Internal Security Headquarters
Bethesda, Gerencer, Commonwealth of Sylva
2200 hours | 13 March 2016
"It certainly is interesting information," InSec director James LeBlanc said, stroking his small goatee as he reviewed the intelligence. "Two-hundred fifty prisoners…with a one-to-five guard compliment…It's doable."
"Precisely."
"And with all this bad press going around about the SL loosing the war, the public could certainly use a pick me up."
The heads around the table nodded in agreement. "Very well," LeBlanc said, placing his feet on top of the table. "Please enlighten me on the plan for escape you have devised."
"Yes, sir. As you know, The Affenberg Internment Camp, set up in January 2016, currently contains 206 Saxon prisoners and 41 Sylvans, most of them pilots. 30 of whom are in urgent need of medical help. Already 56 have died due to maltreatment and denial of medical assistance by Wankan soldiers, and casualties are expected to rise as the planned program for ethnic Sylvan POWs include hard labour in deadly conditions. The camp is supposed to be the temporary home for prisoners of war as other locations have been filled up by the influx of war refugees. The prisoners are expected to be moved in a week.
"The interment camp itself is located 21 kilometers east of the town of Affenberg, and 180km east of Potsdam. The surroundings consist of flat grasslands and fields, with one road leading from Affenberg to the UT border. Possible helicopter landing zones and aircraft landing strip have been identified and marked on the maps. Camp guards number at 52, excluding civilian staff. They are lightly-armed, mostly with G-74 or other older variants. Two MG-3 machine guns can be expected, but no other heavy weaponry. Images of camp and surroundings with annotations are attached in the following pages.
"As for a possible Wankan response, the 312th Füsilier-Regiment is stationed in Affenberg. It is under-strength and consists of two motorized infantry battalions (800 troops) and a tank platoon (3x Panzer-90s). 6x Spz-10 are also present. Heavy weaponry is lacking as most equipment and other units are located in warehouses and barracks further south. Estimated response time is half an hour. Two more Landwehr infantry battalions can also be mobilized on short notice. Rotor and fixed-wing air support may be available, originating from the Potsdam Air Base. Further heavily armored units of the 9th Panzer Division are located 110 kilometers away, estimated response time is 3 hours."
"So how do we get them out?"
"I say we insert two teams. One team will be targeting the Wankans' IADS system near Potsdam so that we can shut down their radar long enough to slip in the second team, which will be dressed in Wankan uniforms and using Wankan weapons. They will be inserted as a company sized force near the prison, under the command of a supposed Wankan Brigadier General. Once the second team has been inserted the infil helos will depart. As for releasing the prisoners, we will do it quietly – with a fake packet of orders saying that the prisoners are being moved. They will move the prisoners into the vehicles requisitioned from the camp itself and make their way towards Potsdam Air Force Base. Once there, I can arrange for our agents within the Wankan Air Force to prepare three transport aircraft. Once inside they will fly south, towards the coast. From there, our contacts within the Wankan Mafia will smuggle our people into the Sellenland and then into Aemen.."
"The Sellenland? That's a hostile nation! Why not the United Territories?"
"It's to obvious," the presenter explained. "The Wankans will expect us to do exactly that. And if we move them through the UT, which aren't exactly friendly towards the SL as it is, we're not sure that we can get our men back."
"If they are discovered wearing Wankan uniforms, they will be shot as spies…" LeBlanc said. "This will have to be a volunteer-only mission, understand?"
"Understood, sir."
"You have my clearance for it. Get what you need. We have to move quickly – I want this op run by the 18th of March, understand?"
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."
First Reconnaissance Battalion
Allgau Mountain Range, Volksrepublik Wanka
0100 hours | 14 March 2016
Captain Palmer shivered as her small boat crossed the Seine river. She wasn't sure if it was because of the spring frost or because she was scared that she and the rest of her battalion would be discovered – they were, after all, now crossing behind enemy lines. When word had first come that the First Recon would no longer be serving as the Fourth Division's vanguard, it was met with anger and frustration. They had, after all, been doing fantastic work – making sure the remnants of the once great Wankan Twenty-Ninth Division didn't leave the Sylvans any nasty surprises in the form of mines of ambushes. The Fourth's advance had been halted just inside the Upper Seine Valley to give the division's supply lines time to catch up. Meanwhile, the Air Force pounded away at the rapidly assembling Wankan Fourth Army, which was preparing to defend the city of Wallis with two divisions of mountain infantry and mechanized forces.
But the First Recon's new job was much more important, it was decided. They had been shipped south via helicopter with orders to cross the Seine River halfway between Wallis and Bad Eisenach in order to shut down the Wankan's supply routes along the vital A53 motorway. This was the First Recon's ideal kind of mission – a high risk, high importance, aggressive reconnaissance mission behind enemy lines.
As the boat impacted the rocky sands of the opposite shoreline, Palmer dived over the front of the boat, rifle at the ready. It was unlikely that any Wankans were here besides perhaps a hunter; but she had to be ready just in case. Then again, if there were any, they likely would have shot at the Rangers while they were crossing.
Palmer's company was the first of four companies of Rangers that would be staging the operations around the A53, and the first to cross the Seine River. Immediately they dispersed themselves into the woodlands, taking up sniping positions and searching the surrounding area. High above the First Recon, a stealthy ARV-5 Eagle Eye drone glided in the sky, giving the commanders on the ground an idea of what lay before them – which, luckily for the Rangers, was nothing.
Within fifteen minutes all four companies of Rangers were across the Seine with no casualties – save two men who had fallen in the water and were now frostbitten. They would be CASEVAC back to a hospital in Sylva, and would most likely survive. Meanwhile, the Rangers made the ten mile hike from the west bank of the Seine to the A53 motorway, which they would establish chokepoints and lay ambushes. Much had been learned by the Sylvans of the effectiveness of small teams of experienced guerrilla fighters, ironically enough, from the Wankans when they invaded the Sellenland. Now, the Sylvans would be doing the same thing to any Wankan Army troops going north or south on the A53.
The Rangers divided into groups of ten for every two miles. Five Rangers would cover one side and five the other, for every two miles of highway. The heaviest weapons they had brought with them were 12.7 mm light machine guns, .50 caliber anti-material rifles, and Javelin missile launchers. Unfortunately for the Sylvans one of the boats carrying their extra Javelin missiles was lost in the crossing – leaving each launcher only the single missile it was loaded with. However the LMG ammo and the .50 cals had survived – and for each group of five Rangers there were one of each – one LMG, one anti-material-rifle, and one Javelin – with the last two Rangers using 5.56 mm designated marksmanship rifles, or the RBL (Rifle de Battala Luz), the Sylvan standard-issue.
The Rangers' command post was set up in one of many abandoned shacks, this particular one an old miner's station hidden between the trees. Here they had set up the battalion's communications equipment and the drone uplink, which would provide the Rangers with vital intelligence as long as it was allowed to stay in the air.
Knowing that the Wankers would probably attempt to shoot it down once discovered, as they had done in the Sellenland, the Air Force had provided two more ARV-5s to take its place and a single ARV-4 Reaper drone, which was armed with Hellfire missiles. However these three drones were located some seventy miles east – so it would take time before they could come to replace the drone currently airborne.
The grand strategy was rather simple – the Fourth Infantry Division was split between two groups. One group, in the north, were two mechanized brigades (The Thirty-Second and Thirty-Sixth), one combat aviation brigade (The Twenty-First) and an auxiliary armored cavalry regiment (The Twenty-Ninth), and in the south were two other mechanized brigades (The Forty-Fifth and Forty-Eighth). Major General Clarke's strategy was for the Rangers to be the anvil and the two southern brigades to be the hammer. They would smash the Wankan division based in Bad Eisenach, and when it retreated northwards, it would be cut down by the Rangers on the A53. At the same time the bulk of the Fourth Infantry Division in the north would march on Wallis, hopefully defeating the two Wankan divisions based there. If the Wankans retreated southwards from Wallis, they too would be cut down by the Rangers. It was obvious to Command that a battalion of Rangers could not straight-up defeat a division of Wankan soldiers – so the First Recon would act more of a grinder, slowing progress and inflicting casualties on the Wankans that retreated either north or south on the A53.
It all looked well and good on paper, but Palmer and her Rangers couldn't help but wonder if it would work that well in practice, when the division resumed its offensive on 18 March.
SL Western Forces General Headquarters
Corbinsburg, Commonwealth of Sylva
1200 hours | 14 March 2016
"Fuck this shit!" General Sebastian Reyes yelled, and his aid flinched as an empty bottle of whiskey crashed against the wall with the sound of breaking glass. "Slowed down by civilian traffic…" Reyes cursed under his breath. He slammed his fist against the table in frustration.
In his other hand he held a telegram from Sylvan High Command telling him that the First Cavalry Division, which was moving from Camp McCarren south of Portsmouth all the way across the Commonwealth, would be delayed twelve hours. They were currently held up in Soldado Del Sol, where the computers controlling the train yards outside the city had crashed. They were back online now – but the delay caused had forced the First Cavalry and its vehicles to sit idly on the train as the yard emptied. They had the absolute priority…but even so, the delay had cost the First Cav nearly twenty four hours, bringing the total time before deployment to four days. That was four days that the Wankans could continue pushing Reyes' forces back. Four days of retreat. Four more days of defeat.
But once the First Calvary Division arrived in Saxony, Reyes would have enough forces to launch a counterattack. And if that was successful, that counterattack could become an entire counteroffensive, and switch the tides of the war. At least, in theory.
"Sir, Major General Lyons is on line three," an aid said. General Lyons had taken over for General Montoya, who had been killed in a head-on collision with an armored vehicle hours before. Talk about bad luck – to be killed in a car wreck during a war, and when his country needed him most.
Reyes picked up the phone. "Reyes here," he said gruffly. "What's the situation?"
"General, after the Twelfth Infantry was slaughtered, morale along the central front has turned from bad to worse. Numerous Saxon forces have also been inspired by the infantry regiments in the west that have defied the general retreat order, and have deserted to join the partisan units. The good news is that the Thirteenth Armored Division is now in position along the Spur and El Camino Real. I'm moving the Seventeenth Brigade towards Hill 869, to support the Seventh Airborne Division. The Wankans are hitting us hard along the Central Front…if they break through, well, I'm not sure what we're going to do."
"We must hold Hill 869. My plan is to launch a counterattack along the Weser to trap the Wankan First Army between the First Cavalry Division and our defensive lines around Chemnitz. But we can't launch that offensive if Hill 869 falls. I need four days, Daniel. Hold the line for four days!"
"Understood, sir. Lyons out."
Brahms-Hertz Kaserne
Northern Sector, Saxony
1500 hours | 14 March 2016
"Dear God..." Militia Corporal R. D. Thompson peered over his foxhole and watched as Wankan troops, tanks, and vehicles moved across the countryside unopposed. Aircraft had already begun screaming overhead and the Wankan Army would shortly be upon them; militiamen of the National Partisan Organization, a volunteers organization independent of the military that employed those too young, too old, or otherwise not part of the reserves, were now the first line of defense. "Here they come" he murmured. The regular army had retreated without so much as firing a shot, under the command of General Reyes; the NPO, however, would not adhere to the command of the Sylvan General. They had taken over operation of the base, determined to hold the line.
"There's thousands of them!" a young private, Henderson, in his section, sixteen and a half, gasped, holding tightly to his rifle. "And with tanks...resistance will surely be futile!"
"Hold your fire until they're inside the killzone." the Corporal stated to his section, "Our rockets will deal with their tanks, don't you worry about that." The Wankans advanced closer, moving down roads and through foliage like an ever advancing wave, with the military base's NPO Battalion having more than an appropriate view. The base was the last line of defense between the Wankans and the Army at Chemnitz; and 50 yards ahead of it, a stream with a strong bridge ran; the primary road entrance into the base crossed over this stream and within direct gunfire range of their position. The land was not flat but hardly hilly; some small hillocks, patches of trees, and a few houses here and there.
"They're getting closer..."
A moment later, a whoosh of a rocket, and then another; two ATGMs streaming from above the heads of the NPO militia and heading down into the command vehicles of the Wankan advance, distinguishable from their whip antennae and other features. Gunfire exchange was immediate and vast. The chatter of machine guns and the roar of tank guns from the Wankan Tenth Fusileer Division ended the waiting. The tanks, arrayed in enfilade, were easy pickings for the determined NPO anti-tank crews. Already the first column was ablaze with smoke from the ATGM fire, but the tables were turning. A formation of Wankan tanks had broken out and was advancing near the bridge, which promptly exploded when the first tank crossed it. And then, the infantry arrived.
Hundreds upon hundreds of small green figures, hitting the floor along the stream bank and engaging with machine gun and rifle the Wankan partisans on the hill while they waited for their bridging vehicles, some of which were laying burnt out in the road. Mortars and light self-propelled guns pounded the Saxon positions. Thompson tucked his RBL into his shoulder and squeezed off a few rounds, the rest of the section and indeed the Battalion following his lead. "Oh my God!" Henderson screamed, dropping his rifle as a plume of smoke rose up behind the dug-in section who were lying prone and firing over a man-made defilade. "Get me the fuck out of here!" he jumped up and another section member jumped on top of him, pinning him to the ground. "This is fucking crazy! Get the fuck off me! Get me out of here!"
"Do you want to be killed, son!?" Thompson screamed as the NPO militiamen began to falter, taking fire which was increasing in both volume and accuracy, as the Wankans found their mark. The 200 yards between the invaders and the Saxon positions was a blizzard of lead. In response, Henderson only wept and screamed more as one of their section was hit in the head by a Wankan round, falling backwards with a worried yet determined look still on his face, now complemented with a neat red dot just below the hairline. "Forget it, let him run and die if he wants." Thompson ordered to the surprised militiaman restraining Henderson, who took a moment to comprehend the order, but then let him and go and returned to his post. The boy scrambled up the hill and was met with a stream of Wanker bullets tearing into the grass. He launched himself back down into the defilade and sat shivering and sweating in the middle of the battlefront. Slowly and perhaps involuntarily, he curled up and hugged the ground, shaking and staring at nothing in particular.
Within twenty minutes the battalion of NPO volunteers had been overwhelmed. Those who had not been been killed or fled were taken prisoner; and by 15:30 hours the last bastion of defense before Chemnitz had fallen into Wankan hands.
Third Army | Western Sector
~20 km to Zwickau | Saxony
Day 4 | 1600 hours | March 14th, 2016
The heavy thumping of the rotor blades was soon drowned out as the large UH-99s neared the battlefield. Down below, Hauptmann Zweistein could recognize Wankan armor, surging forward into the city. The defensive lines on the outskirts of Zwickau had been quickly broken by massed artillery and strikes coupled with an assault on all fronts, with Wankan panzer spearheads attacking along four different axes. However, in the city itself, the fighting quickly intensified. Leading armor columns with inadequate infantry support were completely destroyed in cleverly laid ambushes. The first and the last tanks of the column were immobilized first, often from positions of high elevation in the numerous high rise buildings. From there, the stationary tanks proved to be easy pickings. Recovering from the first few failed incursions, the Wankers launched more coordinated assaults, this time with infantry following close behind to protect the armor from anti-tank gunners.
Toward noon, the Saxons found themselves being squashed in a tighter and tighter enclave around the city center. Both sides had suffered heavy casualties, and despite the numerous warnings to the artillery corps and Air Force, much of the city had been bombed to rubble with only few pathways clear for tanks to move through. The Füsiliers now took charge, clearing buildings room by room. When a stronghold could not be taken, platoons of Fallschirmjäger were called in by choppers, as rehearsed. Like now.
The Saxons were positioned well, Zweistein could see. Hunkering down amongst the rubble, they could easily pick off advancing Wankan riflemen. The sewage system was put to good use with near constant harassing fire delivered by hit-and-run squads who appeared from nowhere behind Wankan lines, brought down a few helpless soldiers, and then disappeared. His UH-99 jolted suddenly as an anti-aircraft gun began drawing a bead on the chopper. The pilot said something in rapid-fire German and in front of them, a KH-9 "Krieger" recon chopper responded, veering away from the formation before releasing a load of rockets at the AA gun, which promptly shut up. The Krieger kept closing in with the ground, its minigun suddenly coming alive, sweeping away several pestering machine-gun nests which occasionally sent bullets at the heavily armored transport choppers. The UH-99 pilot thanked the Krieger pilots, and soon the big helicopter descended toward its target: a police training compound temporarily converted into an unsurmountable stronghold. Another Krieger cleared the roof of the main building with its minigun, paving the way for Zweistein's air assault company.
Under heavy small arms fire, the choppers landed on the roof as the Kriegers hovered overhead, miniguns blazing, accompanied by the occasional rocket or missile. The paratroopers wasted no time. Storming out of the chopper, Zweistein, holding his SG-550 ready, lead the way into the building. The rifle was amongst the most advance that the Wankers had developed to date, although it did suffer from reliability issues, unlike the ubiquitos G-74. Still, the best they could offer to what amounted to more or less the largest special forces units on earth. He wondered if the Saxons had heard them arrive. As they approached a door on the top floor, they could hear heavy firing, most likely a machine gun, from the other side. Zweistein kicked open the door. Behind him, a corporal hurled in a cooked grenade, which detonated after the first bounce. As the Fallschirmjäger moved in, they were met with an ugly sight as befits a war zone. One of the gunners was on the floor, still moving; Zweistein put a round into his head without hesitation. The company was too few in number to take prisoners.
Rapidly, the Saxon guns of the police HQ fell silent, to the great relief of the assaulting Füsiliers advancing in from the north. Zweistein, bleeding from a round which strafed his right arm, had just received confirmation that the building was cleared as a loud crashing sound was heard outside. A Krieger had met its nasty end, bringing along another four unlucky Wankan Füsiliers down with them. But with mortar rounds now pounding the newly-captured stronghold, there was little time for mourning. The Füsiliers and Fallschirmjägers braced themselves for the next fights.
Their tactics seemed to be working and it seemed as though the Saxons would surrender before the day ended. But that wouldn't be the case. Rain began hammering down on the ruins of Zwickau, rendering chopper assaults impossible and making air support too difficult and risky. It did, however, seem to have dampened the fighting spirit not only of the Wankers but also the Saxons, and the remaining troops of the 4th and 5th Infantry Regiments (Saxon) surrendered later that day.
Second Armored Regiment (Saxon)
Central Sector, Saxony
1700 hours | 14 March 2016
The entire line erupted in fire. The artillery barrage had ended, and hundreds of yards away, the Wankan advance had resumed. Tanks clashed with tanks. Guns clashed with guns. Overhead, planes danced in the sky and on the ground below, the embattled Saxon defenders gave the best they could. At long ranges, the RBL rifle was absolutely deadly and it would come to represent a grave morale issue to the Wankers. They had been told that their opponents were just farmboys and partisans who couldn't fight and couldn't shoot a damn. That was not the case. Most Sylvans, and indeed, Saxons as well, learned to shoot, and to shoot well, from an early age. Such was their way of life. And now, they were putting it into full effect, picking off Wankans from ranges where their own rifle fire was ineffective.
With more equipment, more troops, and most of all, more preparation, the story could have been different. Without those things, Major General Lyons realized that his troops couldn't hold for as long as he had previously thought. The enemy was coming in hard and fast. Every time they withdrew they returned with fresh and determined troops. Every time Lyons's men gave them a bloody good see-ing to (as his old father used to call it), they'd be back, just like the last time. It was true, the Wankans had reserves. Lyons did not. He could count on a small stream of reinforcements, but it didn't make up the casualties he was taking. At some point they would have to break or face total annihilation. The purpose of his stand was to give time for the men in his rear to mobilize.
The General climbed into his Land Rover and the driver sped off east, towards Hill 869.
His own personal command, the Seventh Airborne Division, was valiantly holding the line there. If one or the other broke, the other would have to. It was a sort of deadly competition to see who could hold out the longer, and both were under intense attack. And for the defenders along the central sector, time was running out.
Hill 869
Central Sector | Saxony
20:00 hours | 16 March 2016
Hill 869 was the key link in the defense of the eastern flank of the central sector. From the viewpoint, many miles could be seen in all directions, and what artillery and air support the League could muster could be brought down upon the enemy. Should they take the hill, the converse would be true, and as such, Major General Lyons' Seventh Airborne Division had been instructed to hold the hill at all costs. At his disposal, Lyons had three brigades of motorized paratroopers and an armored battalion, plus an assortment of support formations from the Thirteenth Armored Division. The trucks and other vehicles that couldn't be used in the defense itself were stationed at the bottom of the hill, running reinforcements and supplies back and forth along the defense line, from as far southwest as the Spur and as far southeast as El Camino Real.
"Oh my God," Lyons coughed. In the distance, there was movement. Orange flashes lit up the night sky as artillery began firing, preparing for another onslaught. Wankans.
And lots of them.
The Noble Quarter
Dresden, Duchy of Saxony
2100 hours | 16 March 2016
The clink of champagne glasses. The smell of cigar smoke. Olivia's father's position in society meant that she was already used to functions such as this, but this was... a little different. There was a certain mood. Olivia sat with her mother in her best dress as lots of men watched in silence as the Duke spoke on the television. Olivia Faraday was the epitome of the rich Saxon childhood. She was being trained not only at school, but also how to entertain guests; how to be feminine and womanly, and how to act properly and in a manner that befitted her status. The war threatened to cut all that short, but she wouldn't know it from the atmosphere in the room. This was jubilation; not just any sort of jubilation, but a vicious, warlike jubilation. The speech ended and the men started cheering and clapping.
"A toast," her father said, "To the Duke, to our patriotic armed forces, and to liberty!"
Everybody joined in. It didn't occur to Olivia yet that they were, by proxy, toasting the deaths of the enemy. She watched as the Duke's face faded away on the television to be replaced with pictures and footage of soldiers and guns that she didn't really recognize.
Suddenly, after the toast finished, a news headline shot up on the screen. "ZWICKAU FALLS."
Silence fell over the crowd. The time for jubilation was over.
SL Western Forces General Headquarters
Corbinsburg, Commonwealth of Sylva
23:00 hours | 16 March 2016
The Wankans were coming in hard and fast. They were coming with everything they had; artillery, tanks, aircraft, waves upon waves of infantry. General Reyes wiped sleep from his eyes and lit another cigarette as he surveyed his tactical map. A thin green line lay along the salient which was being hammered from the air and by massive artillery bombardments. The Wankans weren't trying to find one part of the line they could break through, a schwerpunkt; they were trying to overwhelm it all. It made sense, Reyes thought. They had weight of numbers and on paper should have broken the defenses hours ago. If they correctly estimated that the vast majority of the troop the Saxons and Sylvans could muster were deployed to the front and crushing them all simultaneously was a sound plan.
If one point broke, the others would have to to avoid being encircled. It would cause a general retreat, Reyes had realized. There wasn't much he could do to stop it. All now depended on whether the men in the central sector could hold their ground before reinforcements in the form of the First Cavalry Division mobilized. Luckily, the airspace was still contested, with the state's IADS avoiding destruction due to its high mobility, and the mobile artillery was also doing an admirable job in counter-battery operations. Reyes' job was now to facilitate the proper movement – a good word for retreat - of forces to the front. It was up to his field commanders and the troops to do the fighting.
In the west, Zwickau had fallen – meaning that the Wankans were now steamrolling towards his forces along the Spur, determined too break through and encircle the Sylvans and Saxons defending the central front, which was quickly becoming the central salient as the Wankan First and Third Armies surrounded it like pincers.
"Sir, urgent news from the central sector!"
"What is it?"
"The Wankans, sir. They've thrown in the Fourth and Fifth Panzer Divisions into the attack. Hill 869 is on the verge of falling…Lyons says he can't hold the line any longer!"
"Then we have no choice. Send the orders down to the Twenty-Second Combat Aviation Brigade. We must retake that hill!"
"But sir," the aid protested, "They are our last reserves!"
"Well, I cant think of a better time to use them."
22. Combat Aviation Brigade
Central Sector | Saxony
0100 hours | 17 March 2016
Lights illuminated the field that made up the brigade's headquarters, flashing on and off and from color to color, throwing up long and contorted shadows of the operators running to and fro. Distant shouts were obscured by the whirr of rotor blades. "Good luck boys!" Corporal Keyes looked into the eyes of Brigadier General Maldanado. In the darkness, he thought he could make out a hint of regret. For who, though, was not entirely clear.
"What did he say?" A private shouted over the rotor blades, watching the Brigadier walk off to the next helicopter.
"He said – it's a good day to die!" another private replied, barely audible. Across the field, a helicopter lifted into the air, followed by another, and another, taking off into the sky and taking their place in the busy night. Soon, they too were lifted into the air to join their comrades. Forty Vertibirds and two dozen Little Birds carried a pair of airmobile battalions due north, their destination: Hill 869. They were joined minutes later by a squadron of gunships and moving north, the soldiers on board the helicopters watched column after column of jets stream off into the sky. Neither envied the other. Both their roles were as suicidal as each others.
Shortly, the hill came into view. The Air Force was doing the best it could to distract and suppress the enemies air defenses, but on approach, their best was not enough. A few helicopters dropped out of the sky, their unfortunate occupants falling to the ground, but moments later, the gunships laid down withering fire on Hill 869, rocket pods and cannon tearing to shreds the Wankan troops who had occupied the hill only twenty minutes before. A minute later, and their helicopter had reached the dropzone. The top of Hill 869. In a large semicircle around the dropzone, at least where smoke had not obscured visibility, Keyes could see the operators on the ground deploy from their Little Birds, clashing with the surprise Wankans, clearing the dropzone for them. A flare flew into the air and the helicopter began its quick descent, jolting downwards at an ever higher rate, bullets occasionally bouncing off the metal carapace.
"Go go go!"
Keyes almost threw himself out of the helicopter, relieved to be on terra firma once more. Around him, the battalion did the same, supported from the air and immediately diving for cover or opening fire. This was it. Battle had commenced. They were surrounded on all sides by the Wankans who had less than twenty minutes before earlier driven the Sylvans from this hill. Now, they were going to retake it. From the Sylvan side, tanks and vehicles and infantry were driving up, catching the Wankans in between in a wedge of the Twenty-Second Combat Aviation Brigade and the Seventeenth Armored Brigade, and from the other accessible side, hundreds upon hundreds of Wankan troops were already streaming up. The pilots, those who's aircraft had survived, took off and returned to base, determined to ferry the two other battalions of operators still at base to Hill 869.
Even through his night vision goggles, Keyes could barely see anything. Strobes of light flew by. Keyes slotted a Wankan only for him to get back up – or was it a different one? There were too many to count. And now they were coming harder and faster. The shouts of his comrades, the sound of battle, all went straight past his head. He kept firing. The Sylvan lines were thinning and the operation didn't seem to be going as planned: the relief was taking their time and all the while the Wankans were throwing themselves up the hill to retake their prize. Suddenly there was a deafening explosion and Keyes lost it all.
He opened his eyes after what felt like hours and couldn't feel anything. Lying on the floor, he looked down and noticed his legs were gone. He couldn't feel anything. He couldn't hear anything. He could barely see. A pair of Wankans turned the corner and Keyes reached out for his rifle. He couldn't find it and only one of his arms seemed to be working anyway. He reached for the pistol instead, putting every effort, every strain of his bodily function into it, but could barely move his arm faster. Everything seemed distorted anyway. He couldn't feel anything. Sliding the gun from his chest holster, he gripped the charging handle with his mouth and pulled with all the energy he could. That familiar click was his reward, and the moment they turned to see him, his sidearm was raised. He slammed the trigger down again and again and again, and although he couldn't feel anything, the impact was apparent. He watched as one fell first, the other raising his rifle before a bullet blew apart his upper torso. His two foes fell to the ground and with his vision no longer blocked, Keyes watched as the Sylvan flag was raised to the sky in the distance, a flare exploding behind it. His eyes closed. He wouldn't feel anything anymore.
Sylvan Seventh Airborne Division
Central Sector, Saxony
0300 hours | 17 March 2016
Major General Daniel Lyons fixed his helmet and watched as men around him. Hill 869 had fallen and now it was time to leave. He had engaged with a few brief words with the commander of the Second Armored Regiment (Saxon) and the man was resolved to do his duty. The regimental commanders had all drawn straws as to who was staying behind to hold the Wankan advance while the rest of the formation withdrew. They had come up unlucky. Somebody needed to do it, Lyons supposed, as he watched more men jump on to trucks or tanks, or anything that moved.
"General," his 2IC, a Brigadier General, saluted. "The Land Rover is ready."
"Then we better go," Lyons replied, turning towards the car as the Brigadier eagerly jumped in. "I don't really want to leave," Lyons muttered, getting into the car. They would be leaving behind anything that couldn't quickly be packed up, and luckily not too many vehicles had been damaged. Some formations were already on the road; with orders to execute a fighting retreat back to El Camino Real. There they'd be met with some relief, at least in the form of the Thirteenth Armored Divisions, and could continue the fight.
The division was supposed to be protected in the air. From his command land rover, Lyons couldn't really see anything the sky. It was a strange thing. The skies were black and red and orange; clouds drifting from side to side, changing colors as the background of what they were crossing streamed through them. An incredible amount of munitions had poured over the state in the past four days. The full weight of the Wankan airforce had come down upon the, and, despite the best efforts of the COSAF-AF, had laid waste to the beautiful countryside and those inhabiting it. The funny thing was that the Commonwealth Armed Forces Air Forces were supposed to have complete air dominance – but Wankan partisan attacks on Saxon airbases had been incredibly effective. When the Sylvans could field their aircraft they were successful – but with little to no infrastructure to support them it was a losing battle. The Wankans were targeting everything behind the lines; infrastructure, civilian targets, military bases and depots. With deep-strike aircraft they ravaged the nation from end to end. It was going to be a long road to The Kings' Highway and the defense line set up around it.
Sylvan Seventh Airborne Division
Central Sector, Saxony
0600 hours | 17 March 2016
It wasn't as if they weren't taking losses, Lyons knew. According to General Reyes, they were dropping Wankan planes like flies and swatting their soldiers like ants. But they just kept coming, on land, and air. The intercom buzzed. "All formations be advised: incoming enemy aircraft." Missiles flew and gunfire erupted, but it was all so sudden. There was the shudder of an explosion, and then another and suddenly Lyons was flown into the air and everything went black. He woke up what felt like hours after, but was really moments. There was smoke everywhere. The Land Rover was turned over. Trucks littered the road. The General checked he was alright and picked himself up, looking into the sky as trucks and vehicles went by. There was smoke and flame down the entire road and destroyed vehicles everywhere. A pair of Wankan planes flew over. He took his helmet from his head and threw it on the ground in rage.
Two dozen yards over, by the wreckage of a truck, a young Patriot-at-arms, Marten Freiburg, tried to free his friend from the wreckage. Blood and gore covered the floor and a beam of metal had gone straight through his unfortunate comrade. "Come on Ed," he panted, trying to ignore his friends screams as he tried in vain to lift hot metal. "We're going to get you the fuck out of here, you'll be okay, you'll be okay, huh!"
"I'm fucking dead bro," he spat some blood out through clenched teeth. "I'm fucking finished."
"Don't talk shit, Ed," Marten urged, "We'll get you the fuck out of here."
"I've had my last, Marty," he coughed. "No more, no more, it just hurts too much," he tried to shout for help.
"You are the one talking shit bro! Don't worry, we can get you out!" Marten began to panic.
"No... no," Ed gulped down blood. "Forget it, I am fucked." Ed turned his head as best he could and looked over at the rolling mountains covered in lush trees in the distance. The sun was beginning to rise against the backdrop of the land and cast its orange rays over a multitude of colors. Somewhere over the horizon, his father would shortly be waking up to tend the farm. "Don't you worry, bro, I am exactly where I am supposed to be," he coughed again and thick blood came out and made its mark on the road.
"Listen to me my man, you are not going to die!" Marten said, looking around for help. Everyone seemed to be busy helping others or jumping on to new transports.
"Marten, Marten," Ed said, a small smile cracking across his lips. "For god and country, am I right?" With that, the life had finished draining from him, and Edward Gregors passed into another world. Marten closed the eyes of his best friend and stood up, a consummate rage filling him. He took his friends dogtags and picked up his RBL, looking to flag down a transport. He would have his chance to kill Wankans another day. A truck stopped for him and a hand extended itself from the back.
Without looking, Marten took it and hauled himself onto the back of the truck. "Cheers bro," he muttered.
"Anytime," General Lyons said, with a small but morbid smile.
"Ah, uh-" Marten stuttered. "Thank you, Sir," he saluted. Lyons didn't respond. He just went back to looking out the back of the truck.
The truck took off, and Marten joined him in surveying the damage the airstrike had left behind. Wreckage was strewn for a few hundred yards and bodies lay intermixed with the ruins of light-topped vehicles that didn't have a chance to survive. Some of them were probably still alive, Marten thought, and then his mind shot straight back to his best friend, lying crushed under a truck. His dying words. He gritted his teeth. "Why are we running in our own land, General? Why don't we stand and fight!"
"We're more use to the war effort... alive." He responded bitterly. It wasn't a lie either. They could have stood and fought on the south side of Hill 869. As the last of the wreckage fell into the distance and the morning of the sixth day began to dawn, Lyons wondered how long this war would last.
Sylvan Seventh Airborne Division
Central Sector, Saxony
0750 hours | 17 March 2016
"Uniform Actual, this is One, we are engaging, over." The noise crackled over Lyons' headset in the early morning as his land rover headed west.
"Confirm One, this is Three, we have your six, will be engaging shortly. Over." A voice crackled back.
"Uniform Actual, this is Two. Enemy formation circling due west. Looks like they're trying to hook us. Permission to engage. Are we weapons clear? Over."
"Two this is Actual, do not engage, repeat, do not engage. Hold your fire, let them shoot first. Over."
"Actual, this is Two, repeat, requesting to engage... over!"
"Uniform Actual this is One, we are engaging the enemy to our North. Armor supported by infantry. Over."
"Uniform Actual this is Three, they're coming in on our flank! Over!"
"Two this is Actual! You are weapons free! Engage, over!"
"Three this is Two, weapons are hot and we are engaging. We have your flank. Over."
"Uniform Actual this is One, they're everywhere!" Gunfire and explosions rang out behind this particular radio call. "Permission to withdraw, over!"
"This is Actual to all formations, hold your ground, over!"
"This is the Saxon Second Armored Regiment to any receivers, requesting immediate support at grid location R5A12B7, repeat, urgent assistance required at..." Lyons changed the radio channel. Several formations had volunteered to stay behind and delay the enemy advance, the Second Armored among them. But now, they too had now been overwhelmed.
156th Field Artillery Battalion
Chemnitz, Northern Sector, Saxony
0900 hours | 17 March 2016
The twenty four rocket launchers commanded an excellent view of Chemnitz. From University Hill, which they had commandeered, they could see all the entire city and everything beyond. Colonel Cocks watched through his binoculars as streams of Wankan tanks drove past the burnt out hulls of a handful of Trojan I tanks. He lowered his binoculars and said a silent prayer to the men who had once fought in them. "Captain Morris, are we ready to launch?"
"Yes Sir!" the missiles were aimed at strategic locations behind the main Wankan advance; bridges, various airstrips and so on that could be denied to the enemy. Behind Cocks' back, another soldier whispered something to Morris. "Er, Sir, there's a Lieutenant Partridge to see you." Cocks turned around and acknowledged this, taking the route half way down the hill to where a convoy of trucks were parked. Some men chatted idly, both from the newly arrived formation and Cocks' own, and the Lieutenant stood at the head of his truck.
"Lieutenant Partridge?"
"Colonel, we have new munitions for you."
Cocks looked puzzled. "I have brought some new warheads for you Colonel. VX gas." Around them, men stopped speaking and just watched the pair.
"Well we aren't going to be using them," Cocks replied curtly. "Return your munitions to the depot and your men to the front."
"No!" Partridge shouted. "No, Colonel. In case you didn't notice, it's over!" Partridge walked up to him. "The Wankans are everywhere! They've already taken Hill 869, 'General' Reyes," he spat on the floor, "Has the Sylvans running southeastwards and there are millions of Wankans coming down on us! We can stop them with these weapons! They will be dead in their hundreds, if not thousands! They'll be sure to negotiate a settlement when they know we aren't too scared to use chems." Partridge cried with aplomb, as many men, some of his own and some of Cock's murmured in agreement. Cocks could hear Captain Morris drawing and cocking his pistol.
"Do you honestly think that? That they'll just give up if we fire a few chems? Do you want to see your country covered in gas? The fields we sew polluted? Entire villages rendered uninhabitable?"
"If you don't want to help us, I am going to relieve you of your command. Sergeant Thompson, disarm the Colonel please."
"Don't you take another fuckin' step, cunt!" Morris shouted, pointing his sidearm at the Sergeant, who stopped in his tracks. In a flash, Cocks' fist connected with Partridge's stomach and he drew his M1911 and pointed it towards his head.
"Have you gone fucking psycho son!" Cocks screamed, flicking the safety off. "Now get your men the hell out of here. I never want to see your sorry face again." Cocks and the few men he had brought down watched as Partridge left, muttering about cowards and quislings. As his convoy was about to take off, he shouted "I'll be back Colonel!" and made a motion of cutting his throat with this finger.
Cocks holstered his sidearm. "Captain, put a pair of fifty cals watching the road. Tell them to start shooting if he comes back. And... thanks for your help."
Sylvan Seventh Airborne Division
30 km N of El Camino Real, Saxony
10:00 hours | 17 March 2016
"Oh my God."
General Lyons removed his helmet.
"How on Earth..." his second in command muttered. Lyons and his aid stood on a large hillock, where his aid was showing him live feed from an RQ-5 Eagle Eye drone flying high above the fighting. There were thousands of them, the Wankans. At least two divisions, with tanks and vehicles and infantry. And they had the remnants of Seventh Airborne almost completely encircled, save a small pocket which would quickly be fixed.
"We have our orders..." his 2IC shrugged. "What can we do? This is war, isn't it?"
"No, Brigadier General. No." Lyons flagged down the truck next to him and slowly the remnants of his force came to a halt. Meanwhile the radio man in the land rover began relaying orders for the Seventh Airborne Division to come to a halt. "I am sick and tired of running. Of leaving people behind. Of heading south with our tails behind our backs while the invaders ravage this country. Of being bombed and shelled and chased out of Saxony! Damn the orders! Damn high command! This is it. We stand and fight. No more retreat. Tell the men to dig in and prepare for combat."
"But sir, our orders-" the Brigadier General protested.
"Are you a patriot or a coward?"
"Sir!" the Brigadier saluted. "A patriot, sir!"
Sylvan Seventh Airborne Division
25 km N of El Camino Real, Saxony
11:00 hours | 17 March 2016
It was still dark when the last Wankan assault faded away. Casualties were counted, magazines were reloaded, and short naps were taken. Lyons sent out another telegram; another demoralizing admission of defeat. They were being hit hard and there was no way around it. A few kilometers behind his lines, 259. Maintenance Battalion and 995. Supply Regiment, part of the division's attached Field Logistics Brigade held their vehicles in reserve. Their trucks and other vehicles were pointless now, Lyons realized, and he could use the manpower. Summoning Colonel Kelsey to his command quarters, the Colonel arrived shortly, looking only too happy that proper orders were about to be given to him.
"General," he saluted smartly.
"Colonel. We have now been completely surrounded by the enemy – move anyone that can fire a rifle to the frontline. I don't care if he is a cook and hasn't held anything but a spatula in his life, do you understand? I need you to take your men and attempt to force a breakout along our southern flank."
"Yes sir." Kelsey left the room Lyons sat down on a chair. It was getting to him; he had barely slept or eaten in days. He lay back and closed his eyes. Maybe, just maybe, he could get some proper rest, and some proper food. He bolted upright in the chair. No. He wouldn't let the men under his command down. He wouldn't let his country down. He let out a sigh. This was it. For God, Country, and Freedom. Yes. God, Country, and Freedom. Lyons let the words ring out through his head. Previously, they had been just that; words, with attached meaning, for sure, but words nonetheless. Words that might come from the pulpit of a politician or preacher. Now they were very, very, real, and he concluded as the sound of artillery fire began, getting more and more real by the minute.
Sylvan Seventh Airborne Division
25 km N of El Camino Real, Saxony
11:30 hours | 17 March 2016
General Lyons' command bunker shook again. The enemy were recommencing their artillery bombardment, a surefire sign that they were preparing to attack again. The bunker was alive with the sound of radio communications and none of them were particularly pleasing. A young radio operator tapped Lyons on the shoulder. "General, its SACCAS on the line for you." Lyons lifted the receiver.
"This is Reyes. We need your men back here General, we need every man to defend the El Camino Real."
"With all due respect General, I can't possibly withdraw. The Wankans have us surrounded!."
"You must fall back! Withdraw your force back to the highway! That's an order!"
"You're breaking up – repeat!"
"Retreat!"
"Repeat please!"
"General, get your men back to the El Camino Real, do you hear me?"
"Repeat please!"
"General, if you are disobeying a direct-"
"You are breaking up, I can't hear you-" Major General Daniel Lyons hung up the receiver. "Get me Colonel Kelsey." The radio operator worked his magic and Lyons picked up the receiver again. "Colonel! This is Divisional Headquarters. We have sustained seventy-five percent casualties. Ammunition and other supplies are critical. Enemy artillery fire is intensifying and they refuse to withdraw. Get your men to the front, and force a breakout!"
"Sir, we are on our way! Kelsey out."
Lyons stood up and looked around. The room was full of radio operators diligently doing their duty. The Major General had already decided that he was staying put. Nothing would move the Seventh Division from their positions thirty kilometers north of the highway. He was an old man already. The same was not true of his troops. The men in this room; on the frontline, manning the few tanks and guns remaining, were all young. Some of them were still boys. What he was asking them to do was a great sacrifice... but it was their duty. And they would be remembered for all time.
"General! General!" one of these young soldiers had just entered the bunker, his uniform muddy and bloody and his face showing signs of weariness. "FO posts have spotted more Wankan troops, three or four brigade strength, AFVs and infantry."
Lyons slid a new magazine into his M1911 and cocked it.
Sylvan Seventh Airborne Division
25 km N of El Camino Real, Saxony
12:00 hours | 17 March 2016
Lyons' men were running thin. The two divisions and four auxiliary regiments he'd started the war with were now probably no larger than a brigade. There were no tanks left. Most of the special weapons from the attached regiments were now nonoperational or had ran out of munitions. The trenches, foxholes, natural cover positions and bunkers were the last Seventh Airborne would ever build. Surely, he thought, as he looked out of the bunker's observation slit down onto the field below, they couldn't take many more attacks...
"Sir, FO's report... another attack incoming. Several division strength. They want to take us for good it seems, General." one of Lyons' subordinates said. "General... we're done for now, aren't we?"
"You've done your duty soldier." Lyons put his hand on the quaking boy's shoulder. "Men! Destroy this equipment and all classified information and report to your positions at the front. This is it. There's no retreat from here. We stand and fight... like Sylvans, like free men. I'll see you on the other side." Before he himself left, Lyons ordered a line open to Corbinsburg and Western Forces General Headquarters. Moments later, a familiar voice came over the radio.
"What the hell do you call this Daniel?"
"Reyes, it's over. The enemy is bearing down on us. I'm afraid this is going to be Seventh Airborne's last battle." There was no reply on the other side. "Sebastian, it's – it's been an honor to serve with you. You've been the best friend a man could ever ask for, and I know that Nicole thinks the same. If you get out of this alive, please... look after her. Don't let them win, Sebastian... just don't." Lyons hung up the receiver. This was it. Time for battle. He left the bunker, donning his helmet and tying the straps, while the men behind him prepared to destroy the radios, the codebooks, and all the things that they didn't want the Wankans getting a hold of.
Walking down the trench that led down the hill, Lyons was interrupted by a friendly voice. "General Lyons, sir!"
"Colonel Kelsey?"
"I've brought the battalion back, Sir. We were…unable to force a breakout. I'm sorry sir.."
In the distance, the low thunder of artillery fire began, throwing up plumes of smoke a few hundred meters ahead of them. "It is quite alright, Colonel. No more running. No, we are standing and fighting. This is it, Colonel. The last stand of Lyons' Legion."
Kelsey gulped. "Sir... I..."
"You don't need to explain, Colonel. We're all afraid here."
"I... I don't want to die."
Lyons said with empathy. You would have to be a madman to want to stay around here.
"I didn't say I was a coward, General." Kelsey said sternly, sensing the look on his CO's face and unslinging his RBL carbine. "What are our orders?"
Reyes smiled. "Take your men and relieve the men on that hill. They'll be glad of the relief."
"Yes Sir!"
"I'll see you on the other side, Colonel." The two exchanged salutes, and Lyons continued on his way down the trench. The next hour passed in a blur, but when the smoke had cleared, Lyons knew the game was up. He holstered his pistol and gave the order to surrender. Slowly, the men began to depart their trenches, piling their rifles up as Wankans came around to check them of weapons and herd them into groups. Taken in by a senior Wankan field officer who Lyons took an immediate dislike to, he waited around for fifteen minutes before a field car pulled up. A Wankan orderly opened the door, and out stepped three particularly well dressed men; their uniforms looking never sharper. It was as if they had even cleaned the mud from their boots before presenting themselves to their troops.
In contrast, they could barely recognize Lyons as a member of the general staff of any country, let alone Sylva. He was wearing a combat helmet like any other soldier might, and fatigues similar to them too; splattered with mud and blood and torn in some places, with webbing that could barely distinguish him from a private. Only his epaulettes and a sign on his helmet marked him out, but apart from that, he looked as if he had been in the thick of it; which he had. He hadn't even showered for a week. Meanwhile, one of the Wankan generals had received a manicure while his men were throwing themselves against the League's guns in the thousands.
"Where is General Lyons?" the man with the most impressive medals demanded in clipped English. Daniel offered his Colt .45 by the barrel and the man curiously took it. "You are Major General Lyons?" he said, looking to the other two generals and the Field Officer who barked something in German. "Oh my!" the General sniggered, exchanging amused glances with his subordinates. "We must get some field photographers!"
"You would have to hide your dead first." Lyons replied solemnly.
Not to be set back by this minor slight, the Wankan snorted. "So, General Lyons, how many men do you surrender to us today? Five thousand? Fifteen thousand?" A subordinate guffawed something in German and they all laughed.
"Less than twelve hundred." Lyons shrugged.
"You are lying." the Wankan General spluttered in shock. "Take this dog to a field photographer. For you, Danny-boy... the war is over."
"And for you, it's just begun, General!"