Author's note:The use of a 3/4 or 1/2 mode, thought not essential, is encouraged. Comments and reviews are always appreciated. Enjoy.

February 1935,

After a lighting offensive in the war's opening stages, the advance of the Imperial Alliance bogged down due to bad weather and stiff enemy resistance. As its troops recovered from the onslaught, the Federation strengthened its frontline positions with the arrival of the Edimburgh Expeditionary Force, while Vinland's industries worked around the clock to aid the war effort.

Faced with the real possibility of a repetition of the First Europan War, as well as mounting opposition within Imperial High Command, Field Marshal Paul Von Siegval prepared a new offensive to break the enemy southern front. A victory there would have crippled the enemy's supply lines and communications, allowing the Imperial forces to launch further strikes against the enemy's exposed flank.

The 11th Korps, under the command of Major General von Lechberg, was given the honour and responsibility of spearheading the assault.

-Extract from For the Motherland: Chronicles of the Second Europan War, by Karl von Tebel, Imperial historian and founder of the Schwarzgrad's Literary Award.

Péricourt's train station bustled with activity. Standing by his vehicle, Corporal Tim Kubin watched as crews of sweaty, grey-cladded workers milled about the railyard, stripping the train's wagons clean of its cargo and arranging crates into neat piles on the platforms. From there, secondary work gangs proceeded to load them up on a line of waiting trucks.

The morning air was crisp. Heavy, shadowy clouds loomed overhead and covered the sky as a grey blanket. He should have brought an umbrella, Kubin realized sullenly. If last night was any indication, the weather was about to get worse.

He inhaled deeply his cigarette. The sight, as well as the metallic smell in his nostrils were familiar to him. He had spent much of his childhood working in a railyard in the capital's industrial outer rings, shovelling through mountains of coal to feed train engines. He felt almost back at home.

Except for the Darcsens. He saw many of them strolling about among the workforce, without even bothering to hide that hideous black-and-blue hair. At least they were in the rear rather than the frontline. He doubted he could have stood their smell otherwise.

His gaze went to the only passenger car attached at the train. A pair of smartly dressed men had emerged from it and were making their way down the platform and towards him. The first one was a man in his late forties, bald, with hard features and a sharp nose. He strode forth with his cap tucked under an arm, carrying two compact briefcases.

The second was a golden-haired youth, barely twenty years old at first glance, and shorter than his companion. He carried four big, cumbersome bags, desperately trying to keep pace and balance at the same time. Kubin found the sight rather amusing.

The two had an officers' air about them, so much was clear. It may have helped that many of the workers tended to steer clear of them.

Kubin quickly tossed the cigarette on the ground and stomped it. He made a token attempt to adjust his uniform and make himself somewhat presentable. He had no body armour nor helmet, wearing instead a brown set of combat fatigues, black boots, and a modest beret on his head.

He straightened his back and saluted them as they crossed the street and came close. The oldest arrived first, having outpaced his much slower companion. He stopped and scrutinized Kubin for a moment, before catching sight of the ram's red horns on his shoulder pad.

"Thirty-Fourth?"

"Yes sir," Kubin answered. "Corporal Tim Kubin, 1st Battalion, 34th Mechanized Regiment. Reporting for duty, sir."

The man nodded. He calmly laid down one of his hand-bags. He picked up the officer cap from his armpit, gave it a shake and put it on. "Colonel Yannick von Vinter. You may stand at ease, corporal."

Kubin did as asked.

"I suppose then you are our driver?"

"Yes sir. I've been personally instructed by Major Dohnal to escort you to the Regimental HQ in Bamiers. We should arrive in less than two hours." Kubin said.

Colonel Vinter nodded. "Let's not waste time, then."

He turned to regard his companion, who had miraculously managed to reach them without much of a stumble. Burdened by those bags, he was sweating profusely. At a closer look, Kubin realized that his uniform, despite looking like an officer's, lacked any clear indication of rank. It was also grey when it should had been black.

"Simmon, you can load everything up in the car."

The boy, called Simmon apparently, glanced first at Kubin, then at his vehicle, and then back to the colonel. He looked puzzled.

"Sir, that's not a car."

"Really, Simmon?" Vinter asked, raising an eyebrow. "What do you think it is, then?"

"Looks like an armoured vehicle to me, sir." Simmon turned to Kubin, his eyes narrowed. His weariness had evaporated.

"The dispatch was clear. We have requested a car for Colonel Vinter's transport to find upon our arrival. Why in the Emperor's Name is that thing here, trooper?" He looked to be on the point of exploding for pure indignation.

Kubin restrained himself from answering. Under normal circumstances he would have told the boy to shut up and be thankful to have a transport in the first place. The fact that he was carrying what looked like Colonel Vinter's personal bags indicated him to be somewhat important though. Not important enough to dump the task on the first clerk he could find, but important none the less.

"That's a scout car, Simmon," Vinter said evenly. "You're right though. I was under the impression that each regiment had been issued with at least one car for formal occasion."

He turned to Kubin. "I'm sure there is a more than a reasonable explanation for not following protocol. Am I right, corporal?" His voice was neutral, but Kubin caught an edge of coldness in it.

"Sir," he saluted once again. "I regret to inform you that the regimental car's in no shape to operate due to grave damage."

"What kind of damage, corporal?"

"Of the mortar kind, sir."

Colonel Vinter fell silent. He turned to Simmon, who looked ready to collapse under the luggage's weight. He kept his stern face a little longer, then his teeth flashed an amused grin. "Are you satisfied, Simmon? Or would you rather stand here to discuss the tiniest points of military protocol with the corporal?"

Simmon grimaced. Without another word, he went to the back of the car and climbed aboard. Felix scout cars had enough space to accommodate up to four passengers on steel benches behind the driver, its armoured flanks providing also a moderate protection to small arms fire. Except for the rain. Somebody had thought that an open-topped vehicle was a great idea.

Vinter watched for a moment as Simmon struggled to adjust the luggage on the seats. He sighed and shook his head.

"Of all the officer on the entire front, how did I manage to get stuck with a bloody cadet?" he almost growled.

A cadet, then. That caught Kubin's curiosity. By Lieutenant Hallev's own words, spoken rigorously away from his superiors' ears and in the aftermath of rather eventful nights, the only thing coming out of those academies nowadays were useless, arrogant, not-yet-adult youngsters, whose family connections had found them a comfy seat behind a desk.

He glanced at Simmon. So far, the description stuck like glue to him, but that still not explained his presence at the colonel's side.

"Sir?" Kubin cleared his throat.

Vinter finally realized that Kubin was still there, saluting. He waved him to stand at ease.

"Forgive my impertinence, sir, but Major Dohnal informed me you were to travel alone."

"That was the idea, corporal," Vinter said. "But that's not a concern of yours. I think we let the major waiting enough."

Kubin nodded and stepped aside, opening the car's door in the process. Vinter quickly climbed aboard, stashing the two briefcases beneath the passenger seat. A moment later Kubin took position at the wheel and turn it on. The engine coughed, then purred to life. A faint blue hue settled around the car's hood.

Péricourt's streets were empty but relatively clear of mud, and the Felix speeded past homes and boarded up shops. Most of its population had left as soon as they had seen Imperial tanks rolling through the countryside, while those who had remained had either learned to keep to themselves or had been drafted into the many work gangs who kept roads in working condition for the Imperials. Kubin navigated easily his way out of the city, and the few troopers manning the checkpoints waved them on upon seeing his passenger's gallons.

As they moved past the last of the city's blocks and into the countryside, Colonel Vinter lowered the cap over his eyes, leaning himself back. "I'll try to catch some sleep, Corporal. You can wake me up once we are there."

Kubin opened his mouth to reply. They heard a loud cry. He turned to see Simmon almost jumping out of his seat in the back. The boy had remembered at the last moment to be on a moving vehicle.

"Sir!" he cried, alarmed. "There's blood all over one seat!"

Vinter did not bother to reply. He merely lifted his cap just enough to shoot Kubin a quizzical look.

"My fault, sir," he apologized. "I'm usually on frontline duty. I was informed just a couple of hours ago that I would be your escort."

"And yet you thought to be fitting for your commanding officer to ride on this junk, in such a state no less!" Simmon said indignantly.

Instead of answering the outburst, Kubin decided to have some harmless fun. "That was probably Fritz's blood," he added.

"And who is this Fritz, trooper?" Simmon asked.

"Who was Fritz, sir," Kubin said, making sure to put enough emphasis on the word. "It took us an entire day to find all that remained of his brain to hand it over to the medics. We keep finding missing pieces to this day. The troops had turned it into a challenge of sorts, I think. You may join in too if you want, sir."

Kubin glanced at the boy and was pleased to see his eyes widened in shock. Colonel Vinter sighed and pushed back his cap over his eyes. A minute later he had fallen asleep.

Somewhere outside Bamiers . . .

"The trick is to keep moving. Your feet can't get stuck if you're moving."

"Thank you," Adrian deadpanned. "Do you have any more obvious facts to point out?"

"Hey, fuck you. I was trying to help." Nicklas growled.

"Then keep moving, you moron."

If someone were to ask Adrian what Hell looked like, he would have said that it looked like mud. Deep, freezing mud getting in boots, gear and uniforms, jamming weapons, ruining rations, and generally making patrol duty worse than it already was.

Or being stuck in the section's rear with Nicklas. That could count too.

Adrian Zippe kept on putting one foot after the other, careful to maintain a distance of at least four metres from Nicklas. Corporal Thaddeus had made clear of not believing in mud as an excuse to break marching formation. The bastard was ahead of everybody, striding through as if the ground had any resemblance of solidity and body armour was just a minor inconvenience.

Vass moved behind him, his machine gun balanced over one shoulder, followed by Luca, Jan and Rupprecht, each of them carrying a rifle. Max and Robert were behind with him and Nicklas, the former burdened with ammunition for the LMG. Robert seemed to struggle the most. His right leg was still a bit stiff.

The road winded for a long way through the countryside, flanking orchards and small homes abandoned long since, skirting along scant groves and meagre streams. Greyish, heavy clouds loomed overhead.

Why they were out on patrol in this weather, he neither remembered nor cared. He just focused on putting one foot after the other. Hill 51 was still three kilometres south-east.

If they were lucky, they would have found coffee and a hot shower once back at the HQ in Bamiers. 3rd Company was to take over from there, and good luck to them. Another downpour was due to arrive in the evening.

The thought of those jerks head-deep in water lifted slightly his spirit. It was a known fact that 2nd always got the worst assignments. Looked like the Emperor's Favour was finally on them this time-

Adrian caught himself just barely from bumping into Nicklas's back. The trooper had stopped in the middle of the road.

"Did you just fell asleep or-" Adrian began. Nicklas turned and glared at him. He did not have his steel visor on. None on patrol had it. It was one of the first thing any NCO would teach you: visor was for inspection and parades. In any other circumstance, that piece of junk went in the backpack.

Nicklas signed him to keep it down. He carefully tilted his head sideways, as if telling to look ahead.

Adrian did so and saw that everybody else had stopped as well. Tension that only military training and experience could provide seized him. He found his Francisca ready and loaded in his hands before he processed it. The cold mud had suddenly become a lot less worrying.

Corporal Thaddeus was crouched, scanning carefully his surroundings through an SMG's iron sight. The section followed swiftly his example, lowering themselves as best as they could, careful not to let mud slip in their weapons. Thick hedges covered their left and a low wall run along the right flank. Beyond that, Adrian saw a group of homesteads huddled together, surrounded by empty fields.

Thaddeus raised his hand and made a very specific sign. Adrian's fingers tightened on his rifle.

Contact.

Hill 51 . . .

"We have a problem, sir."

Captain Berger looked up from behind his desk. Lieutenant Lippe stood at attention before him, helmet at his side. Within the cramped confines of the command station light came only from a ragnite lamp dangling from the wooden ceiling, casting shadows around the room.

"If this is about those damn supplies again- "

Lippe shook his head. "It's not that, sir," he said, licking his lips. Captain Berger didn't like that. Lippe did that only when he was trying to hide his nervousness. "Radio's is down."

Berger raised a surprised eyebrow. "Klor said he can pick up nothing on the channel," Lippe explained. "We've run checks with other radios, but the result is the same."

"Have you tried raising headquarters?" Berger asked.

"Five minutes ago. We also tried with Second and other units in the area. Still nothing."

Berger blinked. It was quite common for radios to stop working for one reason or another, especially in that weather. Radio operators had the task to keep such equipment in working condition, though there was only so much they could do if it was broken. But for all of them to stop working at the same time . . .

"That's not all," Lippe continued. "The men on patrol duty were due back fifteen minutes ago."

"And?" Berger asked.

"Maybe it means nothing, sir," he said, shrugging. "But with our radio out, we don't have a mean to contact them. Also. . ."

The sound of hurried steps hitting the dirt came from the door, followed by a loud knock.

"Come in," Berger replied.

The door swung open, an impressive feat considering the space within, to admit a middle-height, brown-haired man. He had the rank of sergeant major pinned to his arm.

"Sir," Linus Kiesling saluted, closing the door as he came in. "We've got a problem."

Berger kept himself from sighing. "Is this about the supplies or the radio, Kiesling?"

He looked surprised for a moment, then he caught sight of Lieutenant Lippe. The two exchanged a brief nod. "I'm afraid it's neither of those," he finally said. "One of the patrols came back. Or what's left of it."

Kiesling looked at the two stunned faces before him. "Looks like they'd been ambushed by Blue Skirts on the way back. Lost half of the team before they managed to pull back and reach the outer perimeter."

Lippe raised an eyebrow. "Federates? How did they manage to slip that close?"

"Hard to tell, sir. I sent the survivors at the aid station as soon as I could, but we should question them anyway. Maybe they know more."

Berger nodded in agreement. "Lieutenant, can you take care of that? I'm sure Officer Härig would be delighted by your visit."

"Or cut me with those fancy knives of hers," Lippe chuckled.

Sergeant Kiesling hardly managed to hide a smile, before his tone turned serious again. "We have no means to contact HQ, though. For all we know, the blue skirts could have an armoured column heading here right now."

"I always thought of you as a positive type," Lippe said.

"First our radio and now this," Kiesling narrowed his eyes. "I've never believed much in chances."

"Neither have I," Lippe conceded. "I'll get the boys ready anyway."

"Kiesling," Berger spoke at length. "You said one patrol came back. What about the others?"

He shook his head. "No contact as of yet, but I've the impression we'll soon get the chance to ask the blue skirts if they've anything to do about it."

"There's also the matter of the jaegers," said Lippe.

Kiesling raised an eyebrow. "What about them?"

"One of their sections was on patrol duty too."

"And they are missing, aren't they?"

Lippe nodded. "And they had reliable radios with them, unlike our sections. The last known contact had been almost a half hour ago."

"What did they say?" Berger asked.

"That they had picked up unusual activity in the area and were investigating. Silence since then."

Kiesling swore under his breath. "Just wait for Fisher to hear that."

Lieutenant Vidar Fisher was the newly appointed leader of the 11th Recon Battalion, or rather the senior among those who had survived Bastogne. Shortly after the absorption of said unit in the 34th, he was among those who had made their displeasure quite clear.

Berger had much more worrying thoughts in his head than him, though. For a start, he did not have enough troops to hold Hill 51 if the Feds came in force. Two hundred men could defend it against an uncoordinated assault. Taking on a larger force, though, required much heavier support.

Problem was he did not know if the Blue Skirts had such force in the area to begin with, or if this was just a probing strike.

So far, he had nothing to work with. Intelligence's reports indicated this part of the front as relatively quiet. Maybe he was just overthinking it. Maybe those sections had simply got lost.

Berger dismissed that thought angrily. Jaegers getting lost? He would have preferred to shake a Darksen's hand rather than saying that was possible for a jaeger to lose his bearings.

The Blue Skirts were behind all of this, so much was obvious. They had somewhat jammed their communications, killed his men, and were likely closing in on his position.

He looked down for a moment at the foils of paper on his desk and sighed. His orders were crystal clear; Hill 51, as well as the nearby crossroad, could not be allowed to fall into enemy hands. They had to hold it.

"Our course is clear then," he announced, his eyes hardened with renewed determination.

He rose from his seat, gathering jacket, cap and remaining gear. He turned to Kiesling. "Send immediately a courier back to Bamiers. Tell them that the Feds are up to something and to get some backup. Tell also Klor to keep trying to raise anyone on the radio."

Kiesling saluted and moved out of the office and into the passageway leading back to the outside. Berger caught a glimpse of grey sky through the canopy of wooden beams and camo nets.

"Have both 2nd and 5th Company mobilized. I want everybody at their post and ready for sudden contact," he told Lippe. "Tell also Vikan I want a sitrep on our ammunition status, and that I want it five minutes ago."

Captain Berger exited the small confines of his office, his second trailing behind. He felt his own teeth grinding. "And here I thought bloody rain was the worst part of this assignment."