."

Four miles down the road, Auchinlecks car stopped, and he wound down the window as a figure approached him.

"Did you get one, corporal?"

The burly Kriegos resonsible for Aunchinlecks security grinned behind the camouflaged face, bringing up the bloodstained chorka blade for Auchinleck to see. "Excellent. Good man Williams, I'll see you back at base."

[OOC: Sorry I couldn't address you all, I'll do it next post, maybe in a few hours, but I need a rest now.]

Rayleighton

The pitter patter of the 40 calibre rounds striking against the other side of the small hill was almost comforting. It was like the gentle drops of a rain storm, a storm that was extremely rare in the arid, sandy environment of the Azahan desert.

Jazeer kept his head against the hill, and his ear to the ground. He awaited for the gentle pitter patter to cease. He could no longer rely on his hearing alone to know when the enemy was reloading. The constant chatter of the enemy gun emplacements, amateur and expert snipers alike, and the screams of his own men, drowned out the sound of the machine gun nests that were constantly peppering his hillside.

When ever he tried to poke his head, not even two inches up from its current position, dirt and grass particles sprayed into his eyes, blinding him temporarily. His hill was only two feet off the rest of the land around it. It was only one of very few grass knolls that provided cover to him, and what remained of his 15 man section.

He looked behind him. In his field of view, there was only two other grass knolls, not that much larger than his. The once green, and lush, almost fairy tale-like field behind him and in front of him was nothing more than a pitted, brown and red land of death and chaos. Over a hundred men lay dead on dying behind him, every so often, a wounded, but not dead man, would be struck by a pepper of enemy gun fire, and gurgle in pain before dying in a pool of his own(And brethren’s) blood and fluids.

It seemed hopeless. Every so often, a couple of squad leaders would send forward a few of their men, hoping that they could gain some ground in the open landscape of the no man’s land. They always failed, after two or three steps, they would quite literally be ripped to shreds, their heaping steaming mass quivering on the ground, and dying soon after. The best he had seen since they had come under full assault was seven steps. That was the record, to a Corporal Kyubis. It was suicide to move. Everybody knew that.

Armor was supposed to be moving up. But Jazeer’s radioman(whom Jazeer dragged behind him, the radiman being shot through the side of the head) was relaying that the division’s armor was hold up midway from the landing site. The bastards had some how gotten ahold of light artillery. But it was enough to stop the column dead in its tracks, and probably for the remainder of this battle. How long was the remainder, Jazeer thought. Until every man was dead or dying, he pushed the thought from his head.

He relaxed. He closed his eyes. He eased his breathing. That was all he could do. Wait it out, wait for the fateful call for retreat, and then being shot in the back running. Or wait for the hill he was on to slowly dissolve away from the constant fire laid upon it. It almost seemed he was about to fall asleep peacefully, when his radio screeched with a horrific sound, grating at his sanity. Shortly after, a booming voice thundered, trying to overcome the ambient sound of death around the radio.

“Soldiers! Countrymen! Brothers! Today, is a day of trial, and test! This is the proving grounds! This is where Allah has sent us, THIS IS WHERE ALLAH SHALL SEE WHO IS WORTHY OF HIS BLESSINGS!

You have all been chosen by the Empire. By the king himself! By our BENEFACTORS! You have been chosen, not for your skill, not for your delicacy, not for your backgrounds. You have been chosen by the Empire for your SAVAGERY! For your BRUTALITY! For your COURAGE! And your undying LOYALTY and FAITH in Allah, King, and Empire!

This is our first chance to prove to the ones, who have given us so much, that we are well worth the cost! It is time to prove to the Empire, that we are not WORTHLESS SANDFLEAS. It is time to repay the ones, to whom EACH and every ONE of you owe your livelihoods.

We have the town surrounded. We outnumber then 4 to 1! Even after they have shamelessly killed so many of our battle brothers, we have the strength, the conviction, the dedicate to ground these worthless rebels to pulp! They have spat on the Empire, and slain their own country men. They are worthless traitors! It is time we march into this little hamlet, and spit on their corpses.

For ALLAH, KING, and EMPIRE! Rise up! Rise up and kill all those who stand in our way! Allah shall deem who is worthy of entry into paradise, to enemy, and brother alike!

Go my brethren! It is the time for reckoning! From this day forward, this division shall be named The Hammer of the Empire!”

The radio went silent. Immediately after, a much smaller, and meek voice sounded over the radio. “Execute.”

Behind his hill, he could hear the resounding roars of a hundred men. The voices all in unison, in a courageous bellow, resounding their faith and courage. Behind the two hills, figures stood up, and waved their men forward. Cracks and flashes of rifle and machine gun fire brightened the dusty, and pitted no man’s land.

Immediately, men were falling, dying, and in some cases, exploding. But that did not stop a single man whop was still alive from keeping his forward charge. With his heart full of fire, and butterflies, Jazeer rocketed to his feet, bellowed at his squad, and raced forward. While running, he unholstered his pistol, took aim at the nearest nest to him, and fired multiple rounds into the nest. He knew the rounds would never make the distance, but he did not care. He was only contributing to the morale of his men.

He raced towards the small town of Rayleighton, screaming his bloody roar. He did not think about the death to still come. The city fighting, the unseen snipers, and close quarters. Something Azahan soldiers were not trained, or known for. He only charged.

Alpha Company

"God help us, but we made a right shit-heap of this place, didn't we?"

The cynical words were followed by the sound of a shovel thudding into the ground, tearing into the hard-packed soil that the surface of the forest was primarily comprised of. The man who spoke wore the uniform of the Mountboard, its odd styling still recognisable despite the numerous tears and holes it possessed. Grunting with the effort, the Mountboard hefted the shovel again, the tip biting into the soil and tearing more of the thickly-packed soil out of the ground and onto the blade of the shovel.

The Mountboard, an officer from the one remaining tab that hung from a loose thread on his left shoulder, heaved the soil out of the hole he was digging, and bent down to begin the process again for what seemed the thousandth time. Receiving no reply to his question, the man raised his head above the top of the hole and looked at the two Volunteers who were guarding him and the other Mountboards in the hole.

"I said, 'God help us, but we mad-"

Before he could finish the sentence, one of the guards raised a boot and kicked the Mountboard in the mouth, throwing him roughly onto the ground, blood streaming from his mouth. The officer lay there for a moment, stunned, and then raised a hand to his mouth, probing it for damage. He swallowed painfully, then spat out a foul mixture of blood, gore and the remnants of several teeth. One of the men beside him handed him a water bottle, and he drank deeply, swilling it about his mouth and spitting it out again. Handing the bottle back with a nod of thanks, the officer stood up and glared at the soldier who had kicked him.

"As an officer of the Mountboard Confederate Assembly, I am an official and legitimate member of the Mountboard military, and count as such under the Geneva Conventions. By assaulting me, you have violated my rights..."

"You have absolutely no rights, you Secessionist bastard. You may have declared yourselves a free and independent nation, but the last time I checked there was no 'Mountboard Confederate Assembly' listed in the United Nations database of signatories for the Geneva Conventions. That makes you nothing but a rebel and a traitor, and thus you have no rights."

Major James Franklin strode over to the pit, glaring at the Mountboard officer with ill-concealed hatred. The two Volunteer soldiers guarding the pit turned and saluted the Major, sharing a discreet glance at his appearance. Before their deployment to Questers, and indeed the battle here in the forest, Franklin had been the stereotype of a decent officer. Kind, friendly and only firm enough to keep order, he had been popular with the rank and file as well as his fellow officers. Yet the two soldiers saluted a man who seemed the antithesis of the Major Franklin they knew.

This Franklin walked with a limp as if wounded, yet both men knew that he had not been wounded in the leg or indeed anywhere. His uniform was unkempt, dirty and blood-stained from the men he had killed; rumour had it the Major had refused to change into new fatigues, and had threatened to courts-marshal the man who asked him. He also had stubble on his chin and bags under his eyes, which would have been unknown to the Franklin who existed before the battle.

Yet he was still their commanding officer, and they could do nothing but salute. Franklin glared at them for a moment before returning the salute, and moving to the edge of the pit. He stared at the four Mountboards that stood in the pit, shovels at their sides. He stood there for a moment, then suddenly turned to face the soldiers.

"You men can go and get the stretcher-bearers to get the first bodies to be dumped in here. These scum have dug a big enough hole for what's left of Third Platoon to be dropped into."

The two men exchanged another glance, but said nothing. They simply saluted and moved off to find the first bodies to be placed into the pit; they moved a little faster than normal, wanting to return to the pit as soon as possible.

Franklin watched them go, face twitching. He rubbed at his eyes and blinked hard several times; he hadn't been getting much sleep recently, and the caffeine pills only took the edge off of the tiredness. He couldn't get more than a minute or two of sleep before the nightmares started. The faceless corpses wandering around, staring at him, surrounding him. He hated seeing them, watching them stumble around and stare at him, blaming him. It hadn't been his fault; he had tried to save them, but the Mountboards had killed them, not him.

He turned around again, facing the Mountboards in the pit. He stared at them, looking from one face to another. God, he hated them; if they hadn't started their pathetic little rebellion, then he and his men wouldn't have had to come here, and those faceless corpses would still be alive. He wouldn't have the dreams he'd have to face up to for the rest of his miserable life. He snarled at the Mountboard officer, anger suddenly welling up inside him.

"Why did you have to start you pathetic little rebellion? Drag my men - good men, all of them - into this shitty little place you call a country so we could fight and die just to crush you? Surely you knew you could never win? You'll all die, for you damned beliefs, and you'll drag more of my men into that Hell with you before it ends."

The Mountboard officer moved to the edge of the pit and stared back at Franklin, blood crusting around his mouth and nose.

"We had a right to rise up against such tyranny. We have a legitimate complaint against the central government. This was a legitimate conflict, and there was no need for the government to call in mercenary scum like you and your men."

Franklin said nothing for a moment, simply glaring at the man. Then, with a shrug, he walked a few steps away.

"Get back to work; that pit needs to be deeper to bury all the men you killed."

The Mountboard officer nodded and turned his back on Franklin, moving to pick up his shovel from the floor and begin digging. He had bent down and placed his hand on the handle of the shovel when the first bullet hit him. The force of it pushed him onto his knees, and the second threw him onto the bottom of the trench. A third and fourth finished him off, the sharp, flat cracks echoing loudly through the forest. Less than a second later Franklin fired again, his service pistol cracking and creating a tiny, red hole in the chest of man next to the officer. His pistol sounded again and again as he unloaded a whole magazine into the pit, his face set rigid.

The pistol contained nine rounds, and when these were finished three of the Mountboard prisoners lay slumped in the bottom of the pit. Franklin stared at the corpses as he reloaded the pistol, empty magazine falling into the thick grass. He slotted in the new magazine in under two seconds, then turned as he sensed movement. The fourth Mountboard prisoner was desperately scrambling up the side of the pit, hands gouging marks in the soil as he scrabbled for a hold. Franklin racked the slide of the pistol as the man clawed his way out of the pit and stumbled away, his legs moving in clumsy arcs as he ran. Franklin raised his pistol and pulled the trigger, watching the man jerk and fall down, like a marionette with its strings cut.

The report of the last shot had barely stopped echoing when a group of Volunteers ran over to the pit, weapons at the ready. They surrounded the pit, confusion plain on their faces as they looked at the three dead men in the pit and the fourth lying in the grass a few feet away. Franklin clicked the safety on and placed the pistol in his webbing. He turned and walked away, his last remark one that would remain in the memories of all the men there for as long as they lived.

"They were shot whilst attempting to escape. Dump the corpses of Third Platoon on top of them."