Thrashia
27-05-2007, 05:25
OOC: I am doing a bit of role playing my nation's history (much which has yet to be written) so I am doing a bit where my nation is in place of the German Reich. If you wish to be an opponent for my nation, please TG me and I'd like to discuss it. Enjoy.
IC:
Great Thrashian Reich | September 23, 1938 | Neinburg Training Camp
The young men jogged in formation like a group of animals fleeing a predator in a pack. Sweat dripped from every possible place. Shirts and pants soaked black with it. Dust collected on their boots and clothes like moths to a flame. Tears would have been forthcoming already had they not sweated most of their bodily fluids out. All that remained was blood, pumping fiercely, through their veins and pumping like the pounding of a large drum through their hearts.
And behind this group of animals fleeing in formation came the predator. Tall, dressed in a field sergeant’s uniform, barely noticing the pain and sweat of his charges, the predator continued speaking as he had for the last four hours.
“Ah, meine Freunde you have no idea as to how much you stink. Were it not for the fact that other shit stains like yourself have already been before you, I’d have fallen dead from the stench long before.”
The road sloped upwards as another hill approached their falling feet. A collective groan issued from parched throats. The sergeant, jogging along without seeming any effort for having ran the same distance, simply laughed at their noise.
“That’s right kinder, another hill! And its only the 27th one…did I mention that it’s only one of another forty?” the sergeant teased.
The jogging men didn’t respond, too tired and trying their best to concentrate on simply making one foot go before the other. That didn’t however satisfy their vicious predator.
“I asked you ignorant, tit suckled Scheiße kopfs!” the sergeant roared.
“Jawohl herr Feldwebel,” answered the lot.
“Gut! Now onto the next!”
It continued like that for another two hours before the 120 trainees marched through the iron-wood gates of the Neinburg training facility camp, their home for the next eight months. A junior officer and two guards stood at the gate, smiling at the passing trainees.
“Having fun sergeant Muller?” asked the lieutenant as the sergeant passed.
“Yes sir,” grinned Muller viciously. “Company! Wheel right!”
The group of men turned to the right after making it into the gates. With the commands of their sergeant drilled into them they made it through the winding roads of the compound and finally reached the parade ground; a huge area of about a square mile that the entire camp used.
They formed up in formation and tried their best not to bend over at the waist in order to spew out the contents of their stomachs. Breath came in heavy sloughs. More than one man began coughing from lack of oxygen and dust. Sergeant Muller stood before them looking at them with a severe eye of disdain and disgust.
“Pathetic. I’ve seen prissy little girls march better than you idiot farm hands. You’re nothing worse than a waste of air and my time. With idiots like you all it’s a wonder that the world hasn’t gotten any better than it has,” commented Muller, completely deadpan and in a frank tone.
“But that all ends here today!” said Muller cheerfully. 120 pairs of tired eyes stayed glued to the sergeant.
“I am going to turn you group of miscreant poor, idiot bastards into real soldiers.” Muller walked along the line and slapped a new recruit at random. The boy fell and after a few minutes of yelling out in pain, a kick was added to his repertoire of injuries.
“Up boy!” He said, then again loud enough to carry around the field. The recruit got to his feet and tried to ignore the pain. Muller nodded and stood out in front of them and looked at them all with loathing.
“A real soldier recovers from any blow immediately! I will teach you to do so. You’ll all learn to become tougher and more resilient than Krupp’s steel. Dirt and blood wash off. Get cleaned and report for dinner. Dismissed.”
The group of soldiers gave a dismal salute and walked off the field in a disordered mob. Pain and aches of tiredness ran through them quicker than a river. Then a group of them started singing. A marching song, one that was famous throughout the army. The other recruits joined in. Almost as if by order, the recruits got back into their marching formation and as one headed back to their barracks.
Sergeant Muller looked on, a small grin on his malign face. “They always learn from the old tricks.”
IC:
Great Thrashian Reich | September 23, 1938 | Neinburg Training Camp
The young men jogged in formation like a group of animals fleeing a predator in a pack. Sweat dripped from every possible place. Shirts and pants soaked black with it. Dust collected on their boots and clothes like moths to a flame. Tears would have been forthcoming already had they not sweated most of their bodily fluids out. All that remained was blood, pumping fiercely, through their veins and pumping like the pounding of a large drum through their hearts.
And behind this group of animals fleeing in formation came the predator. Tall, dressed in a field sergeant’s uniform, barely noticing the pain and sweat of his charges, the predator continued speaking as he had for the last four hours.
“Ah, meine Freunde you have no idea as to how much you stink. Were it not for the fact that other shit stains like yourself have already been before you, I’d have fallen dead from the stench long before.”
The road sloped upwards as another hill approached their falling feet. A collective groan issued from parched throats. The sergeant, jogging along without seeming any effort for having ran the same distance, simply laughed at their noise.
“That’s right kinder, another hill! And its only the 27th one…did I mention that it’s only one of another forty?” the sergeant teased.
The jogging men didn’t respond, too tired and trying their best to concentrate on simply making one foot go before the other. That didn’t however satisfy their vicious predator.
“I asked you ignorant, tit suckled Scheiße kopfs!” the sergeant roared.
“Jawohl herr Feldwebel,” answered the lot.
“Gut! Now onto the next!”
It continued like that for another two hours before the 120 trainees marched through the iron-wood gates of the Neinburg training facility camp, their home for the next eight months. A junior officer and two guards stood at the gate, smiling at the passing trainees.
“Having fun sergeant Muller?” asked the lieutenant as the sergeant passed.
“Yes sir,” grinned Muller viciously. “Company! Wheel right!”
The group of men turned to the right after making it into the gates. With the commands of their sergeant drilled into them they made it through the winding roads of the compound and finally reached the parade ground; a huge area of about a square mile that the entire camp used.
They formed up in formation and tried their best not to bend over at the waist in order to spew out the contents of their stomachs. Breath came in heavy sloughs. More than one man began coughing from lack of oxygen and dust. Sergeant Muller stood before them looking at them with a severe eye of disdain and disgust.
“Pathetic. I’ve seen prissy little girls march better than you idiot farm hands. You’re nothing worse than a waste of air and my time. With idiots like you all it’s a wonder that the world hasn’t gotten any better than it has,” commented Muller, completely deadpan and in a frank tone.
“But that all ends here today!” said Muller cheerfully. 120 pairs of tired eyes stayed glued to the sergeant.
“I am going to turn you group of miscreant poor, idiot bastards into real soldiers.” Muller walked along the line and slapped a new recruit at random. The boy fell and after a few minutes of yelling out in pain, a kick was added to his repertoire of injuries.
“Up boy!” He said, then again loud enough to carry around the field. The recruit got to his feet and tried to ignore the pain. Muller nodded and stood out in front of them and looked at them all with loathing.
“A real soldier recovers from any blow immediately! I will teach you to do so. You’ll all learn to become tougher and more resilient than Krupp’s steel. Dirt and blood wash off. Get cleaned and report for dinner. Dismissed.”
The group of soldiers gave a dismal salute and walked off the field in a disordered mob. Pain and aches of tiredness ran through them quicker than a river. Then a group of them started singing. A marching song, one that was famous throughout the army. The other recruits joined in. Almost as if by order, the recruits got back into their marching formation and as one headed back to their barracks.
Sergeant Muller looked on, a small grin on his malign face. “They always learn from the old tricks.”