"Success consists of going from failure to failure without loss of enthusiasm." -Winston Churchill


Beta: ThiccBuddha

Chapter 7


"You know, I just saw some trucks driving past us. Seemed to be packed full of other unfortunate souls being shipped to the Ardennes."

"Shut up."

"I also heard that the Army has commandeered over ten thousand civilian cars to haul troops and supplies. Everybody doing their part, am I right?"

"Shut up."

"I think I also read from somewhere that one general hired all cab drivers in Paris to transport soldiers to the front during the Great War. And their meters were running the entire time."

"Shut the hell up, Lark," Cardin growled through gritted teeth.

"All I'm saying is, we got all these fancy vehicles at our disposal to make sure things get delivered in time," Sky continued. "So I'm just asking, why the hell ARE WE WALKING WHEN EVERYBODY ELSE IS SITTING NICE AND COMFY IN A TRUCK?!"

"Keep it down back there," lieutenant Arc snapped from the side of the column.

"Fucking prick," Sky grumbled in response.

What remained of platoons three and seven, as well as section 58, had been marching ever since the train had dropped them off on Charleville-Mézières. There had been trucks, half-tracks and even bicycles waiting for them near the train station, which had been quickly loaded full of soldiers and sent towards the combat zone. Everything had gone just as it should've, except for one thing.

The transports had run out before they had had a chance to board them.

Lieutenant Arc had looked ready to explode, but there was little left to be done after the last truck had throttled off into the distance. So marching it had been.

"I'm starting to think one of the higher-ups really hates us," Dove muttered as he fixed his hold on his rifle. "Sent to the camp too early, with no guns, and now this."

"I hear you," Russel agreed, trying to squeeze the last drops off of his canteen. "This whole thing has been a pain in the ass ever since we were shipped here. Dammit, I shouldn't have stopped going to church."

"Probably not that high up," Dove dryly replied.

"Heavenly punishment or not, a day of marching is still a bitch," Sky grumbled. "And we'll probably get sent to the fire immediately after we arrive. Not like the cannon fodder needs rest, right?"

"Don't be like that, we're pretty tough," Russel said as he put his canteen away. "I bet ten francs that none of the other sections train half as hard as we do. The boches got nothing on us."

"Agreed," Cardin nodded. "Doesn't matter if the boche is the fucking Kaiser Wilhelm himself, they all die the same when you shoot them."

The recruits close to the group hummed their agreements, continuing their chatter as they kept on marching. Being a pedestrian was annoying to say the least, but it also meant the trips took longer. Which in turn meant there was more time for useless but nonetheless entertaining banter with the other section members.

Oddly enough, the spirits of section 58 were relatively high considering what they were preparing for.

"All right people, listen up," lieutenant Arc raised his voice so that the whole column could hear him. "We're getting close to our destination. Once we get there, we will form you into squads and try to arrange some additional weapons to be transferred to us," he kept a short pause before continuing. "What we do after depends on the situation as well as our orders. If possible, you'll get some time to get used to your squads as well as some additional training for your new assignments. That's all."

"If possible," Sky meaningfully repeated, stretching both words.

"I think that much was obvious at this point," Dove commented.

"C'mon guys, it can't be that bad," Russel said, ever the optimist. "What's the point of sending us out in the first place if they're not willing to equip us properly? They can't just dump us some junk from the past decade and expect us to fight with it."


"You're fucking kidding me," Cardin groaned, covering his face with his hand.

"Can't say I'm surprised," Dove sighed, obviously disheartened despite his indifferent tone.

"You just had to jinx it, didn't you?" Sky glared at Russel.

"In my defense, I did say they wouldn't give us stuff from the past decade," Russel weakly replied, staring at the sight in front of them.

"Oh sure, they didn't give us outdated junk from the twenties," Sky said in a sickeningly sweet tone. "Instead, they gave us completely obsolete crap from the fucking Great War!"

The small pile of weapons in front of them was, to put it bluntly, depressing to look at. Most of the pile was made up of old rifles and submachine guns, some of which looked ready to fall apart on touch. Two rusted Maxim guns stood at the back of the pile, neither of which would work without extensive maintenance. And finally, lying proudly at the side of its brethren, was the Mauser anti-tank rifle.

"This is just perfect. Simply fan-FUCKING-tastic," Sky growled as he tested the weight of the massive rifle. "You know this thing is a German model, right? Probably spoils of war from Somme or other such shit. I'm surprised they even kept it around for this long."

"Still better than nothing, right?" Russel tried. "I'd rather have that thing against a tank than my usual gun."

"The difference is actually smaller than you'd think," Dove cut in, staring at the weapon.

"What do you mean?" Russel asked, lifting his eyes.

"What he means is that the boches designed this thing to take out tanks over two decades ago," Cardin growled, silencing the other three. "You know? Back when ten millimeters of armor was considered adequate protection for a vehicle? This so-called anti-tank rifle would be hard pressed to penetrate the armor of a modern light tank, nevermind taking it out." He spat on the ground. "This is not an anti-armor weapon, it's a glorified bolt-action rifle. The best we can do with it is to try sniping at German anti-tank guns. The kind that hit harder than wet noodles."

A silence fell on their group, a few minutes passing with them just staring at the antiquated weapons lying on the ground.

"Fucking unbelievable…" Cardin shook his head with a grimace, picking up one of the submachine guns. "Let's grab this stuff and drag it back to the camp, and pray to God the rest of the guys are having better luck than we."


"You're fucking kidding me," Jaune groaned, covering his face with his hand.

"Well, look on the bright side," Neptune said, an unreadable expression in his face. "At least it's not a tractor."

"I'm not sure if this thing is much better," Jaune forced himself to open his eyes, peeking at the sight in front of them through his fingers. It was a tank, no doubt about it, but judging from its beaten, rusted and dirtied appearance it hadn't seen action for a while.

As in, not seen action for two decades or so.

"I'm not going to just stand on the sidelines and listen you badmouth this beauty," Neptune patted the oversized tin can, causing some lichen to fall off of it. "It's a living and breathing piece of our country's military history. This thing is probably as old as you are."

"You're not making me feel any better," Jaune covered his eyes once more.

"You see all these dents? They're battle scars," Neptune continued, drawing his finger across the hull of the "vehicle". "They're reminders of times when the world tried to break her down, but failed. They're proof she managed to beat whatever tried to beat her!"

"Neptune, that hole is big enough to fit a man through," Jaune shot back, his voice flat.

True enough, the front of the rustbucket was completely cracked open, its crew compartment fully visible through the rather sizable hole. Made only more obvious by the relatively small size of the vehicle.

"Alright, so she has some scrapes here and there, no big deal," Neptune declared with almost religious zeal. "A little bit of patching up and she's good to go. Ready to serve France once more!"

"I'm not sure we agree on what counts as a little bit of patching up," Jaune mumbled. In all likelihood, it would take well over two weeks for the techs to get the thing moving again, and another one to fix the broken hull. Assuming they could find the necessary parts in the first place. "Those materials would probably be better spent elsewhere."

"Stop with the slander, the FT-17 is a great model!" Neptune half-yelled, staring at it like it was his firstborn child. "Easily the best tank of the Great War, mowed down Germans like nobody's business. Also influenced the later designs, they're basically the mothers of all modern tanks." He lovingly petted the dirty metal. "True badass mothers, ready to join their sons and daughters on the battlefield once more."

"More like a crippled and demented old man, barely capable of moving on their own any longer," Jaune cut in on his rant. "Anyway, we need to get this husk to the camp, go see if there's a spare tractor or truck in here somewhere." He sighed deeply as he rubbed his eyes. "Let's just hope that the rest of the guys are having better luck than we."


"This is an impressive facility you have here," Velvet said as she followed after the medic guiding her.

"Thank you," the woman replied, smiling slightly. "We were lucky there was an old hospital so close to the front. Things would've been far more difficult for us if we had to make do with tents."

"Doesn't seem like there's a shortage of supplies, either," Velvet added as they walked past a man pushing a cart full of medical equipment.

"No, we have all that we need here, some of it in excess, even," her guide nodded. "The guys in the logistics did their jobs correctly for once."

Velvet giggled at the jab. "Hopefully things are working out this well for everybody else."


"This isn't working out at all!"

"Those guys in the logistics have completely fucked us over!"

"Shut up Lark, we all know," Cardin grunted before smacking Sky in the head as he kept on whining. All of their "new" gear was on full display before them, in all of its rusted glory.

"For once, I'm inclined to agree with private Lark," Jaune grumbled as he did an inventory on the items. "This stuff hardly qualifies as a new command vehicle and squad support weapons. We're lucky if we get half of these into working condition before we have to use them."

Surprisingly enough, the higher-ups didn't seem to be responsible for their current predicament. The captain in charge for their base's logistics had nearly blown a gasket when Jaune had told him, and had sworn to make life miserable for whoever had been responsible for the deliveries. Which was something he could wholeheartedly agree with, but that still didn't solve their problem.

As is was, section 58 was still armed with their rifles, and nothing else.

"I know you're all tired and frustrated, but there's one more thing to handle today," he announced as he finished counting the ammunition boxes delivered to them. No problem with them at least. "We'll now split you into squads, which you will remain in for the foreseeable future."

Some of the recruits nervously eyed each other.

"Each squad will consist of four fireteams of two, for a total of ten squads of eight. This will give platoons three and seven both five squads each," he began explaining. "I will be in direct command of platoon three whilst sergeant Vasilias will take charge of platoon seven. Time's not on our side here, so let's get started." He lowered his eyes from the section and began to read out loud from the list on his clipboard. "Sergeant Sartre, you are assigned as the leader of squad one."

"Sir," one of the seniors saluted, taking position next to him.

"Corporals Richelieu, Perrin and Caron will be the leaders of squads two, three and four respectively," he continued, three other seniors saluting and walking in front of the section. Time for the big news. "And finally, private Winchester will take command of squad five."

If Cardin was surprised he hid it better than some of the other privates near him. "Sir," he saluted, following after the seniors.

"Because of your new assignment as well as your exceptional service so far, I hereby promote private Winchester into a corporal," Jaune declared in his best formal tone, handing Cardin his new stripes. "Congratulations, corporal Winchester."

"Thank you, sir," Cardin replied as he accepted the stripes. The seniors began to clap as he walked next to the other squad leaders, the rest of the section quickly following suit.

"Well I'll be damned," Sky muttered as the clapping died down.

"I'm surprised he's willing to promote any of us so soon," Dove mumbled.

"Could've picked worse," Russel chimed in, still clapping.

"Now let's get to the squad compositions." Jaune cleared his throat. "Each squad leader will be given seven subordinates, who they will assign into fireteams. Squad one will consist of privates Roth, Beaufils, Duchene…"

Several minutes passed with him assigning the members of each squad in numerical order. Finally, there were only seven unassigned privates left.

"Privates Ni, Stallion, Porfirio, Zedong, Lark, Bronzewing, and Thrush, you will make up squad five," Jaune finished, taking a long gasp of air. "With all that out of the way, you better get used to your new squadmates. You'll train together, you'll eat together, you'll fight together. Should your squad leaders feel like it, you'll also peel potatoes together and do your taxes together. So behave yourselves. Dismissed."

As the members of the newly reinforced platoon three began to slowly make their way to their tents, Jaune quietly lifted his face to stare at the night sky.

"Please let us succeed, this one time," he whispered as he looked at the stars. "Or failing that, please don't let this become another Eguisheim."


For those interested, francs were the currency of France during the time of the war. 10 old francs would be about 2,7 USD in modern day.