CHAPTER 3: OVER THE HILL

The year is 1935 EC. Europa continues to spill the blood of its sons and daughters over the precious dwindling resource that is Ragnite.

To the east lies the Autocratic East European Imperial Alliance, better known as the Empire for short. In opposition, to the west is the Atlantic Federation; loosely tied democratic states united solely in defiance to the Empire aggression.

When war broke out, the Empire was quickly pleased with the decisive push their military forces were able to achieve. It was inevitable, really, that they set their sights on the small nation to the north whose primary defence was their stalwart stance of neutrality to foreign affairs, along with an abundance of local manpower thanks to its universal conscription. However, that proved to do little from deterring the continental superpower from crossing the small nation's borders and using brute force to seize much of the northeast territories from them.

The nation of Gallia teeters on the brink, its armed forces fight valiantly alongside the militia to stem the tide of invading troops. Yet, even then, defeat seemed inevitable, and along with it, Gallia's abundance of Ragnite will be added to the vast Imperial war machine.

That is, if it weren't for the intervention of a mysterious ally. One that appeared from seemingly out of nowhere in the west and stopped the Imperial advance dead in its tracks. Theirs is a force armed with technologies far outpacing anything Europa had ever seen- perhaps even the world.

Whoever they were, and where they came from remains a mystery, but what little is known about them describes them as a fierce group of warriors; one that had fought before in a conflict for freedom and liberty. A group of eager volunteers that willingly chose of their own behest to intervene in wars not their own, for the betterment of the world.

This group, was the mercenary force that became to be known as ALLIED STARS.

-Irene Koller; author of 'On The Gallian Front'.

Four days after arrival at Vasel

Captain McKay humbly believed himself to be a man of understanding.

He understood the wariness and suspicion casted by Town Mayor Adalard when they saved him and his people from the Imperial raiders.

He understood the hesitance and clear hostility showed by both Lieutenant Colonel Dedrick and his men respectively when he and his company first arrived at Vasel.

He even understood the bitterness and frustration showed by captured German troops whenever he and his troops succeeded in forcing the Krauts into surrendering.

He appreciated those looks because it would've been the same thing he'd have shown if the tables were turned, and it was his forces that were on the defence.

What he couldn't- wouldn't – accept, however, was the clear bias and prejudice being shown by a man not worth the rank on his uniform. Let alone the sheer hubris that was being suspended by thin air.

Lives would be lost either way when it comes to decision making in war. Regardless of what choice is made, it all boils down to the best option available for survival, in addition to gaining something over your opponents that would put them one step closer to defeat. Good commanders know this and continue to act in the best interest to the men. Ensuring that at the very least, their lives aren't wasted over senseless violence and lack of sound judgement.

The person he was referring to as nothing short of incompetent was one General Damon. The portly man had a laughable figure with his thin legs and round belly that made him to be almost comical in uniform. Not that McKay had any problem with the outfit, considering he'd served in previous theatres alongside Commonwealth forces whereby he'd had personal close up encounters with British officers fighting in service uniforms. At least here, the commanders were somewhat sensible in what they wore into a fight, despite how much of an eyesore they were.

Currently, he was in a meeting with the Gallian commanders to discuss the immediate action to be undertaken with the aggressive Imperial advance. It was decided rather quickly that a proper integration of the American forces as part of the army would have to wait, at least until they were sure that the enemy advance was halted. Accompanying him were the officers of Baker Company, whose forces had arrived after dusk on the same day as Able.

The company's commanders were the infamous Sawyer brothers. The duo earned a name for themselves throughout the Normandy campaign as a relentless unit prior to their demise during the Falaise Pocket. Until then, their company had a reputation of metaphorically throwing hands at anything that approached them. Perhaps, it was indeed befitting that in the end they finally bit off more than they could chew.

The eldest of the two, John Sawyer, was short but well-built and his tankers jacket gave clear indication as to his role in the army. He was a well-known veteran Sherman commander who built his reputation in defeating numerous opposing armoured companies. It was rumoured that it was his M4 that fought Schultz head-on, having ordered the rest of his company to preoccupy the Tiger Ace's supporting elements. He had lasted a good half an hour using a combination of terrain and smoke screens, before instantly perishing from a APCR round that went through the side of his turret. Nonetheless, his actions provided enough time for Able company to arrive with their accompanying Pershing tank support.

On the other hand, Quentin, was the complete stellar opposite of his elder sibling, and sported a tall and lanky built that was noticeable even through his combat fatigues. Despite being the NCO, he didn't serve much in the active combat sense, rather, happily relegated himself in addressing the company's logistics and supply. A difficult role to fulfil, considering just how much resources the company used when out in the field. From the reports McKay read, Able company had assumed that what remained of Baker was wiped out by Schultz when he raided their encampment, so imagine their surprise when Quentin appeared from seemingly out of nowhere and dropped a thermite grenade into the exposed Tiger tank engine. Sadly, the second-in-command was shot the moment after, and his body landed right on top of the primed grenade. The recovery crew opted to bury what little remained of him near the place he died; no one stopped them.

All in all, these two men and their company were a force to be reckoned with. They excelled in aggressive armoured warfare and were more than capable of coming up with solid tactics and split-second decisions to ensure that the enemy didn't emerge unscathed.

However, that only translated when on the battlefield. In the confines of an officer's tent, those traits will quickly put one at odds with their peers; as was currently happening.

"…. And with that, we can safely assume that the Imperials are waiting for us just behind Hill 019. It's position right beside the curve of Road 17 which leads to the capital is a perfect defensive position against any oncoming force. The enemy could also use it as an assembly area and observation post for future operations as well."

Captain Varrot was a…, curious individual to have in the current working climate. While it wasn't exactly uncommon to see partisans, militia and rebel groups having mixed genders and ethics, it was another thing altogether to see a legitimate female officer in a war room giving out an excellent briefing on the current state of the realm.

Personally, McKay was very neutral on the matter. His own spouse had worked at a munitions plant in an effort to indirectly support her husband. Thinking back, he internally smiled at the memory of her wanting to post her own handmade rounds for his Thompson.

Returning his focus back to the briefing, the Gallian Militia commander then indicated to the map on the table which displayed all of their available forces. This included both Able and Baker companies whose forces were represented by star pieces procured from a board game.

Currently, their forces -both American and Gallian- were at odds on how to deal with the threat of an amassing army down the road. The efforts of both the Americans at Lundel and the Gallians near Vasel had left the Imperials stumped as this was the first they were stopped so decisively in their advance outside of the fiercest combat zones throughout the country. However, they had recovered quickly and shifted their rally from the designated one they were initially intended to regroup at. Recon reports suggested that the enemy was around battalion strength.

"I'd say we hit them with as much firepower as we could muster from all sides. We can have infantry flank from the sides and around the hill while our tanks move straight in from the front. Surely, those Imperials won't be a match for our overwhelming superiority this close to the capital," boasted Damon. He had been going on and on about simply getting the problem dealt with so that he could take his men elsewhere.

"And I must insist otherwise, general," replied Varrot. "While our scouts have done splendid in providing us with information on the enemy, we still don't exactly know what their current composition is like on the other side of the hill. The men can't get close enough without coming under infantry fire, and even if we go around the hill, there's easily one and a half kilometres worth of open ground. We won't be able to do much but stare at their backs."

"I agree with the she-trooper on this one. Plus, you're just asking for troops and treads to get shredded by keeping them apart like that," came the gruff voice of John. His not-so-subtle name calling didn't go unnoticed, and McKay could only give an apologetic look to the Militia Captain for his peer's action.

Taking a deep breath, he leaned over the map and started appraising the details presented. He took note how the two sides were arranged. The Gallians and Americans formed a semi-circle while the Imperials were in a box shape. Both sides opted to stay clear of the hill, away from potential long ranged fire.

…But come to think of it, Gallia and their forces didn't need to force an open engagement themselves, did they? Not if they could force the opposition to do it for them.

As the gears in his head began turning, his gaze turned to each individual in the room. He took note of just who needed and where they needed to be, whilst revising the words that would need to be said to get their attention.

Quentin, who had remained quiet the entire meeting immediately noticed the captain's signature thinking pose. He quietly moved to the man and inquired through a raised eyebrow. The captain picked up on this and whispered his proposal for the op. His idea was quickly accepted and passed on to his brother who agreed silently.

With his side in agreement for the plan, that only left to persuade the Gallians to agree to it.

Earlier

It had been three days since the Americans introduced themselves at Vasel. Since then, Battalion has managed to regroup and set up camp in a clearing near the fortified settlement with Dog company being the last to arrive due to the heavy machinery under their charge. In the meantime, Dedrick had gotten in contact with his superiors to inform him of the latest developments and not long after, they received word that a small envoy party would be dispatched to assess the situation. According to their own patrols, there was also a large Gallian force sweeping the area around the American encampment, but their efforts seem more focused on salvaging the remains of the detachment that had left to intercept the oncoming Imperials.

As of now, a majority of the men were playing the waiting game. Afterall, it was only a matter of time before they were called up for action.

In the meantime, they were keeping themselves busy by erecting a proper base of operations for the long haul. Barracks, tank depots, supply yards; the once barren patch of land near Vasel was transformed overnight into an impressive war camp for the Americans to use in housing their army, as well as coordinate their troops for deployment.

It just so happened to coincide with the arrival of the Gallian party, of whom many were amazed at how fast the mercenaries were able to set up and get organized. The envoys and their escort consisting of four armoured transports and embarked infantry couldn't help but marvel at the efficiency surrounding them. Despite lacking in any permanent structures, it did not dissuade the fact that a majority of the soldiers they saw were in shape and performing various duties befitting their station.

Within the car transporting the officials, was one Captain Varrot of the Gallian Armed Citizenry, or simply the Militia for short. She had been recommended for the task by the two Gallian high ranks assigned to evaluate and determine wether or not these so-called mercenaries were being truthful with them and just exactly what their force composition was.

To say she was intimidated was an understatement.

Naturally, no two snowflakes are the same and that can be said the same for armies from two entirely separate climates. Europa's style of war was conceived thanks to breakthroughs in warfare due to tank development as well as the ingenious idea of using Ragnite as a fuel source for modern conventional vehicles. However, there was also obvious hints of the apparent stubbornness amongst the older generations to shift newer, more practical weaponry hence the creation of high-powered lance rockets that shared glaring similarities to a knight's jousting lance. This same sort of backwards mindset also translated to the use of heavy armour employed by Imperial troops despite their effectiveness being somewhat dubious.

The same didn't seem to apply to these so-called Americans. As their convoy made its way slowly through the 'main street' of the camp, she noticed that virtually none of them wore any armour whatsoever, with the exception of steel helmets. At most, she only saw a scare few with combat vests and even those seemed more designed for utilitarian use in carrying more ammunition or ordinance than anything else.

Then, there were the weapons, they happened to pass-by a man carrying what looked to be a sizeable tube on his shoulder. Then, there looked to be a large calibre gun mounted on wheels and a sheet of armour plating at the front being towed via four-wheeler passing them. Finally, she noted two men talking animatedly but what was most peculiar was that one of them had a box-shaped object being carried over his shoulders. If she were not mistaken, she was sure she saw a phone being held in place by a mount on the side of the box.

"Very interesting, these people are. Hm, captain?" spoke a hoarse voice.

The sudden attention broke the captain from her thoughts as she turned to regard her senior. The man bore the ranks of a Colonel in the Gallian Army, yet it was an open secret that the man was in line for a promotion to general but simply refused to do so.

This man was Kurt Ezra. A trusted member of the royal court and one of the most popular men in the army. He'd served in the Gallian Army in numerous SIC positions before being invited to become a military advisor in the court. 'Faithful Ez' was the named christened to him ever since the end of the last war and he had worked hard to ensure that he lived up to it. While not spectacular when performing as battlefield commander, his ability to keep track and relay information of priority was nothing to scoff at even at his current age of fifty-two.

"My apologies, I was lost in my thoughts sir. But to answer your question, yes, these self-proclaimed mercenaries are nothing like I'm used to seeing," she replied curtly.

"Hm, that gun from earlier was definitely something. Wouldn't mind to get me some of those myself back in the old days," the officer commented. He turned to face the other passenger in the car aside from the two of them.

"Anything you wish to say, Dedrick?" Ezra asked.

The commander of the garrison of Vasel had asked to accompany them, seeing as how it was he who suggested to the Americans that they made camp at their current place. The last time Varrot had seen him, the man wore an expressionless face and refused to be brought low by just about anything that was thrown at him; insults, threats and even less-than-moral suggestions didn't sway him one bit.

Now, all she could see was a man with constant fright and his head on a swivel. Not that it diminished his competence and merit as an officer, but it was a drastic change of pace from the man she knew before.

"….Not much sir, with all due respect, anything I say now will only be a repeat of what I've written in my report. I've already sent the first copy to you," he responded curtly.

They soon reached their destination. The main tent and command centre for the force was slightly larger than some of the surrounding tents and what made it stand out was the makeshift war room that currently housed the communications equipment and tables laid out with a single large map on its centre with a truck parked halfway in and serving as a makeshift storeroom. Amongst the numerous personnel present, there were two that stood out among them.

These were of course, Captain McKay and his XO, Sargent Conti. The two had just finished the morning meeting with the other officers that had arrived and set up shop in the base. They were about to leave and continue with the morning inspection when they received word that the Gallian envoy party had arrived.

The Americans were quick to salute in a gesture of respect for the country that was currently hosting them. The Gallian officials returned the salute and were then quickly ushered into the tent to begin the proceedings.

"Greetings, I'm Captain John McKay of the Allied Mercenary Corps. Commander of Able Company and chief representative for the men here at Camp Crusoe," the captain began. His arm extended in a gesture of further good will.

"And I'm Kurt Ezra. The currently acting chief representative for Gallia and her people," as he said this, the officer returned the handshake firmly before continuing.

"I must say, it's impressive how your forces have managed to build this place in such a short amount of time. Either this isn't your first war, or you have the blessing of a Valkyur to be able to quickly construct facilities within such a short time frame," Kurt praised as he looked around the space of the tent they were in.

Some would say that the interior of the tent looked haphazard and an eclectic mess, but experienced soldiers like Kurt would know that the current set up was the closest to tidy whilst easy-to-reach as one can get when serving in a potential combat environment. Almost everything from radio handsets to paper was placed in close proximity for easy reach, and what would've gone unnoticed easily was the small station near the entrance into the tent that would've been where a messenger would be, waiting to relay any and all instructions if necessary.

"I appreciate the praise, sir, but I believe it would be wise if we get straight down to business. Perhaps, there will be a time for flattery at a much later date."

At this notion, the advisor let out a hum that was somewhere between amused and intrigued. He then motioned for the -up till now- silent aide by his side. The man had been seated in the front passenger seat of the Gallian car, and so his presence went mostly unnoticed. Said man then laid a large suitcase on the table which upon opening, revealed a rather interesting sight.

"On behalf of my people, the Sovereign and this land we call home, I come before you, Captain McKay with a humble gift as a sign of good will between our parties. Although you may end up finding greater fortunes in other realms, this gift before you is laced with the hope and pleading of an entire nation in peril. I urge you to consider that which is set before you with utmost consideration," the official ended his brief speech with a strong tone.

The tone left by the man matched the weight of the briefcases contents; a dozen gleaming bars, each shining luminously within the dark confines of the tent thanks to a small light source on the 'roof' of the case.

'Jesus, just how desperate are these people?' was the unspoken question in Conti's head.

It was telling since he'd seen what desperate looked like to a certain extent back in Normandy. Post-Hill 192, Able was redirected to do a sweep of one of the routes to Saint Lo. The route took them past two villages whose occupants had the misfortune of falling victim to less than noble Germans. Some desperate Krauts had come about and looted both clean and even helped themselves to some of the ladies. The sergeant still remembered the relieved looks of the people and how they all but leaped at the chance to applaud their liberators despite the fact that the men couldn't afford to stop unless they encountered resistance.

Snapping back to attention, he noticed his commanding officer standing ramrod straight and unmoving. This was something the SIC immediately corrected with a subtle pinch of his thighs. Almost immediately, McKay gave a quick glance at him and he gestured back to keep his focus on their guests.

Twelve gold bars provided in an introductory meeting wasn't something to be taken lightly for obvious reasons. However, the question was wether the reward for their service could truly be measured in the weight of gold.

They needed to figure this out and come to a reasonable conclusion without upsetting their benefactors.

When you had enough money, you could buy anything, sure. However, such process to turn money into useful materials took time. Time that couldn't be wasted especially when one was at war. For war measures currency not in weight but in time, resources and momentum.

Hence, it didn't take long for McKay to consider a reasonable counteroffer.

Gently, he closed the case whilst looking at his peer in the eye. His mouth forming words before any confusion could set in.

"We appreciate this gift with utmost gratitude," he began. "Although, there is in fact a much better way for you to repay us if you're willing."

This made the representative raise his eyebrow but since he had yet to rebuke, the captain took it as a hint to continue.

"This outfit, if you've noticed, doesn't run on the same principles as both you and the Imperials do. Our way of warfare requires us to be fast and aggressive, utilizing as much ordinance as possible and as many guns that can be brought to bear within short notice. For this to work, what we really need is resources."

The brief explanation served well to make the Gallians understand just what exactly was being asked by the Americans in return for their services. The one called Kurt had a look of indifference on him. On the other hand, the looks on the faces of the aides present, including Dedrick, was a clear indicator that they were less than please with this.

"Of course, as a compromise, we will limit the requisition of resources only to what is needed to achieve our operational goals. Or in the case that a victory is achieved with less than what was necessitated; then we will only ask for replacement of the expended materials," came the quick reply that McKay came up with.

That didn't help to change the mind of the aides, it seemed. However, their leader had a different outlook, much to the surprise of his subordinates.

"Hm, and just what exactly is it that you need?"

"Munitions and Fuel," came the confident answer. "We can provide to you a detailed list for you to review once we come to an agreement. In the meantime, I think you should know something concerning the latter that you are going to find complicated."

McKay beckoned for all of those present to follow him outside and towards the front of the truck that was parked halfway into the command tent. When they arrived, he motioned for Kurt to look at the vehicle.

"…It's- a fine steed you have here," the officer commented.

"And?"

"The colour scheme suits the pattern used by the rest," he replied, beginning to draw ire from Conti who simply stood a distance from the group.

"… Where's the radiator?"

The question was asked by Varrot of all people. It reverberated throughout the rest of the Gallians whom with permission, opened the hood of the vehicle to inspect the insides.

Out of those present, Dedrick was the one to confirm that, indeed, the vehicle didn't use Ragnite. Rather, the engine was fueled by an entirely different source that he guessed was fed from a separate container. It came off as big surprise for people who by now were so used to seeing the wonder resource be applied to nearly all aspects of their daily life and served to generate even more confusion and unease towards these foreigners.

Ezra, seeing this, took quick control of the situation and with an exaggerated cough put his subordinates back into order. He turned to face the captain of Able; any pretense of friendliness and refined behaviour was replaced with a analytic gaze and aloofness to match. A rare sight coming from a person of his character.

If the officer was bothered by this, then he didn't show it. Instead, he returned the glare with one of his own. The stare down lasted a good fifteen seconds. Eventually, Kurt took the first step.

"You people are truly an-interesting bunch," he began. "I hope you don't have any other unwanted surprises to show, hm?"

"Not at all," McKay replied.

God, everything hurts.

That, and I'm such a walking pile of misery.

How the 'ell did I go for three entries into this journal and forget to write the frakking date each time?!

Such a looser.

-scrapped entry, presumably around late March 1935.

It was something of an individual policy for kids in my time to hate themselves. Either for one reason or another, we find something to fuss and whine about our past so much so that its sort of a wonder why we manage to get as far as we do in life.

Granted, it doesn't apply to every individual. Only to angsty kids like me who walk around with a lot of baggage both imaginary and not.

My old life aside, the current reason for my misery stems from the job I'd found myself inducted into.

"Hey, kid! You dun' arranging the stores yet?! Get yer ass out here and help me bring this M2 down," came the shout of one of my torturers.

As I went out, I took a quick glance back inside and figured the room was foolproof from any would-be scolding. The last thing I needed was another hour of yelling of why the wrong ammo box was placed on the wrong shelf. Or another half an hour of being pressed to finish quickly or risk having my meal stolen.

This crap had been happening since we got here, and it hasn't been letting up. I had my own good guess why, and I could definitely cope with it since I dealt with the same stuff back home too. I'll even go so far as to admit that I am not performing to the level needed for the army life….,

But what I CAN'T stand is everything else!

Army life just sucks! The smell, the hygiene, the lack of privacy sometimes(?), how everyone has to comment on you being a shorty and of course the occasional racial colour comment.

I get it. This is the forties -technically thirties, but who cares- and everyone has a beef so long as you sport a darker pigment than them but come ON! I'm sure as shit that a few of them lived to see their sixties so they had to have plenty of time to come to terms with it.

Nuisances aside, there also exist the trouble with me. Mainly, I don't feel like I'm getting anywhere.

Such matters are difficult to explain unless you experience them, but in my previous short life, there were events that transpired that had led me to an epiphany. I realized then that I never really did anything significant for myself or others; we all knew I was the kind to be always aloof and unconcerned for matters unless they really involved me. My life was one where I merely followed the road by the rope that pulled me.

In those cheesy stories I read, the main character somehow always has that sudden flip of a switch in their beings. As if, they who died and the one who was reborn were two separate entities altogether that were only connected by mere memories. Heck, some stories go as far as to have the person monologue how their no longer their old selves anymore.

For me on the other hand, reality was that I'm still the same listless child whose wonder never went far beyond what he wished to see. He- I, never dabbled past what I believed to be confident in doing and believe me when I say that I was more than frustrating for most people to deal with. Not that they would ever say that to my face much to my own anger.

This line of thought continued plaguing me since the army stopped here, and even now whenever I found myself alone and up to my own pace and thinking, the same train of thought wormed its way in.

'What do I do? Should I? Where is my fit in life?

Was I being too obnoxious? Did I overstep my bounds? Maybe I should-

OW!

Blinding pain surged up my foot. There was the feeling that someone had slammed a pole down hard which wasn't too far from the truth.

The M2 Browning I was supposed to be pulling out had come out barrel first a wee bit too fast. The barrel group landed just behind my toe, in-between my big and pointer toes. Even with my boots and the gun missing the mounts, it wasn't fun having around thirty kilograms dropped on you.

"Jesus be damned, kid! Pay attention! Stop dreaming unless you want me to shoot off your toes for you," Mike barked from somewhere behind me.

I cursed under my breath, but at the same time was glad that this little incident happened. Pain worked wonders to give man strength, and for me, personally, it helped to get me focused and alert.

Besides, between the gun and my foot, it was better that the latter broke; bones heal, metal doesn't.

The work continued for the rest of the day until past sunset. Earlier, I was pretty sure I saw a few trucks that must've belonged to the Gallians passing by- took them long enough to organize the welcome wagon, I guess. Since then, there was this energy in the air that I couldn't quite place but I was certain that something big was happening soon at least.

In the meantime, I'll just keep following my own ways and hopefully find a chance to work up the ladder. I really didn't want to be left out from life this time around.

I was so caught up in my web of thoughts that I didn't notice Duck calling out to me until he thumped my head with his knuckles. The awareness to my surroundings returned and I noticed that everyone around the firepit was giving me this weird look that made me shrivel a bit internally. After making a hasty apology, I turned to look at the one responsible for my troubles and quickly got up to chase after him.

The man I was after stopped on the edge of the camp. His features were shadowed but I could still make out his dark eyes. I had a strong feeling I recognise that stare from almost anywhere, but I couldn't exactly use the correct description for it at the time.

Anyhow, I joined him and the two of us simply stared of into the distance, the only thing worth noting out there was the barely discernible silhouettes of the trees from the night sky. It didn't help that there was no moon this time around.

I stole a glance at the man beside me and sure enough, he was trying to find the words to talk with me. The difficulty in said action was pretty apparent So, I let my impulse do the talking and prayed I didn't something overtly wrong.

"If you got something to say, then say. I'm not the kind of guy to beat around the bush,"

The corporal tilted his head, and there was a glint of his eye that something must've clicked in his mind. He pursed his lips, and spoke.

"You sure you're doing alright here, son?" he asked.

I didn't miss the term he used for me. Instead, opting to roll along with it.

"Yeah, gramps. So, what's on your mind, anyways," I gruffly replied.

"Most freshman in the army don't do well when the guys start pushing them around," he started. "Yet, you haven't so much as bat an eye when they try and get on your nerves. It's starting to mess with them more than they with you."

Now it was my turn to have a glint in my eyes. The instant he said that people were getting bothered was when I'd realised that I'd fallen into an old habit of mine when dealing with agitating things.

I'll spare the details, but simply put, my ability to not give a rat's ass on other people has the capacity to come off as…, spooky. Someone once even said that I'd look like one of those intelligence agents that go around pulling people to make them disappear.

Either way, I'll have to fix this the only way I know how.

By talking, and a lot of arguments.

Clicking my tongue, I turned away for a bit to blink hard into the dark before turning to face Duck once more. Carefully, I gave him a once over and appraised every detail on the man before me. I could feel the back of my mind catching up, and the primary thought was…,

"I didn't care,"

I didn't realise that I'd let out my thoughts for him to hear. I could feel the tension spike and I hurriedly had to come up with an explanation.

"W-Well, I-I mean, I'm not the type who cares what people say about me. You know?"

He didn't look the least bit persuaded by my words.

"Look," I began and sighed. "Where I grew up, people badmouthed me for even less reasons than now. In fact, I'm pretty ok that most of the things I hear about are- manageable to say the least. So there isn't any reason for you to worry alright?"

Duck simply pursed his lips and stared me in the face. I thought about feeling something, but the feeling just wasn't there as always. I looked back with what I knew to be a faux expression to hide whatever it is I truly felt. Whatever he felt, he seemed to find the best way to express it by putting a hesitant hand on my shoulder and giving me a good shake.

"… Just try and act better, alright? We're all in this weirdness together now."

He left. I followed. But my mind stayed back to that strange encounter.

People change all the time. Wether it be war, experience or simply by choice, everyone has their reason for changing the tunes that govern their lives. Sadly, most don't change for the better.

I was one of those people. To this day, I still don't fully grasp what exactly had changed at what point that got people to see me differently. I only ever wanted to be myself.

Nothing like that incident ever happened again for the rest of the evening. We ate, made small talk and then went to sleep. I was still getting used to the no shower thing that army life implements, but I found it way easier to sleep with a small trick I learned.

My thoughts throughout the night swirled in both mind and heart. It felt like a thick, syrupy mixture and it was hiding something that should've been obvious to me at the time. I had a lot to think about my current life, and no matter how I looked at it, I knew I needed help badly.

But the question was, how?

Five days after Vasel

It was the start of the summer equinox. The month of March was nearing its end, and with it so too did spring give way for summer. Just behind a hill, and adjacent to a road to Randgriz, was a large detachment of Imperial Army troops. They were at least four companies strong and had at least twelve tanks to match.

Such a sizeable force was definitely not a laughing matter, especially so close to the capital of their enemies as they were. Yet, the same should also apply to these troops as they were at risk of being cut off from logistics and reinforcements which they technically were.

The reason as to why they can go so far as to have a semi-leisurely breakfast partly lay in the fact that they had encountered next to no opposition on their way there. Sure, there was the occasional militia hastily organised to defend their homestead, but these were but mere nuisances when one had tanks to use.

The reason they were still somewhat on alert lay in the fact that they had lost two companies. Initially, if everything went according to plan, they would gather just outside the capital and proceed to storm the bridge that was the only way across the river Vasel that lay on the doorstep of the enemy's capital. From there, they would secure as big as possible a foothold and hold out until reinforcements arrived.

It should be emphasised that the Empire till this day is very, very familiar when it comes to employing superior troop quantities and firepower when on campaign. They and their enemies know very well that the former often had army compositions twice as large compared to everyone else on the board and they showed everyone how to use them well on both tactical and strategic levels.

Men of the Imperial Army considered themselves to be true warriors in every aspect. If not, then they had it drilled into their heads that to humiliate their glorious armed forces was a serious offence that could see a man shamed unto death. Thus, no one saw much shame when it came to criminal acts in war such as pillaging and looting as they see it as a show of strength to any would-be foes.

Preparations for the upcoming attack were well underway, and the lack of any kind of opposition served only to increase their eagerness for bloodshed. Many amongst the more unhinged individuals were eager to indulge in acts of infamy in the afterhours of the fighting while the more sensible men simply kept to themselves and their equipment maintenance.

However, the relatively cheerful and laidback mood of the camp died down upon the hearing of a loud whistle in the air. None of the enlisted and officers present were able to exactly place just what the sound was in those precious seconds, but they didn't have to worry for then came the sound of thunder and the cracking of air.

Like the angry fist of an invisible giant, the force of the impact sent bits and men flying into the air. The first eruption of the earth had the misfortune of happening in between two lines of men who were queuing up for their morning meal. Every round after landed almost erratically, turning a once quiet morning into a frantic, desperate scampering for survival.

One shell hit the dirt and the man next to it became pink mist.

Another landed and set an officer's tent ablaze. The man inside came crawling out mere moments later but went limp as the flames eating away at his body became too much for him to take.

One of the worst shells found its mark on a tank. Misfortune or lucky hit, depending on the side, the ordinance missed the top canopy by mere centimetres but nonetheless breached through the steel and into the dark interior of the war machine. The following detonation incinerated everything within and produced a long shrill as the high pressure and heat escaping turned the tank into a giant kettle.

A lone soldier watched on, utterly dazed, as that same tank exploded and killed its crew that had embarked mere seconds before the shell hit. He had come to this foreign land to do his job and earn income for his family back home. He had no unique talent or latent skill to his name or his family's, yet that didn't stop him from doing something he thought to be extraordinary and worth a tale or two.

That hope and dream died the moment he saw a budding friend of his missing half his back. It was defiled and robbed of its meaning and value after seeing both the stuck-up officers and grumbling enlisted get slaughtered left and right from an enemy unseen. It's torment finally ended when the mind that realised it also chose to let go of them entirely.

As he looked into the sky and saw his impending doom, the soldier merely looked on despite the shouting, the cries and the insanity. The world seemed to slow down…,

He was no longer sure why he was here.

No matter where you go, or what you do, overwhelming superiority is a phrase anyone with the capacity to think and feel should be well familiar with.

The 'Imperials' of our world had a high reliance on superior equipment. Namely, the use of the radio installed in every tank allowed for a degree of movement almost unheard on the strategic map as well as on the field. These radios also helped significantly in coordinating air power which replaced the use of artillery in certain situations and at the same time, further improved coordinating the movement of troops over great distances in ways that were once thought impossible.

This complements the behaviour of their armed forces which can best be summarised as a 'hard-hitting force using fierce fighters and trusty engines that were deployed where they were needed; often, groups will be tasked with creating breakthroughs that they'd exploit until they risked being compromised'.

However, these sorts of advancements don't often last in the grand scale of things, and when the shock worn off, their enemies were able to turn the tides gradually one step at a time. Overwhelming odds also tend to disappear once the momentum that carried them fades with each passing motion and energy exerted.

One of the biggest problems the aggressors faced was the numbers to meet increasing demands at the front. While their armed forces could certainly pull their weight, their struggle was almost for naught in the face of counter-tactics and an adapting enemy. What they had in terms of quality and experience, their enemies had responded in quantity, efficiency and reliability on theirs.

The use of better doctrines was of key importance, and, for the Americans, they found that answer in their arsenal. Their mastery of the assembly line came from the fact that they were from across the sea and supplying a significant chunk of the logistics and supplies needed to run the war for their side. When the time came to fight the enemy on their turf, no expense was given for the safety of their troops.

Thus, the term 'rich man's war' was coined for the Americans. It was an undeniable fact that they loved to show off their toys whenever they got the chance while also giving their troops a much better chance at living.

One such toy would be 105mm Howitzers first seen on Hill 019. Earnestly, I feel surprised at the contrasting reactions of the Gallians on this one. Studies I did in my spare time proved that the use of powerful siege equipment was apparent in the last war, but at the same time these reports also say that such equipment was extremely rare. How odd.

Anyways, I cannot deny that leaving an entire area devoid of life in response to what amounts to a heavy reconnaissance force was definitely overkill but- then again, as mercenaries, they needed to look convincing in order to be taken seriously.

I consider it fortunate that the expendables were replenishable or otherwise we would've been in some serious trouble down the road.

The thundering of the American artillery shook the Gallians from any scepticism they had about the plan. Both Varrot and Damon had astonished looks on their faces upon hearing the mighty boom of the 105mm battery firing all at once from their position within the woods.

As it turns out, the area on their side of the hill became far less clustered with trees the further away they were. The Americans planned to cut out a small clearing in order to deploy their artillery pieces for a fire mission. At the same time, specialised groups of fast-moving mechanised infantry with armour support would flank the enemy position and block the only real way of escaping the bombardment which was the clearing on the other end of the enemy's field. This was further established through the use of machine guns and snipers to dissuade any stragglers from fleeing through the woods flanking the enemy camp.

Initially, the plan itself was fool-proof from the way it was worded but the doubts started when the Gallian officers realised that moving artillery and deploying them took considerable time and effort based on their own knowledge and experiences. Of course, this was quickly worded out by the general of the Regulars who never heard of artillery being deployed with such ease, let alone precision and effect necessary for a decisive effect.

Shaking away the memories, the Militia Captain turned to look to the sky in search of something. Her answer soon came in a green flare launched in the distance. She nudged her fellow officer who gave her a mean look before noticing the signal and ordering the advance to begin. From where they were stationed in a command post by the roadside and a safe distance away from the battle, they could still hear the tell-tale rumble of engines and grinding of threads which marked the start of their part of the plan.

A Gallian armoured column lined up on the road began their climb up the slope in order bombard what remained of the encampment while their supporting infantry charged downhill to secure the site. At least, that was how it was supposed to go. There were also many among the soldiers present that didn't like how they were going to be metaphorically put on display for the enemy while their newfound 'allies' get to sit back or have the easy job of picking off stragglers.

This train of thoughts and opinions lasted only until they reached the top of the hill and beheld the devastation below them.

The Americans were really off-putting for the Gallians- and for many Europans later- for the way they waged war. For the latter, it stemmed from second-hand reports that I firmly believed to be deliberately spread by Imperials looking to villainise these men for bringing shame to their armed forces on a level never before seen.

But for the former? It wasn't necessarily the hard-hitting ordinance, or how much devastation was caused. That feeling of discomfort came from the lack of heed for the magnitude of the above.

Allied troops were notorious for taking no chances. If they struck, then it was with the intention of complete tactical superiority in every way. Wether it be man, machine or masonry, nothing is allowed to stand strong in the wake of an assault.

What was once a verdant field of green had been reduced to an ugly brown depression of earth. Acrid smoke arose from the forms of what little remained of those unfortunate to be caught at the centre of the bombardment. With how everything seemed to be charred black, it became difficult to tell torn flesh from shredded metal.

In the distance, the Gallians could see what little remained of the enemy running for their lives. Some of them seemed to be running in nothing but their briefs and undershirts and even fewer still held their weapon in hand. Their hopes of escaping were dashed as the Allied flanking detachment caught up with them and began rounding up the poor souls under the threat of certain death.

The veteran sergeant in charge of leading the Gallians was the first to shake off the haunting visage. He began barking orders that snapped everyone to attention and slowly they began making their way downhill. The men had lost their vigour but honed instincts reminded them that they still had orders that needed carrying out.

Upon their descent down, the smell worsened to the point the infantry had to come up with creative ways to cover their olfactory senses. Someone remarked that they'd only felt their eyes sting this bad from when he'd handle the annual fireworks display in his hometown, only to be met with silence.

The view of the sight from ground level was far worse than from the top. It seemed the Allied artillery spared nothing in its wake, save for death and destruction. The bodies of the enemy combatants were mostly in pieces save for those that must've been part of the night shift and would've been having breakfast at the edge of the camp when the shells struck.

A rookie who had just recently been assigned to the unit couldn't stand the sight of his surroundings and quickly broke formation in order to let out his breakfast at the edge of the field.

A whine escaped a scout's lips as she stood above the body of an imperial officer that had terrible burns on him.

A moment of surprise reverberated among the soldiers when one of their own nearly slipped into a deep crater that was easily four metres deep and was later believed to have been hit twice- the remnants of a tank could easily be made out surrounding the crater which suggested what might have happened.

The soldiers were so at a lost for what to do that they almost didn't notice the halftracks that had arrived. An Allied officer stepping out and striding towards them asking for who was in charge- all the while he seemed to be completely unaffected by the state of his surroundings.

This story was stitched together based on what I found regarding the 'massacre' of Hill 019. While I myself can't see the problem behind hitting such an inviting target, I can at least empathise with those present on all ends. By that, I mean Gallians, Allied and Imperials.

Why the former, too? Well, that kind of thought has a lot of personal weight to it, but I can assure that there is more to it than I let on. Namely, when you're subjected to some interesting circumstances involving deception and betrayal, followed by a little bit of irony then you eventually come to a point you stop caring who you fight with if they are at odds with you.

Author's Notes:

And, that's a wrap. It's two thousand words shorter but I'd ran out of things to write for now and opted to release before things get more hectic in my life.

Speaking of which, I know I said that I'd see this to the end but good grief, the curve balls don't seem to stop. I hate leaving this story unattended but either I write myself off a cliff or lose my fire. I'm gonna start the next chap immediately so as to have something to look forward to and play through Valkyria more so as to get a better grip of the world.

Thanks to everyone for their patience. See you soon guys!