NationStates Jolt Archive

OOC: It is I, the Crimean Republic, I have chosen to get a fresh start and storyline with this one. If you wish to join in, please TG me, and I will most likely give you permission, I just want to be given the heads up.

A grouping of three automobiles, one flatbed and two pickup trucks, and thirteen horses kicked up the gravel and dust as they traveled over the soft undulating pastures filled with corn. The truck beds and the flatbed roughly carried their load of fresh-faced farm boys with cheery but apprehensive looked upon their brows. The overall atmosphere though was friendly, and the veterans—veterans of three months at most—quickly welcomed their brand new comrades. They met their fellow stowaways with fist pounds and slaps on the back. The new recruits eagerly tried to acclimate to their new way of life, the soldier's life.
But the recruits could not help but look back down the road from whence they came. What will my parents say when I return? a tenderfoot named Neville pondered, as he was rocked back and forth with his feet dangling off the end of the flatbed. Who will milk the cows and harvest the crops?
Neville Ander’s war began two weeks ago. The nineteen year old had been sent out by his father to milk the cows when a man dressed in tiger striped fatigues came up to him and asked him to come join in the fight against the incoming Wanderjarian revolutionaries, who were marching on Neville’s parish in an attempt to militarize the rule of the farmland most likely as a first step towards collectivization. When Neville agreed, the man, he called himself Colonel Joseph Ganov, handed the boy an AK-74, and sent him to the flatbed, were they soon encountered a small contingent of armored Revolutionaries. Quickly made their way towards a pre-placed bomb, and as the first tanks rolled past, they detonated the explosives and emerged from the corn that lined the road, picking off the soldiers one by one from inside the drainage ditches.
Neville killed a man that day, the first time he killed. He threw up when he say what he had done, and the other soldiers laughed at him. Now he drove forwards, toward his second battle. He knew the mission, they were going to attack a checkpoint, steal the weapons and supplies, and send a message to Wanderjarians and Toverians alike. The Wanderjarian Yoke would soon fall from the back of Toveria, and the Toverian Republic would come to be.
They reached the rendezvous point. They were to meet another militia in order to pull off this one. The others were there when Ganov’s army of farmer-soldiers arrived, and his counterpart, Jacob Mendali shook his head at Ganov.
“You’re late.”
“You're lucky I let you in on my operation Mendali,” Ganov retorted. The two men did not like one another, but they could learn to get along. When they had to. Each commander explained the plans to their militias, aware that this operation would go either very well, or very poorly.
Ganov would drive his flatbed towards the checkpoint, with five of his men stowed away underneath a pile of garbage and a tarp. Ganov would stop his truck at the checkpoint, and would act calmly until the Wanderjarians opened the tarp up. When they did, the soldiers would burst from beneath the garbage, and Ganov would take the vodka bottle he was drinking from, light the brown paper bag around it and toss it at the sandbagged checkpoint. As this was happening, the rest of Ganov’s men would emerge from the cornfields to attack the checkpoint, and Mendali’s troopers would drive in on pickups and jeeps to provide reinforcement five minutes after a call from one of the men in the cornfields, who was instructed to call Mendali’s cell phone when Ganov through his Molotov.
With their battle plans set, the fighters loaded up into the truck and covered themselves with garbage as the rest of Ganov’s force, including Neville, slipped into the tall corn.

"Keep on task private," Sergeant Dieter hissed, lifting his rifle to his shoulder. The foolish soldier had been kicking a rock about in the sand, occupying his boredom. Turning his masked face towards his Squad Leader, he nodded, and gave a final kick into a pit of tall reeds, where it sank to the bottom of the ditch with a loud Thunk!" The six man check point, manning a stretch of dusty dirt road leading to a common trade shop, had been a hot bed of activity even since those bloody Toverians decided they deserved independence. The Wanderjarian Government decided to send a message. All across the nation Toverians who openly advocated secession from the Wanderjarian State were taken into town squares and shot. Wanderjarian people had many civil freedoms, even the right to criticize the government, but open dissent was not among them.

He sighed. The job he had been assigned to, this occupation, had thus far been dull. Despite the ever present danger of being attacked by insurgents, he had yet to encounter this. He understood why the young private, newly conscripted into the Wanderjarian Army, was uninterested in this duty. He wasn’t an officer in the Polizei, he was a soldier in one of the greatest armies ever created. He was trained to slaughter the enemies of the Wanderjarian state and defend its people and constitution, not defend a checkpoint and keep peace. But that was for people far above his lowly enlisted pay-grade to decide, and he continued to collect identification from each passing truck loaded with farm materials. So, he and stood beside the road, and his men remained back in their sandbagged positions sporting two heavy machine guns and six additional heavily armed soldiers. Nothing would penetrate that position…he hoped.

***

Tanks rolled through the streets, Wanderjarian soldiers in their fearsome armored uniforms, with tall jackboots clacking against hard pavement struck fear and sheer terror into the local populace. In others, these acts inspired rage. Thus far the revolts had been relatively minor. A few soldiers had been killed and regrettably few Revolutionaries. However, an entire Motor-Rifle Division and a single Panzer Regiment had been diverted from their defensive duties inside of Wanderjar and moved into Toveria. Some fifty thousand troops, five hundred main battle tanks, and countless support vehicles, as well as immediate air support from the Luftwaffe would make any large scale operations all but impossible. If they wanted to fight a war, the Military government of Wanderjar was more than willing to deliver.

This was evident in the man they chose for the mission as well. Known as "The Man With An Iron Heart", Major General Klaus von Schwedt was cruel, brutal, and efficient. Having made his name as the initial commander of Occupation Forces for the Cazelian city-state turned "independent nation" of Kaztania some years ago, he was renowned for his willingness to use brutality, as well as his snide brilliance. He had, on initial occupation, forced upon the population six months of horrific brutality he referred to as “Prussianization”. This doctrine quickly became the standard for Wanderjarian occupation forces. A slight man, he stood at but five feet seven inches tall, small for a Wanderjarian, he was in physically good condition. He was not overly muscular, but he was widely considered to be attractive by most, despite his somewhat hawkish looks.

He had been personally appointed by the President for this task. He would lead the reinforced division into Toveria, occupy the capital city to establish a headquarters, and then spread out into the surrounding country side. His estimated time table for success: six weeks as a maximum. He hoped that, seeing the legions of Wanderjarian soldiers advancing into their lands, with innumerable fighters and bombers tearing the skies, as well as the oil belching main battle tanks rumbling across the roads and shaking the very earth beneath their iron treads, the populace would cease its ridiculous struggle for independence and return to more peaceful coexistence.

He sat in his command and control center in a makeshift base camp just outside the border. Helicopters carrying Air Cavalry units had left long ago, and motor-rifle troops headed in a long line in two and a half ton trucks and infantry fighting vehicles. Reconnaissance helicopters soared mere feet off the ground, utilizing their advanced FLIR technology to locate any hidden troops lying in wait for ambush. If any were found, they would upload it into the joint data base and attack helicopters would immediately be diverted to eradicate them. Numerous support fighter craft soared high above the air, waiting for the opportunity to deploy their air-to-surface ordinance against ground targets and tack kills onto their list. The force total, including support personnel, would exceed one hundred thousand. The Toverians would never know what hit them.

"Keep on task private," Sergeant Dieter hissed, lifting his rifle to his shoulder. The foolish soldier had been kicking a rock about in the sand, occupying his boredom. Turning his masked face towards his Squad Leader, he nodded, and gave a final kick into a pit of tall reeds, where it sank to the bottom of the ditch with a loud Thunk!" The six man check point, manning a stretch of dusty dirt road leading to a common trade shop, had been a hot bed of activity even since those bloody Toverians decided they deserved independence. The Wanderjarian Government decided to send a message. All across the nation Toverians who openly advocated secession from the Wanderjarian State were taken into town squares and shot. Wanderjarian people had many civil freedoms, even the right to criticize the government, but open dissent was not among them.

He sighed. The job he had been assigned to, this occupation, had thus far been dull. Despite the ever present danger of being attacked by insurgents, he had yet to encounter this. He understood why the young private, newly conscripted into the Wanderjarian Army, was uninterested in this duty. He wasn’t an officer in the Polizei, he was a soldier in one of the greatest armies ever created. He was trained to slaughter the enemies of the Wanderjarian state and defend its people and constitution, not defend a checkpoint and keep peace. But that was for people far above his lowly enlisted pay-grade to decide, and he continued to collect identification from each passing truck loaded with farm materials. So, he and stood beside the road, and his men remained back in their sandbagged positions sporting two heavy machine guns and six additional heavily armed soldiers. Nothing would penetrate that position…he hoped.
The flatbed pulled up to the checkpoint. Toby Duggel eased onto the break as he pulled up to a soldier walking up to the automobile from behind a pile of sandbags. The young chap looked friendly enough, Duggel thought to himself as reached into his glove compartment and grabbed his identification papers, stepped out of the vehicle with a bottle covered in a cloth sleeve in his hand. He took a swig of the bottle and pretended to be intoxicated. When the Wanderjarian came up to him to verify his identification, Duggel spread his arms wide as he wrapped them around the soldier in a goofy embrace, undoubtably discombobulating the soldier who was told stories of heartless, rebellious Toverian men.
Ganov and his men looked on from inside the cornfields. The Colonel’s weeks of planning would soon be harvested by the sickles of his militia. He bubbled with anticipation.

Tanks rolled through the streets, Wanderjarian soldiers in their fearsome armored uniforms, with tall jackboots clacking against hard pavement struck fear and sheer terror into the local populace. In others, these acts inspired rage. Thus far the revolts had been relatively minor. A few soldiers had been killed and regrettably few Revolutionaries. However, an entire Motor-Rifle Division and a single Panzer Regiment had been diverted from their defensive duties inside of Wanderjar and moved into Toveria. Some fifty thousand troops, five hundred main battle tanks, and countless support vehicles, as well as immediate air support from the Luftwaffe would make any large scale operations all but impossible. If they wanted to fight a war, the Military government of Wanderjar was more than willing to deliver.

This was evident in the man they chose for the mission as well. Known as "The Man With An Iron Heart", Major General Klaus von Schwedt was anything but cruel. Having made his name as the initial commander of Occupation Forces for the Cazelian city-state turned "independent nation" of Kaztania some years ago, he was renowned for his willingness to use brutality, as well as his snide brilliance. He had, on initial occupation, forced upon the population six months of horrific brutality he referred to as “Prussianization”. This doctrine quickly became the standard for Wanderjarian occupation forces. A slight man, he stood at but five feet seven inches tall, small for a Wanderjarian, he was in physically good condition. He was not overly muscular, but he was widely considered to be attractive by most, despite his somewhat hawkish looks.

He had been personally appointed by the President for this task. He would lead the reinforced division into Toveria, occupy the capital city to establish a headquarters, and then spread out into the surrounding country side. His estimated time table for success: six weeks as a maximum. He hoped that, seeing the legions of Wanderjarian soldiers advancing into their lands, with innumerable fighters and bombers tearing the skies, as well as the oil belching main battle tanks rumbling across the roads and shaking the very earth beneath their iron treads, the populace would cease its ridiculous struggle for independence and return to more peaceful coexistence.

He sat in his command and control center in a makeshift base camp just outside the border. Helicopters carrying Air Cavalry units had left long ago, and motor-rifle troops headed in a long line in two and a half ton trucks and infantry fighting vehicles. Reconnaissance helicopters soared mere feet off the ground, utilizing their advanced FLIR technology to locate any hidden troops lying in wait for ambush. If any were found, they would upload it into the joint data base and attack helicopters would immediately be diverted to eradicate them. Numerous support fighter craft soared high above the air, waiting for the opportunity to deploy their air-to-surface ordinance against ground targets and tack kills onto their list. The force total, including support personnel, would exceed one hundred thousand. The Toverians would never know what hit them.
Down upon the streets, the women cried as they saw the faces of the men who would kill their husbands and sons. But faces there were none. They covered their faces in terrifying masks, and they seemed more automated machinery than animated humanity. Yullah always thought that the faces of Wanderjarians were… different. She heard stories of unchangeable faces with stares that could burn holes into the hearts of mere mortals, but she had not feared the Wanderjarians until now. How could her brother Joe survive. He ran off to form a militia from members of the countryside a year ago, and she had not heard from him in weeks. The chances leaned towards his death at the hands of these monsters. She prayed for little Joe every night, that the Lord would keep him safe in his struggle against his enemies, that the Lord would squeeze his way into Joe’s empty heart. She prayed for a sign from God that little Joey Ganov was still out there, fighting his crusade. Now Yullah caught herself praying in the daylight. A good Ganov never prayed in the daylight, if someone prayed in daylight, that means that they must have sinned during the day, and of course, Yullah would never sin during the day, such a though was unthinkable for a good Ganov like herself. Ganov’s don’t sin. They are righteous!
Among the weepers on the street, a young businessman stood resolutely among the weeping women and cursing men. He did not join in cursing the Wanderjarian imperials. He looked around for the juiciest target, the densest throng of men in which to insert himself. He saw it, and began his suicide march towards the neat formation of black-clad soldiers. He popped out into the middle of the military parade, and just stood stolidly against the Wanderjarian menace. In his hand he held the detonation button of the bomb vest down. You see, he had been rigged with a reverse trigger. All the bomb needed to fire was a hand off that little button, and then the whole vest would ignite, sending the nails and metal scraps, soaked in fer-de-lance vemon and stuffed in the young businessman’s pockets and hidden in plastic bags tapped to the surface of the bomb vest, in all directions. But for now, this lone young man stood toe to toe with the Wanderjarian juggernaut, and he did not blink.

The flatbed pulled up to the checkpoint. Toby Duggel eased onto the break as he pulled up to a soldier walking up to the automobile from behind a pile of sandbags. The young chap looked friendly enough, Duggel thought to himself as reached into his glove compartment and grabbed his identification papers, stepped out of the vehicle with a bottle covered in a cloth sleeve in his hand. He took a swig of the bottle and pretended to be intoxicated. When the Wanderjarian came up to him to verify his identification, Duggel spread his arms wide as he wrapped them around the soldier in a goofy embrace, undoubtably discombobulating the soldier who was told stories of heartless, rebellious Toverian men.
Ganov and his men looked on from inside the cornfields. The Colonel’s weeks of planning would soon be harvested by the sickles of his militia. He bubbled with anticipation.


"Get the fuck back!" Sergeant Dieter shrieked, his voice modified by the mask he wore, making it deeper, more intense. He raised his rifle to his shoulder, and motioned his squad to do the same. Civillians looked on with horror as the soldier in the Toverian man's embrace shoved the man aside, throwing him to the hard dirt road. The Sergeant walked forward, his rage building with each step, and grabbed the man from the ground and raised him to his feet. He struck him across the face with a gloved hand, and drew his side arm. "You fucked up, big time," the Squad Leader growled, shoving the side arm to the man's throat. Within a second, the Wanderjarian was going to execute the insolent Toverian.

Toby closed his eyes and waited for his impending fate. Suddenly, forty five felt so young. He was far to young to die like this. He though thousands of thoughts before he heard the pow of a shot.

But he did not fall. What had just happened?

Neville had been looking on the proceedings from in the bushes. He thought that everything looked as though it were going according to the plan, but this changed quickly, and before Neville knew it, Toby, Neville's old neighbor, stood before death.
Almost by instinct, Neville aimed his rifle at the head of the would-be executioner, and squeezed upon the trigger. How quickly war moved, Neville thought after firing.

Sergeant Dieter felt a sharp, piercing, white hot pain surge through his neck. Shocked and confused, he collapsed back, his eyes darting back and forth to the gray sky. His hands found their way to his throat and came away warm, wet. Sticky, red liquid encompassed them, flowing in small riverettes down his gloved palm. The world began to spin, his senses sparked into overdrive, fear covering him with a blackness. He was completely oblivious to the screams of his squad mates being torn apart by gunfire. He heard feeble attempts to return fire, and last gasps from their dying mouths.

Men in uniforms, not Wanderjarian, hurried to the locations of the dead Wanderjarian squad. Dozens of them began securing the sight, taking their weapons and loading them in the back of trucks. The earth was still, the men silent, and he was lost in his situation, no sound permeated his ears, and the world turned into a harsh shade of gray and black.

He saw, above him, stood the man he was about to execute. He smiled, drawing Dieter's hand gun from the ground beside him where he had fallen, and placed the gun to his forehead. There was a flash, a sharp retort, and everything went dark.

waiting for wanderjar