NationStates Jolt Archive

(OOC: Invite only, in case you can't read the title)

October 15, 1939
The New Umberland/Gourmondinia border

It is in war that new nations are forged. It is in war that new peoples are born. But it is also in war that empires are destroyed. And in war, that countries die. This war, mused High Field Commander Archibald Farback, was the latter. He stared out across the massed men in front of him. An army, over 10 million strong, stood before him. Men, hefting sub-machine guns, or assault rifles. Vast Umberlandian Superheavy tanks, their huge treads as long as three men. Overhead buzzed dogfighting planes and bombers, P-38 Lightnings mixing their screaming buzz with the loud roar of the P-51 Mustangs. Troop transports, their engines firing into the din of noise. They all had one target- Gourmondinia. The tiny, undefended republic would be easy prey for the vast Umberlandinian army. Farback licked his lips. This would be a piece of Gourmondinian cake.

In the blood that spills when the bullets fire, there is a strange glory, a strange safety in death. It is in that feeling that we are motivated to victory, that we are driven to heroism. But it is the same element of war in which we die, in which our love, our hope in the good of humanity, and our lust for the future withers away into a depression of heartless evil. And when these two feelings clash, when our emotion is torn between two feelings, we find our true reality, our true victory, our true heroism. And therein lies all we hold dear.

October 18, 1917

The pistol lay on the table propped up against the cinderblock wall. There was no clip in it, but a slug lay to the left of the table on the cracked cement floor. The scene was almost cliched, with gunshot residue left on the typewritten letter that lay to the right. And then, of course, there was the body.

October 18, 1939

He awoke from his dream with a jolt. Again, he had dreampt of that night. His fatal accuracy, his terrible, nonthinking loyalty to his cause. In a sense, he regretted it. He knew as soon as he stood up. It was again that day. The memory was vivid. The white wall, the letter on the table, the pistol. Throughout his dark life, that was the one memory we wished never to forget.

There was a rap on the door. The telegram boy looked at the daunting title on the fogged glass frame. "Cmrd. Ivan Solechniev, Premier."

Ivan rubbed his eyes as he opened the door to the blinding light. In slurred Russian, he murmured "What the hell is this?"
At attention, the young boy shook as he spoke in front of his leader's huge physique. "It-it-it is a telegram from Comrade Vlesnew, comrade!"

The door shut.

The attack was swift and brutal. Umberlandian forces flooded into the nation, crushing the tiny Gourmondinian army in one fell swoop. What good were the gourmondinian pikes against the super-heavy tanks of the Umberlandian forces? Soon, the Umberlandians had swooped into the capital of Gourmondinia, Ichiro. A surrender was imminent. As Umberlandian artillery rained down upon the palace, one last message went out from the office of the king.

|Official Gourmonidian Message|
Nations of the world! We are under attack by the New Umberlandian forces. We shall soon lose out, and Gourmondinia will be lost. You must stop them at all costs!

And, with that, the king was no more. In but a few hours, New Umberland was the new conqueror of Gourmondinia.

Prime Minister Leon Urich was a tall, imposing man. He towered over the two guards who flanked him, and was easily over 6'5. His face was lined with worry, and his hands were constantly fidgeting. Leon Urich would later be sighted as one of the foremost and influential leaders of the then Allied States of Faxanavia. But, for now, he was just a man, who was rather worried. He was worried because of the haling they'd received from the tiny constitutional monarchy of Gourmondinia. The Umberlandians were at it again. A nation here, a nation there, and before long, they'd have conquered half the continent. Normally, a Faxanavian leader would jump at the idea of defeating some tin-pot dictator and fighting for democracy, and Leon was no exception. The problem was, as usual, money. It was always money, and the severe lack of it. Haveing just come out of a serious economic depression thanks to the work of former Prime Minister Charles Devalrich, the allied states were in no way ready for a war. The Prime Minister shook his head. The isolationist fools in parliament were going on and on about "no money" and "rebuild the nation" and "people first". They needed to stop this threat here and now. But, until then, the ASF would have to stay out...

Farback oversaw his forces again. But, this time, he stood not atop some jeep in the middle of nowhere, but now he languished in a richly plush chair, which, not so long ago, was occupied by the ex-king of Gourmondinia. He stared down at the men below him. They looked none the worse for ware. The Gourmondinans had put up barely any form of a fight, and now Gourmondinia was under the rule of the Umberlandians. He smirked. And now for phase two. Soon, all of the continent would live under the New Umberland flag...


|Official New Umberland Communique|
To: The Republic of Cynisthesia
Greetings Comrade!
Allow me to introduce myself. I am Archibald Farback. I am, also, the current designated ruler of the tiny republic of Gourmondinia. We of the mighty Jingoistic States of New Umberland invite you to take part in our conquest. Should you agree, we shall happily present you with a piece of Gourmondinia, in a sign of friendship. All we ask in return is that you declare yourselfs allied with us, and join us on our crusade of conquest. Together, the New Umberlandians and the Cynisthesians shall conquer all of this continent, and soon, all of this world. Join with me! Memor Quis est Viglo! Together, we shall rule!

Solechniev read the telegram again, with fervor. He was overjoyed. This was it. This was his chance to finally wipe out the capitalist scum with his iron fist. Again did he read it, searching for a loophole. There was none. He pounded his hand on the table and picked up his telephone.

"Get me Commissar Vechsurhk immediately!"
"Yes sir, Comrade!"
He was anxious. It made him feel young again, in the days with of the revolution, with a pistol at his side and a red sash across his chest.

"Comrade?"
"Yes, Commissar Vechsurhk?"
"What is it? Another village rebel?"
"No time for jokes! I want army mobilizing immediately towards Gourmondinia! Show no mercy! This is our finest hour!"
"Yes comrade!"