Monsters and Heroes
An ace combat fan fiction
AN: Hi everyone. I'm back again with a new fanfic! Now, please, reviews are my life blood, so leave a lot! No flames please. Constructive criticism is encouraged though. I'm always in desperate need of it, anything to create higher quality work. Hell, if you're too lazy to think up a review, here's a premade one. "Oh wow. I like this. I'll keep reading!" Slap that in the review box and send it if you must. Now, enough talk, get reading!
"War turns heroes into monsters and monsters into heroes…" Anonymous
Prologue
Belkan and Osea had long been rival nations. For centuries the two had competed for dominance of their continent, fighting in a series of wars that increased in ferocity each and every time. The Osean-Belkan War had been the most vicious of them all. New technology had came headlong with old tactics, creating a disaster of apocalyptic proportions. After a year of suicide charges and hundreds of thousands of casualties, the war sunk down into stalemate. What had began as a conflict over the coveted Great Lakes region had became a moral and imperial death-match, where each nation fought tooth and nail for supremacy over the other. It was in this conflict that the Belkan Luftwaffe was created, and a legend was born. The first aces fought desperately in the skies, though never abandoned the chivalry that they believed they had inherited form the knights of yore.
But the battle on the ground remained deadlocked and bloody, only ending when starvation and internal turmoil forced both nations to settlement… and forced Belka to give up it's empire, as well as give up it's own share of the Lakes region. Bitterness and anger only settled and grew for decades before a new generation of Belkan leadership decided to make a decision. They would invade their neighbor and take back what was their own. But, time had changed, and this war would be fought not with bayonets and horses. Now this war would be fought with the weapons of the new age… tanks and planes would rule. The Belkan Blitzkrieg would rule.
/Dinsmark, Northern Belka/
/Belkan Military High Command, Reichstag/
/December 7, 1940/
Ludwig Model was a boy of only 17. He was the heir to the mighty throne of Belka, and his father, Kaiser Ludwig the First, was a man of great respect. Ludwig inherited that respect despite his age, and all of the members of the Imperial High Command was to treat him with the same honor that they treated his father. It was particularly important that they do so, as he was also the commander of the entire Belkan Invasion force… the mighty Wehrmacht, and the Luftwaffe. The navy was his fathers, no matter. He was the most powerful teenager in the world, and he was only a little drunk off the power that he possessed.
His father had given him a mission. Take back what was Belkan. The Great Lakes would be theirs, and he would be the one to ride triumphantly into Mannerheim, a town that was once Belkan and had been renamed Silver Creek when the Oseans had annexed it. There was still a large population of Belkan speakers there. Belkans who would happily join him as his armies marched.
But Model was merely the symbolic leader.
The real commander was Field Marshall Heinrich von Blücher. He was a man of aristocracy, with thinning gray hair that he hid underneath his peaked cap. His uniform, the distinct gray with the red pinstripes on the pants, was prim and pressed, and his chest was pinned with medals. The Knight's Cross was pinned around his neck as well.
Around him was a staff of generals who could be considered some of the best in the world. General Gregory Schmied, the pioneer of the Panzertruppen. Next to him was General Hans von Manstein, the commander in chief of the Luftwaffe. They had their own staffs, but the three officers were the heads of the entire invasion. They were experienced, they were talented, and they were devoted to the crown.
"Mein Herr, if you would please." Blücher spoke to the Prince, his hand gesturing over to the map table. "All of our preparations and planning is complete. All we need is your order for the requisite units to march to their assembly areas." He was cordial and respectful, despite the massive difference in age.
The Crown Prince stood and walked toward him, looking down to the detailed map. Various tin markers denoted units, both Osean and Belkan. And, as he noted, Sapinish and Rectan. The use of client states wasn't his favorite idea, but what had to be done had to be done.
"Mein Herr, our plan is simple." Blücher explained. "The entire 3rd Army has been assigned to you, three corps in total. We've determined that the Navy and III corps will coordinate to assault the Eaglin Canal, allowing our battle fleet to cross from the Dinsmark Sea into the Inland Sea. The Oseans believe that Sea to be theirs. If we can control that canal, we can show them who the real masters of the seas are. Once this has been done, we will destroy their Pacific Fleet."
Model nodded, feeling a smile creep on his face.
"VII Corps will attack into the Lakes Region directly. This unit contains the majority of the panzers, and they will put them to use in a Blitzkrieg assault. We can move your headquarters to Sudentor before the attack." Blücher directed his wooden pointer to several spots on the map. "And finally, IX Corps, composed mostly of Allied troops of Sapin and Recta, will attack from the south with their own armor and cut off any chance of Osean retreat or advance into the Lakes region. Quick, decisive, we will force the Oseans to the negotiating table before they have a chance to mobilize, and negotiate a peace that presents us as the victors, once and for all." Blücher stood back and smiled toward the young man, hoping that it was enough to satisfy.
"Mein Gott… Field Marshall, you have outdone yourself. I approve. I want the attack ready in as soon as possible. We will attack when the lakes are frozen and the enemy is in winter quarters. They won't stand a chance."
Blücher smiled in agreement. "Ah, I see. We can have them ready to fight in a week. Your father has also been discussing with his own staff, as well as Admiral Stoss. Osea will be struck on three sides with the speed of a cobra's strike."
Model laughed, his cheeks ruddy. "Ah, yes. As I said, you've outdone yourself. Now, enough work gentlemen… I say we celebrate." The prince was grinning at everyone in the room, officer or not. "Günther, break out the schnapps! It's time to celebrate!" There was a hearty cheer. Belka was marching to war, and now nothing could stop them.
A Storm was brewing, and now it was only a question of when it would break.
/Silver Creek, North Osea/
/Sergeant Claude Grimm/
/December 17, 1940/
The sound of boots on mud could be heard for miles. An Army was on the march. The entire V Corps of the Osean Army, three divisions, was on it's way to the north. The men of Baker Company, 2nd Battalion, 10th Mountain Division were in column. Their boots came down in rhythm as they paraded through the recently subjugated city of Silver Creek… a town that had been formerly known as Mannerheim.
Uniforms were dirty, men were tired, and the mud was everywhere. This parade was not for show. The men of the infantry were marching through the town on their way to the defenses that had been hastily built months ago. Belka seemed to have finally decided to make good on their threats. They would attack Osea, and everyone knew it. The only thing they didn't know was when…
But Claude knew it would be soon. And he knew it would be violent.
He knew because he had been a soldier in the Belkan Army. He was a deserter.
Claude had once been a proud Soldier of the Belkan Heer, a sergeant and a squad leader. The grenadiers, they had been known as. They had worn those distinct coal-scuttle helmets, jack boots and feldgrau. Professional soldiers, fierce fighters, and above all, they were proud.
Claude was also a veteran. He had fought in many battles against both the communists of his own country, and the communists of Sapin, after they had intervened in their civil. That was the closest he had ever came to perishing, and it was also when he had decided that he had no choice but to desert.
He had immigrated to Osea as soon as he could, hoping to have a quiet life as a farm hand. He had been selfish and he knew it, abandoning his men like that. And he had been forced into retribution. He could only gain his citizenship of Osea if he did one thing… he had to serve. He had to fight once more in the Osean army, prove to them that he would be a loyal member of their society.
He never knew that he would be fighting against his former comrades.
But he wasn't going to falter. He was a loyal soldier, and if there was one thing he was good at, it was killing. Unfortunately, his superiors didn't see that. What they saw was a Belkan and a deserter. They had no trust in him, and he was amazed that he had been given a platoon. But it wasn't a good one. He had been assigned to second-echelon troops. Poorly trained conscripts. Petty Criminals. Deserters. They were the refuse of a nation. And Claude detested that, with all of his heart. He had a mission. He was going to prove to them that he was more than just trash.
But it would difficult when their lifespan on the battlefield was measured in minutes. They had been equipped with old rifles, old uniforms, and old helmets. They looked as if they were marching out of 1919, while the regular units were all equipped with semi-automatic rifles, pot-style helmets and new, reversible uniforms. There wasn't enough to go around though, so even some of the regular units were marching with pie-tin helmets and springfield rifles.
But it didn't matter. A rifle was a rifle. A soldier was a soldier. And all of them would fight. They would all fight and die for their nation whether they liked it out not. After all, that was why soldiers were born. To die.
/8,000 feet over Neil AFB, en route to Silver Creek /
/Osean Air force Captain Lee Nagase/
/December 21, 1940/
"Bogies approaching on bearing 280. Small formation. Looks like another Belkan scout flight. Approach bearing 180, escort them out."
Lee Nagase flipped the transmitter switch on his radio, holding his P-40 steady with a single hand. This was the third time this month that his wing had scrambled for an intercept. Every week, almost on the hour, a small flight would ingress; loiter, than egress without causing much trouble.
The regular activity was good for pilot readiness, but it was always tedious, and considering, anything could go wrong. The Belkans were unpredictable.
He spoke into his radio, addressing his flight.
"Wardog 1-2, stay on my wing. Wardog 1-3 and 1-4, climb and provide cover." The young pilot ordered.
The two obsolete fighters trailing him climbed, their P-36's straining against gravity. Wardog 2 pulled onto his wing, the green pilot saluting him from his cockpit.
"So, what do you think about all this Cricket?" Asked Lee. Cricket was Wardog 2's call sign. His real name was Kris O'Hare. He was the son of a steel worker, and had not been able to afford college. The military had given him the chance he needed. It turned out he had a talent for engineering, and was planning to go to an engineering school after his contract was up.
"I think its first class bullshit." Kris muttered, the oath sounding odd in his soft voice. His family was deeply religious, he didn't swear much.
"What do you think Captain?" asked Wardog 3, Aka Dean Davenport. Davenport was the son of an Oured banker. He had entered basic training with a sense of entitlement. It didn't last long. He had quickly gained a reputation for being sharp minded, but loose of tongue. Also, his love affair with his sideburns and jazz made for a very outlandish and eccentric man.
"Hmm… not sure what to think. I guess it's better than having to shoot em down, don't ya think?" Lee replied.
Wardog 4 was characteristically silent.
"Look, we all know what this is. The Belkan air force is testing our readiness. They've been screaming up a storm over mining rights and trespassing back in Oured. They're goanna declare war eventually." Continued Dean.
Anxiety clenched Lee's heart. That was the thing he had been dreading all along. When he was drafted he had eagerly joined the air force, thinking that it would be the best service for peace time. But now with war brewing and the famed Belkan Air Force standing ready, it seemed to be the greatest mistake of his life.
"Well, let's just hope it doesn't come to that." He muttered back, attempting to hide the weakness in his voice. He then retreated into the safety of his own mind, as he often did when something was troubling him. This time was to mull over his own handicaps.
I can't kill… I'm a pacifist… What did I get myself into… he thought.
His mind wandered back to is last combat exercise.
Six Months Earlier…
He pulled the aircraft inverted, preforming a quick yoyo maneuver. The fringes of his vision went black as blood was pulled away from his brain. The Allison engine before him snarled, the P-40 making the maneuver with ease. Directly below and in front of him was the instructors P-39. He snapped onto his tail, lining up the crosshairs.
Pull the trigger… pull the trigger… his mind raced. His skin took on a ghostly pallor, and his hands were sweating profusely in his gloves. He couldn't do it. Even in a simple exercise he couldn't do it!
His instructor took the advantage of his hesitation, barrel rolling, dumping speed and landing on Lee's tail.
"Kill." He informed, his voice heavy with disappointment.
"Hey captain! You still there? Kinda went silent on us." Inquired Kris, drawing Lee from his flashback.
"Yeah, I'm still here. Just going over my maps." He lied easily.
"Whatever man." Kris mumbled.
"Status Report?" Coughed Wardog 4, who had finally broken his silence.
"Why look at that, he does have a voice!" joked Dean.
Lee rolled his eyed, checking his maps for real this time. Lee observed that they were approaching Silver Creek . He switched channels on his radio, reporting back to control.
"Wardog 1 to Neil AFB, status on the bogey flight?" He asked.
The radio crackled.
"Continuing on their original heading." Came the quick confirmation.
Lee nodded to himself and relayed the information back to Wardog 4, who merely went by the pseudonym "Inferno".
He accepted Inferno's grunt of gratitude as the most he'll get out of him and continued to watch the skies around them.
"You should be making visual contact now" informed control.
Lee strained his eyes, intently scanning the stark white clouds that enveloped them. His eyes then caught on to a flash of yellow, which grew more and more defined as his flight approached. There, painted against the cloud, were four Belkan fighters. They bore the yellow nose of an elite squadron, and the flight lead, a Bf 110 Heavy fighter, had the fearsome visage of a demon painted on its nose. The other three aircraft were He-112 light fighters, all of which had a dark black and green camouflage pattern that was standard for Belkan aircraft.
Lee frowned. The Belkan air force was prepared for war. By contrast his flight still bore the vibrant yellow, silver, and white paint job that was so distinct of the Osean air force, but was terrible for any sort of combat operation. Only his P-40 bore camouflage, which was a simple silver paint on the aircraft's belly and an olive drab green over the wings and fuselage. He ended his analysis and began to report back to control.
"Confirm. Belkan fighters, three 112's and a 110." He reported to control.
The enemy flight, seeming to have noticed them, banked away, making for their homeland.
"They're bugging out, do we pursue?" Asked Lee.
"Negative. The diplomats in Oured wouldn't like it." Came the sullen answer.
"Wardog copies, all planes, RTB." The four plane formation peeled away into the sunset, leaving the icy skies above Silver Creek .
o-o
/Mammoth Shipyards, Port St. Hewlett/
/Osean Naval Commander Patrick Anderson/
/December 21, 1940/
The maiden voyage of any new warship was a big deal in this port city. But no such more than a new battleship. However, the early hour and cold weather had kept many away. The port was quiet; the many ships of the Pacific fleet either in dry dock or tied to the piers that jutted into the midnight waters. For all intents and purposes, the port was asleep.
Except of course, around the brand new battleship moored to pier number 13.
The OFS Phoenix was a Cardinal Class fast battleship, made for speed and firepower, but not scrimping on armor either. Quadruple Steam turbine engines; four massive screws, and an armor belt that was over a foot thick. Three massive gun turrets featuring the fearsome 16'/50 caliber naval cannons squatted on her decks. Several secondary weapon batteries studded her sides. She was quite the site to behold.
Her first mission was a simple one. Sail out into the Ceres Sea, rendezvous with the OFS Eagle, then sail to the inland sea for joint trials.
Commander Patrick Anderson was a fresh graduate of the Osean Naval Academy. While still in his 30's, his hair had already begun to be flecked with gray. His first assignment was going to be a brand new battleship, and he was absolutely elated about that. At the time, nothing seemed to be able to kill his good mood. Not even his anxiety over the pregnant wife he'd be leaving behind.
He looked over the bay from his perch on the ships forecastle, softly humming to himself an old tune. He was at ease.
"Commander Anderson?" Came a voice from behind him.
Anderson turned to face the man who had addressed him, and upon realizing who he was he quickly snapped a salute. It was Adrian Snow, the Captain of the Phoenix.
Snow was a man of Versuan descent, evident by his dark, nearly purple, skin. He had a wide nose and a piercing glare, all of which combined to give him a critical look. He certainly fit the rugged sea captain stereotype.
He had the experience to back the stereotype up as well. In the Osean-Belkan war he had made a name for himself as a gunners mate on the heavy cruiser Gilgamesh. He rose through the ranks, butting heads and sinking ships as he went. Finally, as commander of Taskforce 340, he made the greatest victory in Osean naval history. His force of four escort destroyers, a heavily damaged light cruiser, a converted merchantman, and his own heavy cruiser, defeated the entire Belkan White Seas Fleet. The White Seas fleet had been composed of four brand new battle cruisers, a super dreadnaught, and several smaller escort vessels. Using his smaller force's maneuverability, he led them into a cluster of islands and small ice bergs. The area had also been shrouded in thick fog. The Belkan ships usually relied on flag and light signals to communicate. The fog prevented this; they were all essentially blind. It was a carefully constructed trap. Mines sunk several vessels. Confusion took hold, and Snow's destroyers were able to make quick and risky torpedo runs, sinking or damaging the remaining vessels. The two cruisers in his flotilla finished the survivors off with carefully aimed salvos. It was an amazing victory and had cost Belka the war.
It also left Anderson completely awed to be in the man's presence.
"Yes captain?" he answered.
"We will be casting off shortly. I need you on the bridge." Explained Snow.
"Yes sir, I'll be there shortly." Patrick replied softly.
The Captain nodded; turning and walking away. From beneath him Anderson could feel the ships steam turbines shuddering into life. This monstrous beast had been awakened, ready to rule the seas. The ropes mooring her to the pier were cut, and a small flotilla of tug boats pushed her out and into the harbor.
Anderson grinned. A new adventure had begun.
o-o
/Rally Point B, South Belka/
/Belkan Panzer Corps Major Hans Kotz/
/December 21, 1940/
The Belkan Panzers were the products of marvelous engineering. Fast, well-armed, and sufficiently armored. The panzer III AusF was no exception. 50mm KwK 38 L/42 cannon, 50mm of frontal armor, powerful gasoline engine, the apex of Belkan engineering. And Hans Kotz was honored to command an entire of unit of them. His unit, 43rd Panzer brigade, was assigned to army group B, the spearhead in the invasion of Osea. When the order came, they would secure Camden, then June City, and finally Mannerheim , the capital of the Lakes region. This would secure dominance of the region and open up the path for future attacks into the Osean heartland.
But he had more important things to attend to. He carefully constructed a letter to his sweet heart back home, a stunning vixen who had immigrated from Sapin. His heart was not in battle, like his father had always wanted it to be. It was in the arts. The 34 year old was an artist and a writer; he had little interest in this petty war. But, his father, an influential man in the government, had secured him a place in Belka's premier military academy, and he had ended up stuck in this frozen plain, awaiting orders to invade a sovereign nation. This was so bothersome…
"Hans, the colonel would like to see you." Spoke an uneasy voice from the door of his tent.
Hans sighed. The Colonel, Adolf Krueger, was always asking for him. He was his favorite boxing partner, and if he wanted to box in this godforsaken winter weather, something had to be troubling him greatly. But right now Hans was in no mood to deal with him.
"Tell him I am unavailable Heinz." He grumbled.
"Sir, you do not understand." Heinz, who was the loader of Han's panzer, clarified. He was a burly man with thick arms, a brute from the frozen tundra of North Belka. Han had to pull him out of several fights in the past. He had a hot temper and a lot of strength, a dangerous combination. "It's in regards to the invasion."
Sighing, Hans stood. The Belkan winter was upon them, and he was not looking forward to leaving the warmth of his tent. He donned a heavy great coat and a fur cap. He was confident the thick leather would be able to keep the cold out.
"Take me to him, Heinz." If this isn't important I'll skin them all. Hans added in thought.
The hot tempered loader nodded and led the way. Hans followed. As he left the tent the cold hit him like a brick wall. Oh, what he would do for some tea right now…
"The rest of the crew is already waiting" Heinz explained as they walked through the camp. This was strange, usually only the battalion commanders would be allowed in the command tent. The information must have involved all of them, Hans concluded.
The camp itself was abuzz with activity. Mechanics in their black coveralls tended to the battalion's panzers. Panzer grenadiers loitered about. Their coal scuttle helmets had white covers, and their usual field gray uniforms had been replaced with white great coats. Hans would wager that the Osean troops were still equipped with their olive drab green trench coats, relics of the past war. They'd be easy targets in the pristine white snow.
The door guard at Kruger's tent allowed them in immediately. The colonel himself was leaning over a map table, smoking a cigar. Small figurines of tanks, planes, infantry and artillery were placed in various places on the table, each representing a specific unit under the Colonels command. The other three members of Hans's crew stood behind him, at attention.
"Ah, Major Kotz, I'm glad you could make it." Kruger put out the cigar and approached Kotz, a bright smile on his face. He took him in a hug.
"It seems the time of redemption is quick on its way, my friend. The Osean fools will soon learn the true meaning of hardship." Krueger was found of the propaganda of the regime, as evident by his quoting of it. Kotz had feeling that talent wasn't one of the reasons Kruger rose through the ranks so fast. In fact, the man had very few accomplishments to his name.
Yes, he was a veteran of the previous war. But he had been wounded in the early stages, and rather than fighting in the trenches like the rest of his men, he remained in a hospital in Sudentor. Hans presumed he only possessed this rank because of a lot of sweet talking and some friends in high places. Despite this; superiors were superiors, no matter how incompetent they may be.
Hans cleared his throat. "You wanted to see me sir?" He asked flatly. He was in no mood for small talk or theatrics.
Krueger seemed disappointed with Hans's attitude. He rolled his eyes and walked toward a desk at the far end of the tent, next to the Colonels cot. He groaned as he leaned over to open it. Frozen tundra was no place for fifty-five year old men. "Yes… I have some new intel I believe you should be made aware of."
Kruger returned to the table and gestured for Hans to follow. Hans did so, and watched as Kruger rearranged some of the figures on the western side of the border, representing the Oseans. He added several more to the eastern side.
"As of 0000 hours, Sapin, Belka, and Recta will declare war on the Osean Federation. This has not changed." Hans nodded. The Eastern Pact; Recta, Belka, and Sapin had been allies since the Osean War. The three nations would invade in tandem; in order to shift the balance of power in their favor.
"However, the Sapos have moved an armored brigade into the vicinity, a last minute change decided by high command back in Dinsmark. This means we'll have a bit more firepower as we cross the border. I'm interested in seeing what those Erusian made panzer's can do." This was certainly interesting to Hans. The original plan had the Sapos driving south to cut off any escape by the Osean Army. What had changed?
"But here's the worst part." He said with an exasperated sigh. He moved one of the infantry icons away from the border and replaced it in the Capitol of the region, Mannerheim . "Osean high command, according to our spies, has recalled the 27th Infantry Division to Mannerheim , and replaced it with this"- he moved a tank icon toward the border-"The 1st Armored Brigade, freshly reequipped with a bloody panzer we haven't seen before."
Hans held back a curse. New panzer? That could be an issue.
"Are you familiar with the Osean tanks?" Krueger asked.
Hans nodded. "The M3 Lee is their primary medium tank. 7.5cm gun, dangerous at close range. Horrid armor and high profile. Threat level medium. The M3 Stuart, which is a light tank. It is primarily used for scouting and infantry support. Fast and small, decent 3.7cm cannon. Threat level low, but it can still raise hell against our Panzer IIs." He recited the information with practiced ease; he was required to memorize this as part of becoming a panzer commander.
"Very good." Kruger slapped a packet of files and pictures on the table, causing all the figurines to shake. "This is all the information we have on this M4 tank of theirs. There isn't much in there, but it may help. I just hope the Osean's didn't get smart and decide to put some armor on this thing. A 5.0 cm shell won't get past more than two inches of armor. Let alone a 3.7."
Hans nodded in agreement. "Thank you for informing me sir. I will make sure to inform the platoon commanders come morning."
Kruger didn't say anything against him alerting the other commanders, a signal that he was okay with whatever Hans decided to do. A good sign, after all. Sighing, Kruger left the tent with his crew and returned to his tent. Soon, such luxuries as tents and cots would be forgotten. He'd fought in the Sapo Civil War. He knew combat. And he knew that the following morning would be one of bloodshed.
o-o
/ Heierlark Air Base, South Belka/
/Belkan Luftwaffe Pilot Theo Buchner/
/December 21, 1940/
Theo Buchner was blood thirsty. A member of a noble family, he had been disgraced by the actions of his father in the previous war. His family had once been one of the most prestigious in all of Belka, all before the unfortunate actions of his father. Martial blood coursed through his veins, every male of his family had been a member of the Belkan armed forces, or a member of the armed forces of the Kingdoms that preceded Belka. But he never was able to enjoy this rich history… oh no, he was a social pariah, an outcast.
His father had been a cavalry man in the previous war. Then, he made a cowardly move. Ordered to charge an Osean emplacement, he instead ran from the field, only to be shot in the back. His family fell from grace, and he and his family had been scorned since.
Theo Buchner had one goal in life—return his families honor, once and for all.
He had nearly done it too. He was a pilot in the esteemed Belkan Luftwaffe, one of the best. He had fought in the Sapo Civil War, much like many of his countrymen. He had gotten his ace wings there, flying the He112 V model. Now, here he was, at Heierlark, watching as squadron after of squadron of fighters, bombers, and Fallschirmjäger's arrived at the installation, the largest of its kind in all of South Belka.
Theo lit a cigarette and watched from the barracks window as ground grew herded lumbering He111's, slim Do217's, and Shark like Bf 109's around the tarmac. One of the 109's was his, no doubt. He couldn't see it in the darkness, but his would bear the striking crimson paint of the Rot squadron. He had earned his place in the elite squadron, and soon, he would earn his country's respect once more.
"Hey Theo, got time to talk?" A voice from behind.
Theo turned around and eyed the tail man who stood there. He was Rot leader, Reiner Stoss. Reiner was one of the few men that Theo respected, and when Reiner had something to say, the typically headstrong Theo listened.
"Sure I do, Captain." Theo nodded, before taking a deep drag from his cigarette.
The tall blonde sat down next to the much shorter salt and pepper haired one. Theo was prematurely gray… but his other features still suggested vitality and youth.
"Lieutenant, I want you to be aware, unlike the Sapo Republicans, the Oseans are not push overs. Their planes are more modern, not the Yuke biplanes from before. This will be a hard fight, one we can best win with caution and coordinated attack."
Ah. A lecture. It made sense to Theo now.
"I am fully aware, Captain." Theo interrupted. "I have fought them before, back in Seville. Carrier fighters, Buffalo, they called them. A fitting name, they were so lumbering and slow, it was almost unfair, hacking them from the sky." Buchner's eye's held a feral light. "It was all great fun, watching those burning wrecks fall into the sea."
The Captain was not taken back. He had grown used to Theo's murderous attitude. However, he was still quite serious.
"A bad attitude, Theo. Time has passed, the Oseans have learned. Do not underestimate them." Reiner left it there, standing up and walking away, leaving the conversation behind right there.
Theo took another drag of his cigarette. In a handful of hours, he would see if the Capitan was right.
o-o
/Rally Point A, South Belka/
/Belkan Corporal Erwin Grimm/
/December 21, 1940/
Cold. Always so cold. Erwin Grimm hated cold. He had simply experienced too much of it… in the cold, rifles jammed. Engines refused to start. Flesh froze to steel. And here he was, left shivering on the Osean border, nothing but a snow white great coat, a campfire, and a few swigs of some cheap brandy the section leader had shared to keep him warm. It wasn't enough, but it was better than nothing.
Still, the bitter wind, coming cold from the east, held bite. Enough to make him wish he had never joined the Army in the first place. But he had done it in order to follow his older brother, Claude. And Oh, how dumb an idea that had been…
Erwin Grimm hated his brother with every fiber of his being. But it had not always been like that. Before hand, he had really loved his brother. He could remember the good all days, back before his brother left for Sapin. Before they received the notice that he had gone missing in action. Before they found out he was a traitor.
Erwin took another vicious swig of the schnapps in his canteen. The liquid burned going down, and made him cough. He still wasn't used to it, unlike the more senior soldiers in his section. The older sergeants often made fun of him, and called him a poor excuse of a non-commissioned officer.
Seven men sat around the fire, drinking and laughing, trying their best to ignore the fact that they'd be thrown into the meat grinder the next day, thrown into a war they wanted, no matter how dangerous it could be. Everyone wanted revenge on Osea. Everyone. But Erwin had more personal reasons. He knew that his brother was somewhere across that border, and he would find him, no matter what.
Done with his brooding, Erwin stood up and picked up his Mauser. He approached another soldier, who held a MP40, his sections point man. He was a good friend named Ludwig Kaiser. He was a lowly private, and was even younger than Erwin. Neither had fought in the Sapo Civil War. Both would end up learning about true combat, the hard way.
"Ludwig, got any smokes on you?" Erwin asked. He wasn't a smoker until he joined the Army. Even so he didn't smoke very much, but now, he needed one quite badly.
The baby faced private pulled a box from his tunic and handed it to Erwin. "Here, take the whole thing. I'm trying to quit." He responded flatly.
Erwin frowned. Ludwig usually smoked like an old man at a race track. Something was up with him. "What's wrong?" Erwin asked softly, sitting down and removing his coal scuttle helmet.
Ludwig looked into the night's sky and sighed, vapor wafting from his lips. "I just... I just think that if I'm going to die, I might as well die by something that isn't my own fault."
Erwin was shocked. He hadn't expected a straight answer. Ludwig was scared, and he actually admitted it. Erwin wrapped his arms around the other teen, and then smiled. "Yeah, whatever you need to tell yourself. But no matter what, when we're in Mannerheim , we're going to share a victory smoke."
Ludwig laughed. "Fine, we have a deal." He looked back toward the sky, and Erwin followed his gaze. The stars twinkled above, ignoring the affairs of men.
o-o
/Oured Harbor/
/Osean Atlantic Fleet Base/
/December 22nd, 1940. 00:00 Hours/
Silence laid over Oured as the late hours of December twenty first became the early hours of the twenty second. The ships of the Osean Atlantic Fleet laid at anchor, their crews asleep and their officers off on shore. Seven battleships, four cruisers, one carrier and a dozen destroyers were present at her anchorage, while a further two battleships and three cruisers were berthed at her piers and dry docks. They ranged from old coal-fired vessels from the previous war, to new, sleek, advanced vessels built as part of President Horn's naval expansion program. They represented Osean prestige, power, and freedom. And they were above all, a sitting duck.
Launching from bases in Sapin, four hundred Luftwaffe fighters and bombers had flown across the Gulf of Oured to destroy them. They were the elite, the capable. And they had every advantage. Numbers, surprise, and skill. The entire formation was skimming the waves, coming low and in radio silence.
They could hear the occasional calls of the Osean forces stationed at Farragut Fortress, or at Whiteson Air Base. And as the came closer and closer, they could see the twinkling lights of Oured. No blackout. Fools, thinking that they were safe. Belka could touch them. Belka could hurt them. The whirring engines of their craft loomed, the sounds of hundreds of fighters and bombers droning over the horizon. No one was awake to hear them.
The Osean sailors snoozed in their bunks as the Belkan assault flight approached. Even the president himself found himself in bed, snoozing and enjoying the bliss of the night. Only a few were awake, and even they were not vigilant. Belka was far away they thought. Belka could never attack them, from the sea, or from the air or from the ground. Oured was as safe as safe could be.
They were wrong.
At 00:23, the first bomb dropped. A flight of Ju-87 Stukas had dived down, their Jericho trumpets wailing in the night air. The horrible sound alerted the guards, but it was too late. Four bombs struck the citadel of Farragut Fortress, their armor penetrating heads allowing them to cut through steel and concrete before they detonated deep inside, killing off officers and enlisted alike. A fireball was sent high into the night sky, illuminating the sea and the land. Moments later the sirens and search lights came to life, chaos destroying the peace of the night.
Two Ju-87's, laden with bombs, dived down on their next target: the tank farm at Oured's naval station that served both the Navy and Air Force. The dive bombers loosed their explosive cargo before screeching away, the incendiary bombs detonating among the massive white oil tanks of the farm. The darkness of night was immediately forced away as millions of gallons of fuel oil and aviation fuel ignited, flames as large as buildings reaching high into the sky. Thick black smoke choked the air.
It was a panic on the ground. Osean soldiers were shaken awake by the bomb blasts, and Osean Airmen found themselves blinded by the glare of the burning tank farm. The pilots and ground crews stumbled from bunks, bumbling about like blind men as they searched for clothes, for weapons, or, for some, an escape.
Belka would have nothing of it. The precision raids of the Stukas continued, moving on next to ramp at Whiteson. Dozens of P-36's, P-40's, and B-25's were parked there. The dive bombers made run after run, coming down and dropping their deadly payloads before circling around to strafe. Green tracers from 7.92 machine guns arched through the air as they obliterated the hapless Osean birds.
Simultaneously, the Bf-109's and He-112's of the fighter group dived on Jackson Naval Air Station. The nimble hawks were coming down on low, sweeping runs, cannon fire raking the Wildcat and Buffalo fighters, rendering them useless. Total surprise had been achieved, not a single Osean fighter had been able to get themselves airborne. The Belkans ruled the skies.
At this point, radio silence on both sides had been ignored, and chatter filled the airwaves. Both sides were quickly reporting what they knew, and often enough, asking for what they didn't know. Belkan fighters were swooping about, strafing anything that looked like it could possibly fight back. Osean Command was struggling to find out what was true and what wasn't. With conflicting reports, it was almost impossible to determine what was truth and what was speculation.
The Belkans knew it was time to take advantage of it. Ju-87's began their runs on the helpless warships moored in the anchorage, unable to maneuver, unable to do anything to save themselves. The lumbering battleship November City, an old coal burner, was the first to be struck. A bomb penetrated down into her forward deck, before it detonated deep inside her. Flame and shrapnel filled her corridors as several compartments filled with sleeping men were vaporized.
There was blood in the water, and it was going to attract sharks. Two more Ju-87's vectored on the now wounded November City, a pair of bombs coming down on her amidships. One failed to detonate and penetrated all the way through her deck armor, passed her boilers, and then into her bottom, before burrowing into the mud. The second, however, penetrated behind her aft stack and detonated in a coal bunker, causing a fire that burned furiously.
But the ordeal for the stricken warship was not over. Four more stukas dove on her, dropping their own ordinance. Four more bombs struck her, two detonating deep in her engineering and living spaces. But it was the third bomb was the one that finished her. The 500kg bomb detonated in her aftmost gun turret, igniting the powder magazine below. The thick rolled steel that made up the turrets armor acted like a cork, until finally the pressure became too great and the entire turret was blown off the deck and into the sea, a great geyser of flame taking its place. Moments later the fires spread to her main magazine, destroying the entire aft section of the ship in a violent explosion.
The smoke of her funeral pyre joined the choking cloud that was creeping over the entire harbour. She was soon to be joined by her sisters. Moored next to her had been the heavy cruiser King Arthur. She was already damaged by the blast from the November City, men having been swept off her decks along with anything that wasn't bolted down. But now it was her turn to suffer. Two Bf-109's, both laden with 100kg bombs, danced above her. Contrails streamed from their wings as they banked through the pillars of flame and smoke before coming on a final attack run on the Arthur. They deployed and sharply pulled up, avoiding the cruisers superstructure as they roared past.
The four bombs detonated at the waterline, penetrating the ships thin armor. Cold water began to force its way inside of her, washing men away and pouring through watertight doors that had been left open. The entire ship groaned as she began to settle further into the water. Her compartments were flooding one by one, and in the frantic disorder of the morning, no one could manage to make a concerted effort to prevent her from sinking. Her captain and executive officer weren't even on board. She was sinking. Slowly, but the fires from the November City were spreading. She was doomed either way.
Another battleship, this one moored directly to the pier at the Naval Station, was next to be struck. She was unable to maneuver. She was trapped, a perfect target for a torpedo bomber. And the Belkans had brought them just for this. Twelve He-111 medium bombers, all configured in their torpedo bomber variant, dove down to wave top level, bomb bays opening to reveal the two G7a torpedoes mounted within. The twin engined former-airliners droned forward, bombardiers lining the sights on the immobile ship.
The ship, the 32,000 ton Oured, was one of the newer battleships. Even so, she was still nearly 10 years old, and lacked underwater protection. She was vulnerable. The flight of bombers dropped their fish and pulled away, leaving a salvo of six torpedoes to destroy her. It was overkill, if there was such a thing. Each and every torpedo struck her directly, detonating and shearing away her hull. Oil bled into the sea as her fuel tanks were ruptured, and sea water poured in to fill the gaps. Sharp groans from snapping and bending steel echoed through the air as she settled down to the bottom, broken and battered. Her keel sunk into the mud and the harbor's water lapped at her superstructure and bridge.
A violent explosion, the third one of the morning, pierced the night. The light cruiser Andromeda had been struck amidships by a bomb, her magazines detonating in one uproarious conflagration. She broke into three pieces and slipped beneath the oily waters. Corpses floated to the surface along with light debris. She was the fourth kill of the night.
By this time, the harbor was reminiscent of hell. Furious flames consumed buildings and warships, and the wreckage of aircraft smoldered chronically. Pops and crackles echoed past the roaring inferno. However, the droning and snarling of aircraft engines began to fade. The first wave had passed, they were done. The surviving soldiers and sailors struggled to catch their breath in this period of respite. Small groups lead by non-commissioned officers patrolled about, searching for wounded and collecting weapons. Panic had to be averted. Weapons had to be manned. Osea was at war, there were no if, ands, or buts about it.
They didn't get very long of a break. Screeching in from above came the second wave… level bombers. Dozens of Do 17's, He-112's and Fw 200's, all in large formations. Below them flew more flights of Stuka dive bombers and torpedo equipped He 111's. The Osean fleet was to be destroyed before the city itself was to be bombed.
But the Oseans were ready this time. As the swarm of warplanes hovered above, Osean Anti-aircraft guns finally opened up, puffs of black smoke and streams of yellow and red tracers reaching up like the fingers of death. Any warship that had been left unscatched from the initital attack was determined to make steam and begin to move, lines being cut and men left behind.
The Oseans were rewarded for their efforts when several 20mm cannon shells found themselves a Fw 200 condor. The converted airliner burst into flames, tumbling from the sky and breaking apart before it finally slammed into the sea.
The retribution was devastating.
Eight Stukas dived on AA Cruiser Gallivant, peppering her deck with 7.92 machine gun fire. As they pulled away they left behind several bombs, all of which detonated deep within her. The fifth major detonation of the night erupted as her fuel ignited and the lightly armored cruiser was obliterated, small sheds of steel dropping down into the sea as she broke up. The Oseans remained determined, despite this, firing literally everything that they could into the air.
Two destroyers had actually managed to get underway. Their captains led them off past the harbor and into the gulf of Oured, ready to engage anything that dared to try and force entry into the port.
The Belkans ignored them and focused instead on the remaining ships. They dove about, engaging literally anything that looked like it was still capable of waging war. The aircraft carrier Albatross was struck by fourteen bombs and three torpedoes, leaving her embroiled in flames. She was settled down deeper and deeper until she finally came to the bottom, her ruined flight deck and smashed planes standing only a few feet above the water line. Three capital ships of the Atlantic fleet destroyed.
The second wave was paying for their success, however. Several more stukas had been knocked down by the hail of gunfire, and only a few of their crews had actually managed to escape. No matter what, there would always be a cost. For Osea, the cost would be much higher. Another crippled battleship began to roll over after having been struck by several torpedoes, settling down on her side. Several crippled destroyers burned furiously, thick black smoke billowing from them into the choking sky. The moon and the stars were blotted out by the sheer size of the smoke cloud.
Another battleship suffered. The Osprey rolled over on her belly, until she was completely capsized. Men had been trapped within her, but there was nothing to do for them, at least not yet. A fourth capital warship had been destroyed, and the Belkans were still killing.
But the main target of the second wave was not the ships. The ships themselves had been absolutely destroyed. The target of the second and final wave was the city of Oured itself.
Formations of bombers flew low overhead. The flak grew lighter and lighter as they left the military areas and entered the civilian areas. Oured was going to burn. The squadrons of He 111's and Do 17's had enough incendiary and high explosive bombs to flatten half the city. Ahead of them loomed the high raises of Oured, a symbol of Osean prosperity and an offense to all of Belka, a Belka that had been torn apart by internal strife and economic depression since the end of the first war.
It was a bombing of revenge.
The air was filled with iron as thousands of tons of bombs were dropped over the industrial districts of Oured, factories becoming funeral pyres as they detonated. Terror filled the streets as an unprepared populace found itself under attack from an unknown foe. Oured was burning and there was nothing that the millions of people who lived there could do. It was true hopelessness.
The Belkans didn't linger. After the terror bombing of the city was complete, the more short-legged aircraft, the junkers 87's and Bf 109's, turned back for their bases. The larger medium bombers, no longer hindered of their bombs, remained behind to take a measure of the raids damage before they turned back the way they had came. The explosions stopped. The gunfire subsided. As quickly as it had came, the raid had ended.
There was silence. Oured, burning and demoralized, was quiet. Only the sounds of crackling flame ruined the peace of devastation. But, slowly, the shell shocked residents of the Osean capital began to emerge from their shelters and hiding places, and the soldiers and sailors of the military installations began the long and painful process of finding the dead, the wounded, and the missing. There were mutterings and questions, so many questions. But, above all, one thing was clear.
Belka had declared war.