Chapter 2: The March to Uncertainty
The first night I spent underneath an alien sky was also the first time I truly understood the difference between our lifetimes, between our.., my generation and theirs, between the old and the young blood.
In my time, there was no hope for one to see the starry night sky, especially past the fume clouds that all but blotted the roof of the world. Even on days where it didn't rain, there was simply no chance of us ever seeing a full constellation either as the lights of sleepless cities blinded us from ever seeing that which watched over us in absence of the Sun. It was in that giant sea above that I really began to understand how people often find aspiration for their ambitions.
So, as I sat on that conveniently smooth rock, watching over the great satellite of Earth, and her accompanying white marbles, I understood clarity for the first time. Lost as I always was in my own musings and dark thoughts, all of it was washed away in the ocean of sparkles that we call a starry night.
Simply put, I began to wonder what I wanted to do. In that moment, a small spark of warmth appeared in the depths of hollow.
It all began with a firepit, three men and their newest impromptu charge, with marshmallows of all things being roasted on sticks in our hands.
The convoy had made clear its intention not to stop until past nightfall by which we'd somehow miraculously made it into a sea of trees. From the moment I entered, there was just something different about the environment that made apart of me feel very anxious; and particularly curious. I praise the Heavens that nature wasn't utterly removed as of yet from when and where I'm from. Man had its intentions to expand made clear, but the powers that be, and the ancient nature of the woods seemed to be a formidable foe all the same.
Yet, if the memories within my mind still hold true, then it will not be long before the greatest of the wooden seas are going to be decimated by a monstrosity of steel.
A senseless worry, I told myself. Of that, I was absolutely certain, as there were more pressing matters to attend to.
Like roasting this marshmallow for instance!
The truck, and by extension the convoy, had chosen to stop by the roadside and behind the veritable wall of trees that flanked the paths. It should be immediately noted that it was now much smaller than the massive logistics train that must've looked like a trail of ants from the sky. My hunch was confirmed when I eavesdropped a conversation amongst the GI's that apparently the officers thought it'd be best for the companies to split up and travel along parallel paths leading to the same destination. This matched what happened earlier when the convoy had abruptly stopped and, for a brief moment, there was some serious manoeuvres being used so that a number of vehicles could be shuffled out of the column and continue moving down a separate path.
From where I tried to peak out the back of the truck, the other vehicles were lost from sight within mere moments. This was again repeated a few hours later when there was yet another fork in the road. Some part of me wondered what could be going through the minds of Captain Mckay and his peers but I decided against voicing my thoughts. Afterall, it's not like I could actually contribute much to the cause without looking self-entitled.
So, it was for that reason that I found myself here, with a bunch of self-proclaimed 'bums' and a warm campfire to huddle ourselves next to. One of the men had somehow produced a bag of marshmallows from a duffel bag and had shared it with the rest including me. It had dissolved into a quiet affair then after, as we contemplated in silence.
"So where do you come from, kid?" a voice broke the silence. It took me longer than I liked to notice that it had been me that he was referring to.
"… Asia, really. I'm from the Southeast," I answered after a moment of silence, earning a shrug from the man.
"Huh, figures there was something about you that didn't feel right, and Duck here thought you were some weird ass Hispanic,"
"Hey, who are you calling out on? I'm not the one who keeps looking through every crate for a goddamn undie like it matters to all the world,"
"First off, what's that got to do with him? Second, stay out of my business, Duck! For the last time, that was handmade- and tailored too! If it weren't for the fact that I keep feeling like I'm getting a wedgie every time I put on the regs, I'd not give a shit."
"You boys dun' yet or do I get to ta' 'vust out the spanker on yer assess."
Whatever quarrel the two men had died then and there when the fourth member of the group spoke. Truthfully, I don't think the man had spoken a word since I met them. Now that he did, however, my focus was fully centred around appraising him.
He was definitely the oldest soldier I'd seen. The man must've been in his forties, but his eyes held a fire in them that didn't look like it was going out anytime soon. The way he looked at me reminded me of how the captain had scrutinized me, yet it felt even worse, or better yet more so than the officer did.
Sooner did he spoke, that he turned back his attention to his sweet. The marshmallow had long been burnt to an edible state and was even BURNING on one side. He wasn't even fazed by this fact as he pulled it away from the flames and towards him, followed by pulling it out from the stick with his bare hands and extinguishing the flame in one fell swoop. As if that wasn't enough to intimidate, he ate the thing in sequence and I swear I could hear the crunching sounds from what had to been food burnt to a crisp.
After a few bites, there was an audible gulp as he swallowed the marshmallow. By this point, everyone was looking at him as if he was a performer and had done his golden trick. His face scrunched up into a grimace at the probably unwanted attention and we all wisely chose to turn back to our own sweets,
….Which were also burnt mind you.
'Not great, not terrible,'I thought to myself.
There was a period of silence washing over us as we took our time to consider our options. The night was still young and the earlier fritz had died down as the soldiers realized there was no danger to be had for the moment. It was for this reason that I chose to bring a rather important issue I'd neglected on the ride here.
"So," I began. "I- I don't think we've been introduced properly. Like, I gave you guys my name, but I didn't get yours."
There was a pause in my speech as I tried to gather my thoughts into a comprehendible pile to be put to use. But before I could breathe a word, the old man who had introduced himself as Mike beat me to it. He shrugged and pointed to a guy next to me whom wore the standard Army battledress of his time- an olive drab jacket with matching legwear and brown boots. He wore a German field cap. His frontmost incisors were visibly larger than the rest of his teeth, which would explain why he had this odd voice.
"Goof," Mike said, and then pointed to the next man sitting on my right.
This soldier also wore a field jacket albeit I recognized it was an older version of the Army's field jacket hence it was a light shade of brown with a yellowish tinge and only covered up to the waistline. This went the same for the pants and only their boots were of matching type. Finally, there was a network of pouches and belts strapped to him that I wondered just how he managed to keep track of all the tools. His helmet laid beside him, a set of goggles strapped to the top, just above the ridgeline.
"Duck," Mike spoke again. His extended retracted, only to be replaced by his thumb pointing at himself.
'Mike' had somehow managed to go about wearing an Army Men's First World War battle dress, complete with an old Kelly Helm that had rust forming in small patches, particularly around the numerous scratches and indents. I immediately wondered just how he managed to sneak such a set in but decided to leave the question until later. Afterall, everybody back then must've had one reason or another to be a part of the Great Strife.
"Mike." There was a tone of finality in the answers given, and in the end we opted to enjoy the rest of the night until it came to time for everyone to sleep.
But before that, I had just but one more question.
"You guys aren't pissed at me for being here, right?"
It was definitely an eye-opener for what I just said. I can feel that sense of uneasiness return as all three heads turned to look at me like I'd ask what barf tasted like. I mentally cursed myself for asking.
"Now what kind of question is that?" Duck retorted.
"Yeah, kid, what gives?" Mike snapped.
I internally winced and simply told them to forget what I asked. When I'd figured it was okay, I dismissed myself from the group to take a walk around the woods. Mike chastised me for my decision but at the same time told me that if I were to go through with it, then I had to stick as close as possible to the campsite to avoid any unwanted misfortune. I voiced no complain there and nodded in affirmation.
Admittedly, I wasn't much of a nature lover to begin with. Yet, out of all the nights I have ever slept, this particular one just seemed much more special and I just couldn't figure out why. My answer would only come at a different time.
Somewhere else in the camp, Captain McKay was in his tent, pouring over all the details and notes regarding his men's current standing. This included their current theatre of war, military force strength, accurate guesses of his troops against the enemy and other forms of military jargon that he was more than certain to be way above his paygrade.
Already, he could feel the beginnings of a familiar headache forming in his head.
After their sudden combat at the town of Lundel, the town mayor had been more than willing to cooperate with his people's saviours despite being rightfully suspicious as to their origins. It had taken considerable effort to personally convince the man that their intentions were genuine and that they weren't part of some expeditionary force that had their own devious intentions in Gallia. He eventually had to withdraw his suspicions in part because the Americans were offering immediate aid to his needy people.
Eventually, the senior gentleman came around and began helping them in earnest by providing them basic level information of the current state of the realm. It was somewhere around this point that the man somehow went off at a tangent and began listing off the things that they were going to expect when dealing with the Imperials, much to the surprise of the officers present.
The surprise was alleviated, however, upon learning that the elder was a vet of a previous war and had served as a lower echelon officer before retiring. This was solidified by his own fair share of credentials which included an old uniform along with complementary badges and medals; all of which had most definitely seen better days.
It had already been silently agreed upon by the commanding officers that their current cover story was that they were a large group of mercenaries looking to settle a grudge with the Empire. While this most certainly didn't satiate the mayor's suspicions, it did open up at least some level of dialogue with the man regarding other related topics of the war.
Namely, the country's military.
Obviously, the only information they gleamed was what was already well known by the people of this world. Among of which, was Gallia's universal conscription and military training which meant to a certain extent, all Gallians are inactive soldiers that can be mobilized at an astonishing rate given time and forewarning. As a matter of fact, the town mayor openly stated his opinion in that the country's stance on trained citizenry was probably the only thing keeping their enemy from steamrolling them. This would explain, in a morbid fashion, just why their enemies were targeting every single one of the locals.
The earlier decision that day for the companies to split up was born from a calculated risk. War experience told the captains that having such a large army travelling the country was all but asking for unwanted attention and even greater hostility from a country that was barely holding together, as it is. For this reason, it was decided that Able Company- whose forces were a mix of mechanized and armoured units- was going to be the chief representative for their combined forces.
On the topic of mixed units, it would seem that the powers that be had seen reason to give able all the four or so companies additional fighting strength. This consisted of just about the whole arsenal of 1944 from the rifleman's M1 Garand to the 90mm of the Pershing and even the US army men's beloved 105' Howitzers. The only thing missing was air support, and this campaign would've felt no different than a military tour through the French countryside.
All in all, they were operating at regiment strength, albeit they lacked in certain departments which he suspected were meant to be filled by the aid of the local populace of this world. As of now, they were still undecided on what exactly to call such an irregular organization as well as how the command structure should function. Granted, it wasn't anything too serious that can't be dealt with by improvisation and, in the case of the lower ranks, simply following the pecking order.
The captain was soon brought out of his thoughts as the flap of the tent open. He didn't even need to look to know just whom had entered. Afterall, his NCO just about always smelled of cigarettes at this hour if he wasn't asleep. Without nary a glance, he queried the older man.
"Got something on your mind, Conti?"
"Yeah, just what are you doing up this late, that's what."
"What are you, my mother?"
"I wish."
The both of them had snorted simultaneously at how bad the conversation sounded. It became a regular habit of theirs to use awkward dialogue whenever they talked in private -to break away from the stress and tension of the war and try and find the calmness within them to sort through their problems.
Conti made his way closer before placing something on the table. A glance at the object confirmed it to be a cup of joe. The steam that was still visibly emitting from the drink acting as a fair warning of how it was. The senior officer will admit to a bit of surprise, however, as to how his friend managed to get a porcelain mug of all things but dismissed when he was reminded on how they were still travelling with refugees.
As if reading his mind, Conti spoke. "The coffee here ain't too bad. Much better than the stuff Fox Company found in St. Lo, that's for sure. Far too sweet, I'll give ya that."
Taking the man's words into consideration, McKay slowly grabbed the mug and brought it to his lips. A familiar smell, followed by the rush of hot liquid filling his throat as the contents of the mug rejuvenated his senses. His tongue immediately picked up on the sweet taste while his mind remarked how it was as if someone had poured several spoons worth of sugar into the drink.
When he finished, he gave himself a moment to ponder on the sweet taste before agreeing on his Second's appraisal by giving a nod. With his energy restored, the captain didn't waste time on returning to his work. Conti joined him too on the opposite end of the table.
"So, what've we got?"
"Everything you could ever imagine,"
"I'll be dumb and ask just what exactly you mean by that,"
"Other than the fact that whoever sent us here is either too generous, or an absolute moron when it comes to logistics,"
McKay motioned towards a journal to his left. Conti noted it was the company's personal narrative. It was a private journal that the captain started soon after they had finished training. Outside of the official reports, the leather book-which was rather thick, surprisingly- served as a reliable source of intel on the inner workings of the company, or more accurately, the soldiers who gave Able Company its namesake. Unlike the more critical and professional reports that were compiled with only the Captain's words, the journal included additional snippets and memos from every member of the unit, with the Commanding Officer having the final say in what is kept and not, as well as responsibility of compiling and arranging the materials into a sensible format.
After his death outside of St. Lo, it fell onto Conti's job to continue updating the journal. As his hand ran along the spine of the journal, memory after memory came rushing back to the forefront of his mind like running water filling a container. Most of those memories were good ones, but many more were of pain, effort and sacrifice.
Not wanting to dwell for too long, the sergeant immediately opened the book and reviewed the latest entries. They differed from previous entries by being more orderly and systematic in the way their original sources had written and compiled them. To a degree, he even thought he was looking at the official report being sent to command until he noted that some details were missing and in others the wordings was too laidback.
As he read the notes, he couldn't help but let out an audible whistle as he went through the list of armaments their company alone had at their disposal. According to the book, the four infantry platoons of Able were reinforced with 4 Shermans and 3 M10's along with a number of halftracks as transports. This didn't include their access to the 105's, and their rather large engineer corps. All they needed now was a set of wings, and the sergeant would willingly dare himself to call their unit nothing short of champs in any fight.
That didn't cover the various upgrades and modifications they could requisition at their discretion. However, this brought up a pressing issue.
"You sure we can keep this? I'm no expert on the matter but you don't have to be a pencil-pusher to know just how much gas we're guzzling to keep all of this machinery running," he commented.
"I appreciate your point Conti, which is why our next stop is all the more important," the officer then motioned to the large map on the table. It had been procured from the interior of one of the Imperial tanks. Their best guest was that it belonged to the enemy officer in charge of the attack on Lundel. To that end, they were fortunate it wasn't damaged beyond being a bit crispy and burnt around the edges. However, what made the map important was the highlights used to mark progress.
And it was certainly impressive progress at that.
It had already been clear to the US officers that the situation was already beyond daunting if a company's worth of troops could so easily conduct raiding operations uncontested deep within enemy territory and judging by the indicators drawn on the map, they had every right to be as brave as they were.
It was a statement of fact that the Imperials were gaining ground faster than the Gallians could dig in; much to the worry of many of the veterans. If the advance continued as it was, the enemy would soon be at the gates of the capital within a matter of weeks so long as the defenders kept responding this poorly.
All of said information was confirmed by the Gallian mayor who looked ready to faint, much to the worry of his granddaughter. Yet, the man proved once more the kind of warrior he was when he sent them a letter through the aforementioned young lady that detailed the translation of the wordings and along with extra notes about the enemy.
By this point, the officers had agreed they needed to find a way to return the favour to this gentleman, as well as find out just whom on Earth he really was. It was apparent enough he was more than just 'an old war horse.'
"Moving into the area surrounding Randgriz isn't the issue, but what I'm worried about is just where exactly these other advanced forces are. We don't have enough intel aside from that they most definitely are just light mechanized troops due to their speed. We also need to come up with a plan to introduce ourselves to the capital without coming off as suspicious."
"Personally, I'm more interested in punching the teeth in on whoever was responsible for this country's defences. Just how the HELL do you allow someone to walk in this far?! I swear, if this was back home, I'd have loved to see what kind of ass-chewing the moron would receive."
On that, McKay agreed, but for now there were more immediate concerns. Namely, their own advance into the outskirts of the capital which was planned to be led by a recon force consisting of jeeps and halftracks carrying Able's Ranger squads. Their company was already ahead of the main force as of now and had made clear to maintain radio silence. This was an order being carried out to all US forces, as to maintain they're secrecy for as long as possible.
That was a problem for tomorrow when they did reach the so-called capital. For now, they would have to settle for a good night's sleep and nerve-wracking preparation.
This war was just getting started. Soon, the men from the freed world would be expected to carry out their duties once more, on foreign soil away from their homeland.
It was late in the morning when they reached the outskirts of the river town of Vasel; which in of itself was outside of Randgriz. The convoy consisting of anxious armed men and wary refugees stretched easily a kilometre-long with gaps in-between to avoid a sudden congestion. At the head of this convoy, Captain McKay was going over the details with the mayor of Lundel once more regarding what they could expect meeting the leaders of the nation.
"So let me get this straight, Gallia is a principality whose current head of state is one Princess Cordelia, who has the final say in most of the stuff that goes on in the country."
"That's right. While to most outsiders she may just appear as a mere figurehead placed on a pedestal, the fact of the matter is that the country's laws and constitution require that she be in the know and have the final say in just about everything that goes on, still. She knows just about everything that goes on up to a basic level."
"Surely, she couldn't be doing all the work on her own, no? Any aides you aught to mention?"
"Of course, the Prime Minister is one such ally in her court. Admittedly, the princess is in a difficult position you could say, and her ascension to the throne is equivalent to a swan trying to swim through a marshland. I'll admit to an extent to you outsiders that me and a few others are glad that the affairs of the capital don't affect our daily lives."
"That bad, eh?"
"Worse still, considering the loss of the old king's allies. They were about the only ones that could be semi-relied on in the court, and that is because in simplistic terms, the nobles aligned with the ruling house consider the Princess to be far too young and lacking proper skills to rule the court. They may have other agendas as well, but they at least have good reason to avoid making moves given the current state of war in the realm."
"You still have yet to answer just how you know so much about what goes on in the nation, Mister Mayor."
"And that will remain a secret until otherwise, or better yet, I'm six foot under."
The captain scrunched his features in annoyance. The veteran with his wrinkled skin and thinning hair had been asked to ride with the company's officers for the duration of their journey. Some of the more able-bodied men from the town had protested, but the mayor himself insisted that he would be fine, and that everyone needed to cooperate to ensure their own safety until they reached Randgriz.
By first light, they were already on the move. Tires kicking up a cloud of dust on the extensive dirt roads that connected the nation together. Then, there came a peculiar incident that wouldn't be brought to bear until much later.
Sometime after, the citizens able to escape from Lundel had later come back when they learned the Imperials were driven out in order to recover the proper supplies and equipment needed for the exodus. Most important of which, were the old supply trucks used to ferry goods to and from the town. These were kept in a warehouse that was deliberately built into the ground and covered with as much practical camouflage as possible. It was a sensible decision in the eyes of paranoid war veterans and it had paid off.
Now, those same trucks were loaded with families and wounded and doing their utmost best to keep up with what in the eyes of their drivers were beast with endless stamina. It proved to be an annoyance and surprise for the American's when their overall speed had to be slowed because the civilian trucks couldn't keep up. It eventually reached a point where they had to stop under insistence from the Gallians whom complained that their engine radiators were on the brink of giving out from the sheer heat being produced. It took more than an hour for the engines to fully cool down and inspected for damage before continuing on their journey.
It was during this time that many of the soldiers took note of the strange blue glow emitted from the exposed radiator. It became a source of awkward conversation when one of the mechanics questioned the Americans just why they were staring at the engine as if they had never seen one. Thankfully, one of the engineers came up with an excuse that the models they used to were vastly different compared to what they knew of those in Europa. As before, none of the locals seemed convinced at this answer, but wisely chose not to press on.
Since then, the two groups had been eyeing one another for other… peculiarities. Like school students, they were eagerly sizing up the other and trying too hard to look cool much to the chagrin of the leaders. Captain McKay had mostly ignored the suspicious atmosphere in favour of reflecting back all that he currently new of the present situation.
The knowledge that was imparted by the boy – Zeke if McKay remembered correct- was proving to be more than useful in helping the officer plan their next move. Everything they had learned thus far was more correlated towards understanding how the world worked around them rather than what would happen. This included the world's version of oil, or as the locals called it, Ragnite. Initially, those that heard the original explanation from the boy had called nigh heresy at the idea that such a mineral with near universal application was present in such a vast manner. To them, it was impossible for something to be used in industry, medical and commerce all in one. That notion was quickly discarded, however, upon seeing first-hand the locals using blue canisters filled with blue emissions to treat minor injuries and even a few major ones such as large gashes to a limited extent.
Now with actual accounts of its use, there was a growing feeling of discomfort brewing in the captain's head as he realized just how outclassed his men might be. With such a wide array of applications, the effectiveness of the companies as a fighting unit could be hamstrung, especially in later stages of the war when they couldn't afford casualties. Enemy squads thought beaten may just get back up in a very literal sense with the portable medical contraptions for a start, and that didn't include the possibility of Ragnite infused weaponry of which he didn't have to be an egghead to figure out.
Reality rudely shook him out of his thoughts when the halftrack suddenly lurched forward and stopped.
"Hey! What's going on?!" Conti barked.
"Gummy's jeep just stopped. He's waving at us, sir. I think he wants you to see what's up," the driver responded.
The non-commissioned officer swung his head on a swivel to look back McKay, who gave him a nod of confirmation and disembarked. The other GI's within the vehicle quickly followed suit. The first four to leave the vehicle moved to the sides and kneeled to provide overwatch whilst the other three continued following their commander as he, the company Sergeant and the mayor made their way at brisk pace to the front of the convoy.
What awaited them was a terrible sight.
Our senses play a grand part in our lives. Without them, we would be no different than lumps of meat ready to eat. From the smallest cell to the largest organism and extending to various flora, all lifeforms depend on their pre-given feelers to perform their daily activities and in the case of humans, to adapt and thrive in hostile environments.
Humans are no strangers, in this case, when it comes to danger. I'd argue we're probably one of the weakest creatures to walk the Earth, yet we stand taller than any other living thing by the smarts, sheer grit and determination to dominate. Sadly, when there are no threats outwards, a human is inclined to seek trouble from within. Thus, sparks conflict between Man and Man.
The aftermath of a real battle was a sight to see. That moment, when all of one's senses seem to flare long before the first whiff of something burnt and rotten hits the nostrils is something I'd never forget. How could I? A boy born far from the apocalypse of the Middle-East, or the bloated stagnancy of the Western world. Sure, narrowly avoiding having my old country turn into a second modern day Greece is most definitely something to be grateful for, but I guess like the populace of most modern cities, the vox populi is drowned underneath a thick layer of cynicism and apathy.
But that's besides the point. Going back to the original topic, I think I now understand somewhat the second thoughts running through the heads of the men of the Pals Battalion when they stopped seeing greenery aside from the one on their buddies faces. The smell do really be that bad when it does.
Of course, with my current situation, I had no choice but to dive head-first into the pile of filth that awaited me, metaphorically speaking. Not that I actually got out to look around the fields- oh no, I was more than happy to stay where I was within the truck's confines.
Come to think of it, I guess you could say that this was where I began losing my innocence. I knew since Lundel that I was getting neck deep into things I hardly ever understood.
I just never considered how frequent the sight before me at the time was going to be.
The smell was awful.
The first time I had ever smelled blood was when I was five. I was present for a cow slaughter then, for a celebration. While I didn't suffer my dad's problem of getting nauseous at the sight of blood, I'll admit the event left much an impression on me.
In later years, I would first smell charred metal by happenstance. We were burning stuff by the roadside, and somehow a wall mount for a television got thrown into the pile. Mom wasn't really happy we practiced open burning, but she didn't blow a fuse until that incident happened.
My first sight of a bloodied, shredded corpse was from a banner erected at an RR station on the highway. It was part of an awareness campaign, probably, so that people wizened up and reconsider reckless behaviour on the road. The sight of a man impaled on the large steel support for the roadside railings never really left my mind.
Now, I find myself staring at the corpse of a man. His head was missing a large chunk where his right eye and brain used to be along with the scalp surrounding that area. He must've no older than me when he died from whatever killed him.
We gently laid him down by the side of the road. The Gallians -those townspeople still capable of carrying a rifle at least- continued watching us like hawks as me and the other Rear Echelons helped clear a decent path for the convoy to push through.
It all happened so suddenly that I couldn't put it into words. One moment, I'd just worked up the courage to ask the guys what I'd be expected to be doing in my current job, next thing I know there came this awful smell from the outside of the truck. Rotten and charred didn't begin the describe the odour. It felt to me like someone lit a match with dung covering the burning end; if that was even a proper wording!
At least, it was interesting seeing the various different reactions the soldiers had. Mike just sat ramrod straight from where he was closest to the front of the truck and his ears started twitching. Goof brought out a rifle from behind one of the crates and began loading rounds after a brief inspection. Duck, however, took charge and jumped out the back to just see what was going on. No sooner that he did, the truck stopped and we were told to disembark.
That brought us to my- our, current job. Rear Echelon needed to clear a path for the convoy, and we weren't alone out here. The GI's were combing the surrounding area for survivors but weren't having luck, I guess. I think I also saw the captain walking along with an old man as they appraised the aftermath.
Dozens of living men amongst dozens more dead. As we didn't wish to demoralise the townspeople any further, the Gallian trucks were still parked behind the hill and out of sight of the battlefield. Granted, they'll probably still see the site once the convoy starts moving, but at least there won't be-
Slap.Ouch!
"Oi, kid. Quit dreaming and help me move this will ya," Goof snapped.
Shit. Stupid me for spacing out again. I wasted no time in lifting up the legs of the next body while Goof held them from below their armpits. Gently, we set them to the side of the road where the other five lay.
Five whole bodies. Those were the only ones we were able to recover intact thus far. A part of me kept wanting to repeat that it wasn't fair, yet I knew better than to let it fester.
I turned to look at Goof for my next orders, who then told me to look for the others while he scavenged the dead for clues regarding their unit. I found Mike by chance, as he was in the process of using a blowtorch to try and cut open a damaged cupola belonging to a tank that appeared to have its turret pushed out of place somehow by a tank round; it reminded of a head getting dislocated from the shoulders yet still held in place by the flesh alone.
As I approached, the veteran that spoke up over the sparks.
"Nice of you to finally join us, kid- you just stay right there and wait until I need ya, alright?"
Ah, yes, the waiting game. Something that definitely didn't change over the course of two lives for me. When wanting to help, but unsure of what to rely on, a person would just have it that I stand around like an idiot 'till they find something they couldn't reach for. Not that I was complaining, it was always wise to know what someone else could do rather than expect them to solve something on their own.
"Hey, Zeke. While you're at it, get over here and help me, would you? These poor boys aren't getting any warmer out here."
I sucked my lips and moved to help Duck clear out the next pile of corpses. There were about a dozen left, and we were about a third of the way done when the absolute worst odour in all my life assaulted my nose. At the same time, there was a loud thump as something hard hit the ground. I turned to look and found the reason why.
Mike had managed to remove the cupola. However, what made it notable was the wisps of smoke escaping the exposed hole. It didn't take a genius to guess how the interior looked.
The veteran whistled. "Sure smells like a real shithole in there,"
Some of the nearby Gallians gave him a less than pleased look, but between the smell and having to look inside, none made a move much to my own relief. I wouldn't want to think what would happen if they did.
It was well into noon when we finished clearing the road enough that the vehicles could go through unimpeded. The others were showing off what souvenirs they managed to collect in time. I sat there inside the supply truck, simply looking out the back over the large area the battle had taken place at.
What I remembered seeing was bodies of both machines and might laid out across the open fields that flanked the roads. The flags of those that fought were anything but upright. Some had their poles shattered, and others were shredded in every way possible. Then, there were the bodies of the footmen. Poor souls looked to have been caught in one of the worst circumstances possible; they must've been like angry predators caught in-between stampeding elephants, assuming the massive beasts were made of steel and spat fire from their trunks.
Crushed, maimed, riddled, bisected. I could continue listing just about every possible gore and I may still end up finding something new if we had stayed there. In the end, depending on how you looked at it, there was a silent agreement to leave the place quickly.
Ah, well. I guess I should be grateful in that such carnage didn't repeat itself again so soon.
A rather large settlement existed along the Vasel where it named itself after the river it was built around. Formerly, it was an Imperial Fortress that was converted into a Gallian bastion back when they didn't have the infrastructure necessary to house their own military assets. Over the years, as Gallia grew, the place was eventually converted once more into a large, well-fortified town that was the last bulwark against threats from the north.
The inhabitants of the city take great pride in its military heritage. To the point of even so much as gathering the funds needed to build a second, lesser military school for the populace whose apparent patriotic zeal would not be so easily curbed. As part of the highlight in tourist attractions, the city hosts annual parades consisting of its locally mustered troops as part of the graduation.
However, this year, the city's will of fire was to be tested in the ferocity of conflict that was occurring just outside their reinforced walls.
From a large window overlooking the grand square that served as the precinct for the Vasel Town Hall and Military Command, one Lieutenant Colonel Dedrick looked out with an utmost foul gaze to match his equally troubling morning.
The source? Or rather lack thereof, was his missing son along with the large force he'd mustered from the town garrison.
Dedrick's family, born and tried in war, held a prestigious standing in the Gallian military. It was said that no man from his side had ever gone without injury from a fight. A fact of the matter that had been consistent since his great, great grandfather's time. Their house had always been strong and loyal to the crown, and it was for that reason theirs was a family rewarded by being the metaphorical shield that protected the capital.
Now, with war at their doorstep, it fell upon his own son Markus to uphold the family tradition. However, it wasn't a tradition that could be uphold if he was dead.
'By the Valkyur's wrath, couldn't you at least have waited for my orders, boy,' he thought.
His internal musing was cut short when he heard the doors to his office swing open. He turned, and there stood a young aide -the boy looked barely into his twenties- who looked at him rather nervously as if expecting punishment. Some part of him tried to recall if he'd seen this one before, and was put off when he couldn't, much to his chagrin.
Swiftly, he returned to the seat behind his desk, and motioned the aide closer. The youngster didn't waste time on handing him the file he had on hand. With a glance at the cover, the base commander already knew what to expect of the contents.
That being, a portion of the city's garrison personnel as well as their accompanying equipment and attached vehicles that had gone AWOL.
It wasn't a mistake to think that Gallia had long had it coming after the discovery of their large Ragnite deposits made widely known throughout the international community. Many of the war veterans, both in service and not, had called for 'quiet' mobilization and increased security across the borders of the nation when war kicked off once again, but their pleas had gone unheard of for the longest time. Now that the war was barrelling straight towards them, those same nonchalant imbeciles had gone missing, leading to the government to classify them as traitors to the crown; an act that was deemed much too late.
The current situation stemmed from the night before, Dedrick had lost contact with two of his forward listening posts up north. He had already suspected the fates of those men on duty and so did the rest of his command staff, as they had already received news from trusted sources at the front that the Imperials were capitalising on the country's poor response to deploy small, fast elements ahead of the main advance. Their own forces couldn't do much as they try to lick their wounds, and the Militia, he last heard, was still in the process of being hastily brought up to combat ready status.
One thing led to another, and eventually it was his own son, Hector, that volunteered with much enthusiasm to intercept the oncoming force. While indeed brave and noble, the elder man had no intention of fighting the unknown and wanted to wait until they could get more info from the remaining listening posts that were now on alert before taking action.
It was a sound decision in his mind, but sadly his son did not see the same way. Despite there being no argument between them, he earnestly should've seen it coming himself when he unknowingly passed out from three days worth of fatigue and stress, only to wake up to the sound of vehicles leaving the main street. There was nothing he could do at the time, sadly, as the younger generation left unceremoniously before his eyes for bloody conflict.
It had been hours since they left. Since then, there had been no radio communication nor messenger sent. All had feared the worst.
So, imagine his surprise when a second aide barged into the room. This one looked to be in a state of clear distress and dare he say a breakdown. The marathon man took several moments to pant and try to recompose himself, much to his own dismay, under the eyes of his superior.
Yet, the man's lack of etiquette was more than made up for what he said next.
"We have people claiming to be from Lundel at our gates! They bring with them something you must see, sir."
"Explain yourself, soldier," said the commander.
"The people- the refugees, are travelling with a large armed group claiming to be mercenaries. Visual reports rolling in have yet to confirm the exact origins of the group. It's a tense situation out there, milord, you're presence is greatly needed."
And he will answer dutifully.
Making his way through the labyrinth of halls and corridors, going past multiple security checkpoints and finally the cramped space of dedicated war rooms; the high-ranking officer wasted no time in reaching his destination that is the outside of the building. A Gallian speedwagon was already waiting for him at the front of the steps, and he hadn't even fully entered the vehicle when he ordered the driver to move.
The driver immediately kicked the vehicle into gear, and soon enough, the rather tense silence of the precinct was replaced with the intense hustle and bustle of a settlement prepared for war. Dedrick took this opportunity as well to inspect the defences being erected as they passed. Despite it being still unlikely that an advanced force would have anything larger than a tank's mortar for artillery support, it never hurt to prepare ahead of a possible siege.
Soon, they appeared in front of the northern main gates. Most of the defenders guarding this section had gathered and a small group was lined in two neat rows in front where Dedrick's vehicle came to a halt. The commander, in consecutive motion, saluted in gratitude to his driver, stepped out and walked in-between the rows of soldiers whilst giving a returning salute for the men present. The men wasted no time in dispersing to their previous stations once he passed; not that he minded as it was by HIS insistence that no time be wasted, even for a man of his station.
It certainly paid off,he mused as he took a brief moment to inspect the troops.
Vasel prided itself in producing reliable fighting men. A common consensus amongst the upper command staff was to always have a number of Vasellians serving as NCO's in their outfits, as their very presence usually meant improved performance so long as they got their superiors to listen to sensible advice. On the other hand, he was also proud to know from what few reports he could scavenge, that his brothers, sons and daughters on the front were performing wonderfully and giving the Imperials a bloody bruise for every inch of ground they gain.
So imagine his concern when the relatives of those same soldiers were putting on worried looks. Many of them looked to be tense and hyper aware as if expecting the ground to erupt. Not even the few veterans among their ranks looked any better, as their scrunched features would imply.
Clearing his mind from the appraisal, he steadily walked up to one of the doors built into the walls and began ascending the steps. While most would consider such manner of defence obsolete in the face of modern weaponry, the selling points in the walls is that they weren't Gallian made, rather, they were the same walls originally build by the Imperials. Hence, the superstructure had 'redundancies' that prevented the whole from collapsing to nothing too easily.
He reappeared at the top of the battlements some 2 stories above ground. From his current height, he had a clear view of the outside world beyond Vasel, but his current focus was the long line of vehicles parked just outside the walls. People both in civilian and military attires were gathered up front, altogether there about four dozen in total with many more simply standing either to the side of the road or elsewhere.
His eyes travelled further down the line, and immediately his military senses began spiking at what he saw. Armed combat vehicles, foot soldiers and even a few cannons in tow. Worst of all, were the tanks that were discretely being hidden in plain sight by having them placed at the far end of the column. Too far for anyone to immediately notice, but more than easily spotted if one knew what they were looking for.
The hairs on his back stood straight as the weight of the current situation became more and more grave. Any younger officer would be in the midst of a panic at the sight of such an intimidating force, and deep down he regrettably admitted to be far more distressed than he let on. Nonetheless, he like all the others had a job to perform and he will NOT disappoint the nation and her people by acting like an indecisive fool at such pivotal moments.
If the worse comes to pass, a special alarm could be raised and everyone living within the walls would drop everything but their children and scramble towards the nearest shelter. Even with current tactics and armaments, it was expected an attacking force would need at least 10 minutes to set up and start firing. By then, at the very least, the civilians would be clear of the walls, and the defenders would be free to counter fire however they see fit.
As the commander ran through the list of all possible scenarios for assaults, he was suddenly broken out of his thoughts when something impacted his nose. Experience immediately told there was no threat, but now he was annoyed as he realized just what had been thrown at him.
There, on his gloved right hand which he used to wipe his face was a red stain. It wasn't just any stain either, but the kind used back in training for mock wars between infantries and vehicles to an extent.
"Oi, you there! It's you isn't Dedrick?"
…. He'd recognise that old voice anywhere.
Looking down, he saw the vague figure of a man dressed in the old uniform issued to those that served in the Great War. Even from here, Dedrick could easily make out the man's wrinkled face, but it was the cobalt eyes that almost always drew his attention.
"Instructor Adalard, is that you?"
"Who else do you think it is?! Don't tell me the desk job dulled has your eyesight already," the man all but barked out his words. "Get this damn gate open and let us in, we have people in need of care down her."
The soldiers present beside the base commander a slightly stumped by the blatant disregard of their leader's rank and status. However, their queries were quickly put aside by a look from Dedrick who gave clearance for the men on station to open the gates. The tense was alleviated some what with the knowledge that bullet weren't flying for now, but it was quickly replaced by a sense of wariness as the Gallians soldiers realized something amiss.
The first to enter were a steady line of refugees with accompanying transports. The squads standing ready at the gate immediately sent their men to inspect the insides of each truck. When it was confirmed that there were indeed injured in need of treatment within the vehicles, the soldiers were quick to usher the vehicles to a side road off main street so as to make it easier for oncoming emergency services to transfer them from one vehicle to another. The rest of the civilians, in the meantime, were asked to stay where they were until accommodations could be arranged.
The process took around twenty minutes give or take, and the moment it was done and the Gallian vehicles were out of the way, the next group of vehicles rolled in. These immediately drew the attention of the Gallians, many of whom were on alert upon seeing that they were most definitely armed. A commanding officer was quick to order the lead vehicle – a four-wheeler with a visible machinegun mounted at the back- to halt no more than five metres in.
Soldiers from both sides quickly appeared to the front, many amongst the Gallians had looks of confusion over the armed newcomers, while the mystery men on the other hand mostly kept either a stone-faced look or tried appearing as nonchalant as possible. It was clear, however, that both sides were sizing each other up in a discreet manner. Rifles were aimed down but at the ready, and those on the mounts were only one pull away from letting loose a storm of bullets around them.
Fortunately, the intensity of the silence would be alleviated by the appearance of the officers. Gentlemen on both sides, one from the Gallians and two from the foreigners, appeared from their respective crowds along with their respective aides.
Dedrick pushed himself past the throng of soldiers and made his way to the front. There was easily three metres worth of ground in-between both sides and despite how inherently dangerous it was for him to be so close to a potential hazard, he had absolute certainty that the only way to be sure of the other sides trust was to confirm with his own eyes the man he had spoken with back on the walls was real.
He hadn't need to wait long. Adalard appeared at the front with a much younger man in tow. Aside from looking tired and worse for wear, his old instructor looked just the same as he did back when he was a fresh cadet for officer school. That same dauntless aura and steadfast attitude hadn't faded and even looked to be reignited after all these years.
The mayor of Lundel, in his mental appraisal, had a similar outlook when seeing his student after so long. He always knew Dedrick to be the stoic type, with the addition of being slightly introverted and very uncertain when and where to ask questions. As an instructor back then, the old man had been quick to purge the latter two faults from his trainee and then began molding him into a proper officer in the army. The final seal of satisfaction for him was during graduation when officials of Gallia's government deemed him worthy to be assigned as Vasel's defender and on stage no less. Truly, it was the highlight of his military career and he retired soon after that.
The two had not talked much over the years, seeing as how they had much to do in order to accommodate to their new lives. Yet, as it seemed, the bond of master and student never faded so it was with great relief for the others safety did they embrace each other as old friends should.
"I'm glad you're safe, sir." Spoke Dedrick.
"Same as I, boy." Replied Adalard, who then pulled back from the hug and reached into the inside pocket of his coat. There was a brief moment of hesitance, before he pulled out the remains of fabric and metal to show it to the lieutenant colonel.
At first, Dedrick was confused at what he was looking at, but the brief uncertainty was quickly replaced by a sinking feeling of realisation. A metaphorical bullet was lodged in his chest, he could feel, and along with it, the knowledge that his bloodline had gotten shorter by a factor of one.
Adalard made no attempt to hide his guilt over showing the sensitive item so suddenly, but in his mind, it was better this way than to let him wonder just what happened to his eldest, along with the company that had followed him into annihilation.
A brief period of silence ensued, but both men were well aware that now wasn't the time and turned to look at the other man standing behind them. His neutral expression never betrayed that he saw anything past the brief hug. Dedrick was grateful on the matter as he once more slipped into his military persona and approached the man with an absolute sense of no nonsense.
"My apologies, me and Mr. Adalard are in fact old acquaintances. I'm sincere when I say that the people of this nation will be truly grateful for your noble efforts in ensuring the people of Lundel made it here safely."
"The honour is hours, sir. I just wish we could've been there much sooner if we hadn't run into some problems of our own on the road," replied the cordially. Both men shared a brief glance before the commander responded.
"I'll be frank with you. You and your men are an enigma as of now, and the only reason we aren't sharing this moment through more violent means has to do with the fact that you happened to have innocents under your charge. However, now that you've give away your primary leverage, I must demand that you tell us just who exactly you people are and what are you doing in this country?"
Adalard eyed the man carefully for the umpteenth and perhaps last time. He had been doing this sort of appraisal ever since they were rescued in Lundel, and time and time again he had failed to notice anything that would put the American commander under a more suspicious light. By all accounts, either the captain had the most impressive poker he'd ever seen or his intentions for being in Gallia with a considerably powerful force were more genuine than he had allowed himself to believe.
Either way, the final verdict was in Dedrick's hands, as to wether or not to believe what this 'mercenary captain' had to say.
"I understand, sir. I'll begin by introducing myself as Captain John McKay and this is Able Company," he gestured to the men and machine by his side. "We're part of a large mercenary unit that intends to bring the fight to the Empire, starting from Gallia."
"A mercenary unit?" questioned the commander in disbelief.
"I understand if you find our intentions hard to believe especially with how sudden it must be. However, if you may be willing to listen, then as chief representative, I'm here to see if a beneficial alliance could be formed to against a common enemy," continued the captain, his features scrunching as he began placing emphasis on what he said next. "Gallia, from what I understand, isn't in the best position to win this war, and the irony of this is that the same could be said of the organisation I represent if we attempt to keep going at it by ourselves- but if both our forces combine, then perhaps we may stand a chance of sending the Reds to whence they came from."
With that finality, the man held out his hand in a gesture of trust.
"Help us, and we'll do everything in our power to help you."
Silence reigned on the surrounding area, save for the idle rumble of engines and the sound of the medical teams attending to the wounded. What was thought to be hours, but in reality, was mere minutes as Dedrick reviewed all the potential outcomes of this situation. He once more turned to Adalard for guidance but found the man to have naught but a silent apology.
Pursing his lips, he thought back to just earlier when he saw his sons remains. He began thinking how he was going to explain this to his family, his subordinate's family and just how many more he'd end up burying before this war ended.
He then thought about those not even remotely related in any way to the Empire's interest and were still suffering either way; Lundel, Bruhl, Fouzen and so many more places he knew off were all either being seized by dark hands or were in the process of doing so. The fate of those who dwelled in such places were always vague and hopelessly abysmal in their chances.
Looking at the halftracks to the captain's side and the men they carried, he was briefly reminded of the tanks he'd glimpsed back on the walls. He considered then the careful choice of words of the officer…,
"You said that your represented an organisation of sorts. To what extent is your fighting ability, then? Assuming that there are more of you to begin with," Dedrick carefully prodded.
A knowing look was the response he received. The base commander considered his options for a possible unwanted outcome, whatever be the case, but the captain's next words brought it all to a halt.
"I have four companies worth of troops ready for war, armed with the best equipment our benefactors were able to give us in a short amount of time. This includes artillery, tanks, infantry, engineering corps and many more.Accept my deal, and I'll call in for the rest of my battalion to roll in. We can have the men assembled and ready for deployment by dusk tomorrow."
If a bomb of silence could be dropped, then it had long since detonated and left naught in its wake. The lieutenant colonel could only lose himself to his own thoughts as his mind repeated the words that had been said in a most open manner. If not for Adalard subtly pinching his sides and giving him a look of impatience, he may have begun thinking more darker thoughts.
Four companies,his mind repeated for one last time.
He took a deep breath, clearing his mind of everything else, just to focus on this one moment. He weighed the risk of having this unknown factor manipulate the balance of the war, and also considered the very grim possibility of it backfiring.
If all does not go well, then I happily sign my death. Let it then be known, that it was by no hand but mine did the nation of Gallia fall.
On that day, a leap of faith was taken. It would form the base for a partnership built upon uncertainty and loose trust, and perhaps blossom into something more.
A/N: This marks three months since the first chapter and one month shorter than 'wwgaming predicted. HA! Beat that.
I don't think this chapter really met my best expectations but I'm more relieved than anything that I DON'T feel as burnt out as I did in previous stories. The dialogue is iffy and certain scenes were rewritten twice over as I try and find a balance between what I want described as opposed to what is relevant. Oh, well that's the joy of learning I guess.
See you guys around once I get my head out the screen and stop sulking over my CoH multiplayer lose streak lol. *Cries in PE*
Response:
Techpriest5154 Guest: Thanks for the kind words
Wwgaming: No jinxing please
Scholastickynyght: There are more problems for the Americans to face, they'll come into detail as the story progresses.