CHAPTER 4: INTO THE UNCERTAIN
Something was wrong.
It was the first thing that occurred to Prince Maximillian as he awoke from his slumber. The thought continued to irk him at every step as he went through his morning rituals, as well as perform his daily duties. Eventually, he ended up not being able to ignore the feeling of unrest, hence he ordered his aides to bring in the latest reports of his army's activities despite having participated in an important meeting that same morning.
He found his answer from a minor report. The gears in his mind turned as he remembered a rather minute detail of his plans for the invasion of Gallia.
Mainly, it was an audacious plan that he frankly had no reason to think would hold any form of success. Rather, it was meant to be a show of power on his side in hopes of implanting a sense of futility in the struggle of the Gallians.
When he initially started out this campaign, he and his generals had set out with a clear goal of total annexation of the small country within a timeframe of weeks. As they were mostly made up of the Empire's best, it was plainly logical that they mustn't waste time on such a measly slice of Europa whilst the greater whole of it still remained in contention. Each week that passed without their influence on the Federation front was another week in which the West could dig in their heels, and the last thing anyone in the Court of War would want was a repeat of the static lines of the Great War.
Sadly, that same court had also just given them orders that, generally speaking, made no sense.
It started after a rather brutal battle with the Federation over an interlocking series of forts that had been erected within the first decade after the war. Imperial Intelligence had made it clear that sidestepping these static defences was out of the question as the men stationed there were numerous and well-supplied enough to become a serious threat to the logistics of their army should they choose to do so. The only plausible way of dealing with them was to capture the forts lest the occupants within slip out and reek absolute havoc in the countryside. The planning on how to do this was stressing but finalised by the week after.
One intense operation and a lot of body stacking later, Maximillian received word that he had been summoned back to the capital and was told to bring his officers corps along with him. It was there did he learn of his new orders to 'reclaim' the nation of Gallia and bring it into the fold for an obvious set of reasons.
Earnestly, the golden prince of the Empire had no qualms in adding the principality to his list of accomplishments. He would've found a way to delightfully sink his fingers into the Ragnite rich soil of those supposed 'neutralist' at some point of his life. However, he was no fool and would rather maintain his current focus in strengthening his foothold in the courts before delegating his time to what amounted as a very interesting side project.
Sadly, it would seem fate had a very twisted sense of humour. Not only was he going to -in a way- gain Gallia ahead of his own foresight. He would have to do so with inexperienced troops, as well as allot place and time to test the Empire's new wonder weapons courtesy of the Imperial Guild of Wonders.
To say that his immediate subordinates were furious was an understatement. Their near childish tantrums almost succeeded on getting on his nerves; a rare happening. None of them felt particularly appreciated for their efforts by being suddenly handed a new task before the current one was done. In addition, there was a careful, yet open undertone of concern shared among them about the soldiers at the front that they were leaving behind abruptly. A concern that he did not share apart from fake understanding and charismatic persuasion.
Back to the matter at hand, he had until before Winter to conquer Gallia. He had intended to be done by mid-Autumn, but the recent developments proved that a slightly longer time frame and effort was needed on his part. The natives were proving to be more than nuisances by quickly abandoning conventional warfare and instead relying on hit-and-run tactics as well as flanking manoeuvres and ambushes to push back the rigid and less experienced Imperials.
Then, there was also the current report that he was skimming through.
He had placed a discrete order for a sizeable combat force to be sent through the then unprotected underbelly of the Gallian defences in an effort to gauge their response timings. The Regular army was far too focused on not being overwhelmed in the West and the Militia was still being mobilised so that left the available Garrisons station in the capital and a fortified settlement along the Vasel River to the north.
Had this been one of his own units, he had not doubted their success in securing a foothold to strike right at Randgriz. However, he was having to use untested soldiers to fulfil his orders, and he would rather not tell one of his commanders to do something that he himself knew no certainty.
Now, as read through his notes, he realised that at least one of the four commanders assigned should've reported back by now. They were divided not three groups; one would conduct heavy reconnaissance, another to attack the Vasel garrison, and a third to follow in the wake of the other two and act as a contingency in case something unwanted happened. He understood if the latter two failed to report as they had the highest risk of being engaged and destroyed, but the contingency force should've by all means at least informed him of their imminent annihilation if the defeat had been a distinct possibility. Said force was far too numerous to be immediately dealt with by the Gallians so they would at least try to encircle them and prevent them from advancing further.
Had he overestimated the capabilities of the men? Did the Gallians have an ace up their sleeve?
Questions, questions, questions…
Unfortunately, he wouldn't receive any answer at this time. He'd have to mark it as a poor investment and slowly break the news to his officers in the future.
He stepped out of the enclosed space of his office. His steps took him into one of the outer areas that acted as a bridgeway for connecting different sections of the assembly facility still under construction. It was a poor choice of workplace for a high commander, but he tolerated it for now as his schedule denied him the luxury of a proper office for at least another week or so.
As he looked out at the vast expanse of land before him, the mechanisms in his mind played their delightful creaks and clicks.
There comes a time when all great men must take their greatest gamble on life. The prince was no fool and knew with full clarity that Gallia was his moment of truth. Regardless, he would see either the land burn, or worse.
The weeks that followed the engagement at Hill 019 saw the Americans deployed for numerous fighting on open fields and roads. Most of the major settlements to the north were already under Imperial occupation, and the much more numerous villages were all abandoned by the time the Reds appeared. I'd openly admit, I was impressed when I learned that the people had upped and left nothing for their aggressors to loot which at worse meant they burnt their own stores to prevent falling under enemy hands.
With that in mind, that didn't mean the importance of the settlements was completely diminished. Gallia's infrastructure was built such that all roads connected to the capital, even the more isolated settlements had dirt paths large enough for horse drawn carriages to move easily on. The upside to this was that the Gallian's could effectively respond to any movement by the enemy as well as compliment their doctrines of taking the enemy by surprise. On the other hand, should an advance prove too much, the enemy would in such cases literally drive up all the way to the capital within a matter of days.
That should've been what happened if any of this was real to begin with, but the fact of the matter was that the Imperials were blundering every way possible, so it was giving us much needed time to acclimate to the war.
In my time, I served with seven hundred of the so-called 'Greatest Generation'. These were the men who lived in a time when the world was embroiled in a conflict like never before seen. In a time when human folly was at its most foul, it was these people who persevered and laid the foundations for the great peace that I and many others would enjoy but not fully appreciate.
These men were divided based on their roles in the army as per standard, however, for the most part we never kept the command structure separate. In general, the battalion was divided into the four companies of Able, Baker, Charlie and Dog. The first and third were dedicated infantry companies with Baker as our armoured force and Dog Company as reserves. Personnel from each company were cycled in and out to allow the men to recuperate as well as have equipment and vehicles undergo repair and rearmament.
At the start of the war, I strived for performance as part of the Rear Echelon. I didn't know how I was going to climb the ladder, but damn if I didn't at least try. I didn't want to sideline myself or sabotage my chance at life once more.
It was part of the principle that I believed in that the biggest events happened because of the smallest causes.
A map was laid over a wooden table within the command tent. Surrounding it were the officers of the American companies, as well as the Gallian counterparts accompanying them for this mission. Captain McKay found himself at the head of the meeting; it had become something of a norm for the current campaign.
"Alright, here's our objectives for the day," he spoke while marking out areas of interest on the map. "Currently, we've made great strides in blunting the Imperial advance in our sector, but their wising up. We've got reports from scouts that the Imperials are sending a fresh battalion, and they'll be passing through this hamlet. Our objectives will be to seize the place and turn it to a staging ground to push forward to the small town of Feren. Time isn't on our side either. When they figure out what we've been doing to their boys here, they'll be sending in the heavy hitters."
The officer then placed several pins on the map. Green ones were for the Americans, blue for the Gallians and red for Imperials.
"The aim is to catch them in a double pincer movement." He began. "Able is going to advance from the forest on the left. Eliminating all hostile infantry that may be hiding in the woods, whilst manoeuvring to flank and set up position in overseeing the road that leads into the village from the north. Meanwhile, Gallian forces will advance into the town with support from Charlie company whose task it will be to eliminate the enemy's armour by any means necessary."
He looked up at the gathering. Eyes scanning for any sign of hesitance or doubt.
"Any questions?" he asked, and a hand rose from his left.
"What can we expect this time? Same old?" someone asked.
"Yes, for now, we can safely assume that. Next?"
"I'm guessing they've already got a few advanced parties in the hamlet. If so, should we aim for a fast thrust or are we going to weed them out first?" they asked again. The captain took a moment to process the query before answering.
"We'll be doing a bit of both. Taking on the armour within the hamlet would be troublesome, but if we can bait them to an engagement in the countryside then we can make use of the trees for ambushing," he turned to look at the rest gathered. "Anything else?"
There was a series of noes from the crowd.
"Then this meeting is adjourned. Prep your men people, I'll see you tomorrow for the war," he and the others made to stand and vacate the cramped confines of the tent. Adjutants stayed behind to clean up and discuss the more minute details that had not been worth mentioning.
The questioner from earlier stood outside beside the flaps of the tent. At first glance, he didn't look any different from any other GI. However, what set him apart was his scarred face, and a posture that constantly shifted from fidgeting and being still as a statue; akin to a sculpture that was off-balance or just wasn't right. The man wore a battledress that had seen better days and like its owner seemed ready to fall apart. His rifle -covered in scratches and dents- hung from his shoulder on a sling, while his pistol was in his holster with a hand over it, always.
Pale eyes observed the captain of Able with an impassive look as he exited and turned left. The scarred individual made to follow, which didn't go unnoticed by the leader of Able.
Men of various shapes and sizes passed by setting about their respective tasks, with some giving room for the two officers as they passed them.
"Is there anything you need Holden?"
"What makes you think that?"
"Cut the shit. Spit it out."
A raspy yet hearty chuckle escaped the scarred man.
"I need to borrow your scouts. The good ones. Could use them for some tank busting duty."
This made McKay frown. He wasn't against loaning or even outright giving away some equipment to his peers under good reason or circumstance but asking for his men was something he was wholly against for obvious reasons. More so as this was Holden Cruz, the leader of Charlie Company. Theirs was an outfit that was essentially the black sheep of the battalion. It didn't help that in their past lives, what the unit did half the time was always under wraps whenever they weren't with the rest of the battalion. He'd heard plenty of times from the men who regarded them as spooks.
The perception towards Charlie Company never did change even after their destruction at Hill 192. In fact, it became even more inflated, and some rumours had spread how much of Charlie was still alive and were fighting a secret war. Eventually, Conti ended up having to bust down a couple of men when their talks started going too far.
Back to the matter at hand, he pondered just why his contemporary would ever need his men and not rely on his own. He didn't have an answer and turned to ask.
"Why mine in particular? I'm sure your own are more than adequate."
Cruz merely shrugged and nonchalantly said, "Their good alright. Too good. If I let 'em have their way, then we'd be in for a messy clean up- we don't have time for that."
The answer didn't please McKay in the slightest. Yet, for all intents and purposes he had no reason to refuse either. His company had two other recon teams that were just as good, and the snipers had already been carrying much of the workload for the past few nights. Truthfully, his men wouldn't be putting any real effort in this mission up until the last quarter.
He had no reason nor want to complicate the request. Inhaling deeply, he turned to look at Holden in the eye and gave the man his answer.
"Don't make me regret this," he spoke.
"You won't. Trust me," Cruz parted ways with him. No doubt to prepare his men.
Frankly, McKay couldn't bring himself to be persuaded.
The Next Day
His body began to feel numb as he continued his sprint across the field. The tall grass, almost as high as his shoulders, provided generous concealment from any would be watchers and he need not worry for noise as he was already too far away for anyone to hear.
The sprint ended when he found himself on the side of a dirt road. A jeep with a 57mm in tow was waiting for him along with three occupants. Their shoulders noticeably sagged when they saw who appeared. One of them came close enough and began inquiring.
"What'cha got Jimbo?"
"We got their attention with the mortars. Three tanks and at least nine escorts- Around four of those had to have been carrying subs. No snipers thankfully."
The brief report got a round of nods from the others. The one in the driver's seat turned on the engine without word and immediately floored the gas to head to their next point.
James - often called Jimbo – felt the effects of his sprint begin to catch up to him. He took deep breaths to calm his nerves, but he could still feel his heart racing in anticipation for the fight ahead.
"Hey, you alright?" asked the man from before.
"Yeah, I'm fine Ed. Just keep watch."
"Don't tell me being dead made you a deadbeat again Jim,"
"Eh, at least I managed to get some coochies before I went under."
That got a slight chuckle out of the older man. His accented laugh was awfully Germanic, despite being a third generation of immigrants who came to start a new life in the Land of the Free. The rest of the ride was thankfully uneventful as the scout troop and their heavy armament arrived at the rendezvous.
The road was flanked by trees on one and a grass field in the other. It would've looked no different than any other road if not for the fact that there were at least half a dozen pair of eyes hidden in the foliage. The jeep stopped just short of ten metres before the side passenger whistled a specific tune. Almost immediately, a man came out of the woods and carefully approached the vehicle.
" 'Bout time you got here. Tell me we aren't in for deep shit."
"Not at all. I'd say we got our work cut out for us," replied Jim.
"Well then, get that gun in place, soldier. And tell Mitch he better not screw up the shot this time."
"I was TIRED that time, okay!"
"Shut up, Mitch,"
The corporal gave him a dirty look but didn't speak up. Mitch and his posse quickly deployed the gun. It took some effort as the ambush group wanted it to be hidden at a specific spot behind the trees that of course had a ditch in-between. The jeep drove off in the meantime, no doubt heading back to the rallying point to await further orders.
Mitch was doing last minute adjustments on the sights of his binoculars when the familiar rumble of the terrain told him of incoming armour. Wordlessly, Ed had loaded a shell into the breech and awaited the order to fire. Jim was crouched behind and was just as ready to pass the next shell when ordered.
The ground wasn't that favourable for them. The trees and thick branches made excellent cover, but the lack of space between the trees meant they only had a much smaller field of fire to work with than normal, and the fact was each shot was going to kick up debris that could expose them. Sadly, they didn't have much of a choice as it was either the treeline or the tall grass. The latter would've been an absolute pain to drag the gun out of.
It was for those exact reasons that Lance Corporal Mitchell and his recon group were chosen to accompany 2nd Squad of Charlie Company. He and his friends were heralded one of the best tank killers in Able. This was further enforced after commendations for a few misadventures in Italy prior to Overlord.
Now, those experiences were being put to the test once again. They'd manage to convince Captain Cruz so that they could borrow a 57mm for the duration of the mission. Hence, they were expected to make damn good use of it.
The area grew deathly quiet aside from the sound of the tanks down the road. From where they were hidden in the shade and brush, a pair of eyes watched intently from behind magnified lenses whilst the owner of those eyes did the math that determined the rough distance between the tank and their position. The feeling of anxiety filled the air, but he forcefully remained calm as he waited for the right moment.
The tanks came within 350 metres when the lance corporal signalled to fire. With a loud boom and the sound of metal coming undone, the forward most tank was brought to a sudden halt. Lesser explosions occurred which suggested something vital was struck. The middle tank tried to manoeuvre pass the defunct tank but ended up losing one of its tracks in the process as a second boom echoed in the surroundings. This was followed up by a third shot that punctured through the armour just short of the neck of the steel beast. Regardless of the damage, the crew chose to bail out but were gunned down one by one.
All of this happened within the span of less than five minutes, and by then it was drowned by the sounds of machine gun and rifle fire. The riflemen in the treeline took turns dashing from one tree trunk to another. Some took pot shots while others systematically picked off threats. Long bursts of light from the grass were the only indicator for the BAR hiding there and occasionally repositioning whenever needed.
The 'fight' was over in a matter of moments. The only one remaining was the tank in the rear that had only been spared thanks to its two other brethren. Its crew tried for a hasty manoeuvre to bring its armament to bear. An act that proved to be the start of a series of fatal mistakes.
The tank tried to go through the grass like the second in hopes of using its dead brethren for cover, but in turn, its rear became exposed for the infantry appearing from the treeline. Three men made a mad dash and threw something onto the rear where it landed on the exposed radiator. An explosion soon occurred that damaged the vehicle and forced it to a halt in the grass. Smoke bellowed out from the small openings of the tank, which prompted the crew to try and escape. None did, as all three were shot, only non-fatally this time and immediately were swarmed by armed men.
From his place in the treeline still, Mitch saw the last moments of the ambush unfold behind his binoculars. A couple of shots from the opposition had come close yet the spotter didn't look fazed at all. He turned to Ed who gave him an inquiring look to which he nodded in confirmation. This prompted the man to sit down proper on the earth as the stress of the moment left him.
"Well, that was fast," he commented.
"Hm. Well, don't wait too long. Get everything ready to move. We still need to snoop around the village."
With their job done, the temporal gun crew were quick to pack up and leave their position in the woods. The 57mm was left by the roadside -where it would be picked up by a recovery team in due time- while the three men went up the road to the remains of the enemy combat group.
"Great job, rifle squad! Outstanding!" came the gruff voice of the sergeant as they approached. His men were all accounted for, and it was almost miraculous. There was nothing else to be said.
His moment of relief was short-lived as he heard boots crunching on the dirt. He turned to see Mitch and his gang arrive looking none the worse for wear.
"… And- you too Corporal," he added, awkwardly. Wisely, Mitch ignored that and spoke.
"We're heading into the village to do some scouting. Catch up with us if you can," he was given a nod of confirmation before heading off.
The rest of the squad watched as the scouts weaved their way past the wreckage and occasional corpses. Their leader was the last to take his eyes of them before continuing to inspect the wreckage.
"Hey, Sarge!"
"Yeah!"
"What do we do about these guys?"
"Just watch over them Dan, they won't be hurting anyone."
"Why not just shoot them like we used to do?"
"We ain't fighting that war yet soldier, so settle down."
The response sent a hollow silence down the minds of the soldiers. All except the one in charge of the prisoners; the man simply scoffed and turned to look over his charges that had turned pale. They jumped ever so slightly as the general infantryman shifted his rifle ever so slightly in intimidation, much to the man's twisted curiosity.
"What's the matter? You speak English- huh? Do you?" he nudged with wide eyes, which made the wounded men before him flinch.
None were able to fight back with their injuries. They could only offer a silent wish that the unknown soldier before them didn't do the dirty deed. The next half an hour passed by uneventfully, much to their gratitude, before they were hauled off to the back of a truck with others of their kind. Each sporting some degree of injury that had been treated just before pick-up.
Mitch and his men had made good progress in getting to the village. The path they took was one which would lead them into the hamlet from the east. Captain Cruz, for whatever reason, wanted them to entice the defenders into action and get the Reds to fight back. When asked, he simply replied that it'd make their job easier which frankly left the recon team less than amused.
Honestly, the peaceful journey thus far was starting to get on his nerves. It was too surreal, and it gnawed at him from the back of his mind. Having seen what a well organised enemy could do, it was infuriating that these so-called 'Europan Menaces' couldn't have even been bothered to at least mine the road or set up a checkpoint to stop them, and this was after they'd been fighting them for over a week consistently now.
With each footfall, he expected something to immediately go wrong, wether it be a crack of a sniper rifle, or even a steady buzz from a certain machinegun. He was even certain they'd accidentally run headfirst into a hidden vehicle that'd tear them to shreds.
Yet, none of that happened, and they soon found themselves moving cautiously on the side of the road within the hamlet itself. This was when they first encountered resistance.
There was an infantry group standing directly on the opposite end of the dirt road that led into the centre of the hamlet. The men seemed to have been caught off-guard despite having more than ample time to recover from the mortar bombardment courtesy of Charlie company. They hadn't even noticed his team's presence until one of the men looked in their general direction with a degree of confusion.
Ed took the initiative in the current situation to slam his shoulder into the door of one of the wooden houses that flanked the road. Mike and Jimbo followed, with the latter immediately hugging the wall beside the door upon entering. Sure enough, the Imperials began firing at them, but it was inconsistent and with poor aim. Jimbo fired back in kind and was able to force the men to seek cover and reconsider their method of approach.
Meanwhile, Ed and Mitch continued deeper into the house until they found a back exit. They identified that it led them to a narrow space between the current row of houses and another one adjacent to it. Without a word, Mitch went back to get Jimbo, and shouted from the corridor, "Hey, come on. This way!"
The rifleman didn't need any more prompting, and with a grace only born from experience he deftly threw one of the smoke grenades he had at the ready on his person behind and ran. He didn't bother to know where it landed, and merely took note that the contents had been released as he made his way to the back of the house.
Ed waited until his brothers had cleared the doorway, then immediately dropped to a knee to plant a special surprise for their pursuers.
No sooner did the scouts leave, the Imperials came through the doorway. The first to dash out the door was a Scout who was completely ignorant to the wire his shin greaves had tugged. The second was a young officer who was in fact well-liked by his men as he was in the relative same age as them and even treated them well. Said officer met an early end to his career.
In a rare moment, Imperial Infantry Armour did its purpose and protected the man from the ensuing blast and fragmentation. However, his helm had been an open variant which left his face exposed to being shredded and left blinded. He fell on his back wailing in pain whilst clutching his face. The next two men who came out saw the state of their leader and immediately worked to carry him inside under cover of a third man who stood watch from outside the building.
Seeing this, the remaining men became reasonably hesitant to pursue their foes, but a rather hot-blooded shock trooper had managed to rally his comrades before stomping in pursuit for vengeance.
From then onwards, the world became a blur. The recon would move from house to house, occasionally firing from the windows or causing a ruckus to garner attention. The Imperials would take cover or garrison nearby buildings which gave the team time to make their escape. Each time, Ed would leave a trap and an unfortunate soul would fall victim. This repeated thrice before they were cornered.
The three men found themselves in what could be considered a mere hovel in the northeast end of the hamlet. They were tired, with only their rifles, a few frags and only their intuition to rely on. Despite this, they were alive and relatively unharmed, so there wasn't much room for complaint.
Ed watched the windows from one corner of the small space within the hovel as about a dozen men surrounded them. He could see rifles and a couple of submachine guns but couldn't determine what they were planning. What didn't need to be said, however, was that they were livid and eager for blood.
"Kicked the hornet's nest this time, eh?" he quipped.
"The fuck is Charlie doing? The should've been here by now," grumbled Mitch.
"It's Charlie company, what do you expect? Damn spooks," Jimbo cut in, the man nursing his leg from when he stubbed his shin on a random piece of furniture earlier on.
Suddenly, a hailstorm of bullets came through the front which forced the men to keep their heads down. Wooden splinters flew everywhere whilst lead projectiles whistled past them like vengeful phantoms. The torrent lasted a full minute and a half and left everything a metre and a half above ground shredded. Miraculously, the men were still alive and well, albeit they now sported bruises and numerous cuts, and in Ed's case there was even a round stuck in his helm.
"Well, it's been an honour serving with yawl again," came the Jimbo's morose remark. His two companions didn't do anything to deny it.
Despite their ears still ringing, they could make out the angry yelling and curses being spat outside the building. They assumed the worst and that the Imperials were gonna finish them by lobbing grenades, yet that never happened as the ground began to rumble. The change in atmosphere confused the scouts, but they were far too more focused and what happened next.
Gunfire erupted, and this time it wasn't them on the receiving end. There was panicked cries and what sounded like last ditched attempt at orders but those were inevitably drowned by the sound of familiar accents.
A moment after and the door to the hovel was opened slowly. The men raised their rifles in unison and were ready to riddle the first man to walk through what remained of the entrance. That proved to be unneeded when the person stepping through was dressed in a blue uniform which made it apparent just who saved them.
The Gallian was clearly nervous. "Um, h-hello," he stuttered. "I-Is anyone in need of medical attention?"
All three raised their hands in unison.
When we first heard of the Americans, we couldn't believe their accomplishments, and for good reason. Our brothers and sisters, fathers, mothers, and children were dying in near droves across the ancient, mineral rich soil of our forefathers. So many innocent people, and plenty of good soldiers, had perished whether by choice or not. It was all we could do as members of the great Gallian Regular Army to buy our people time to escape, with prayers for our decrepit leadership to somewhat conceive a decent plan to save us.
I, as a soldier in a loosing war, had seen how much disparity lay between us and the Imperials. For all their suppose inexperience, their young fought with zeal to match our dogmatic defiance, except they came in numbers that far exceeded ours. I could see in their eye's visions of glory, and from their throats the promise of long-lasting sagas.
Their weaponry was an entirely different matter to be discussed. In short, the comparison between our arsenals was like comparing the toys of a noble scion and a pauper's son. I've seen their bullets tear our suits like tissue paper, our tanks getting overlapped underneath the shadow of an Imperial Juggernaut and heavens forbid their Wonder Weapon's or the accursed Valkyur in the later stages of the war.
With the overwhelming quantity and quality our enemies possessed, morale was diminished to mere embers. That is, until we began receiving reports from the East. Stories and rumours swirled of men in green wielding arms and steel beasts never before seen. Of cannons that broke the earth and sky, and doctrine beyond alien.
I, like many others, were sceptical of the stories. In our case, it lasted until my unit was deployed to reinforce the capital. There, we were able to verify the stories for ourselves.
The basics of the plan left our leaders bewildered and less than convinced. These weren't the same ones that acted snobby and entitled at the start of the war. Many here were promoted to replace the ones that had either died or outright abandoned their post. At least, the benefit was that they were learning to be competent fast at the time. By the end of the war, I'd openly come to call them my brothers in all but blood. Still, they had a long way to go before then, and their baffled expressions after that morning's was definitely enough to make us all anxious.
The attack began late in the morning. 'Charlie Company' had taken initiative to deploy M21's a good two kilometres from the hamlet with orders to fire until the enemy responded. When they did, the mortar carriages would retreat, and scout teams would remain behind to gauge the opposition force's strength.
Gallian squadrons were already gathered in columns and were ready to storm the settlement the moment the enemy attack was blunted. The aim was to have the place by noon. A command post would be set up by then and allow more of their forces to pass through. The operation was a resounding success, but to say that we from the Western front weren't left gobsmacked for a while was a downplay of the realisation.
Still, I was reminded later on that these were in fact mortals- not demigods. My evidence was in a small, ruined hovel at the edge of the hamlet with three shaken men inside it.
Combat Medic Sebastian Pasco of the Gallian 31st Combat Group
Earlier
Sebastian Pasco didn't like war.
He knew this well. No need to be a genius or even a high degree in some random field of knowledge to tell him. Pasco DID NOT like war and he knew everybody else didn't either.
'Well, except the Imperials,' he thought.
The young medic only signed up for the army because they offered incentives that could see his mother treated for her ailments. While life in Gallia was certainly better than in many places, the fact was the recent conflicts were starting to have severe consequences on the general economy of Europa as a whole. Prior to the invasion, Gallia was already heading to financial trouble with how trade was slowing down due to foreign military patrols and piracy.
It made the situation ripe for the military to bolster its manpower for potential conflict.
Thankfully, the young man with shaved brown hair had been able to land his targeted role as a medic for his unit. He would've made for a great Engineer too, but he needed the medical benefits that came with the Medic course more than pursuing the art of machinery.
However, the current times are making seriously reconsider his choices. There had been so much death and destruction since the war began weeks ago. So many lives snuffed like candles on a harsh winter night. So much violence, and near mindless brutality.
So much despair…. And hopelessness.
Even with Ragnite, Pasco could only do so much for the needy. His treatments couldn't regenerate limbs, or mend broken minds and hearts. He couldn't reinitiate a heartbeat or 'simply make things better' as his late friend had put it.
Speaking of friends, the medic couldn't even recognise his own squad anymore. The tank they had been attached to was thoroughly destroyed within the first two days of the engagement with zero crew recovery. Their officer and veterans had died from bombardment during an attack on their camp whilst retreating. He also just recently attended his best friends brief and hasty funeral after he died from infection in his wounds. Overall, Pasco was considering dropping his uniform at some point and going back to his mother to give her big hug before saying a final farewell.
That was until a week ago when out of the blue, his reformed unit had received orders to be transferred away from the heavy fighting in the west and to reinforce the central area of Gallia. It was an open secret as to how the Imperials were planning to win the war, yet it did indeed surprise many just how slow they were on executing it. He received his answers within the first day of their arrival on the new front.
Said answers were now walking side-by-side with his brothers-in-arms. Their tan outfits and green helms made them stand out just as much as the crimson colour used by the Imperials. He'd seen glimpses in how they fight, and even he who wasn't an active participant of war could tell that their tactics and fighting style were something entirely alien to how Europa always did. The overwhelming force, the cut-and-butcher mentality, and even their armaments spoke of years' worth of time that had been used in perfecting their way of war.
He knew that he wasn't the only one who noticed, but in between the number of objectives achieved and seeing Imperials routing, there was definitely no one who was going to question their efficiency.
For the first in what felt like ages, Pasco felt there was a chance in this fight.
Currently, they were trying to make their way into town as quick as possible in order to support a scouting team that was sent in earlier to appraise the defences. Truthfully, he was leaning on all of them being dead on arrival, so imagine his surprise when they find a mostly empty settlement.
Their unit was a mix between a squad of the so called 'Americans' and infantry platoon of Gallians. This mix-up was uncommon given how the foreigners were insistent on keeping themselves separate from their allies which to him felt like a detriment. Nonetheless, it wasn't in his place to complaint.
The rapport of gunfire filled the air. One of their scouts fell to the ground like a sack of bricks. The cause being an Imperial coming out of the corner along with two others.
The Americans went into cover and opened fire whilst the Gallians had mixed reactions. Their shock troopers had gone ahead while the Scouts and Lancer joined the Americans. Projectiles were traded to and fro, until one of the Imperials threw a grenade.
In a daring move, one of the Americans picked up the grenade and threw it back in the direction of the enemy. Due the time it took for him to reach and throw it, the grenade had ended up detonating in mid-air above the Imperials, forcing them to duck. This gave the opportunity for the Gallian Troopers to charge forward.
One of the Imperials recovered fast enough to try and shoot, only to earn a round through his head from one of the American riflemen. The other two Imperials were never given the chance and were gunned down where they stood.
The fighting barely lasted five minutes. Two men were dead out of the twelve Gallians in their unit. A shock trooper was injured, but it wasn't anything the medic couldn't treat. There were no casualties among the Americans. An apparent fact among the Americans, and it was starting to make a lot of people jealous.
Pasco readjusted his glasses as he informed the injured soldier, he was good to go. The other had already continued on, and it took a while for both of them to catch up. Along the way, the group began noticing their surroundings.
There were definite signs of fighting, as was indicated by the occasional body of an Imperial or bullet holes in the walls alongside splintered wood and blast marks. The devastation paled in comparison to what he'd seen the Americans do, but he could positively see their handiwork in this.
A roar of gunfire alerted them to where their next fight would be. The suddenness of it made all of them crouch. Upon realising that it wasn't they who were getting shot at, an officer was quick to motion for them to double their pace. Pasco made sure his speed even faster than that.
This war had taken away his innocence, but it had yet to break his will.
They reached the intersection of the road just as their tanks did as well. The infantry immediately manoeuvred to flank the armoured column as they made to push through the hamlet.
Ahead of them, was the source of the gunfire. There about less than a dozen infantry that were pouring firepower into an unfortunate man's hovel. The barrage suddenly stopped which suggested a need to reload, yet the medic reserved the need to facepalm when the crimson clad soldiers instead resorted to arguing.
He guessed it served them right in the end when they were gunned down by their tanks mounted machine gun. A few were lucky not to die, but these were picked off by his fellow infantryman. He didn't even bother waiting for the 'all clear' as he made his way to the now ruined hovel with his large medical case in tow.
Setting the big thing down, he pondered briefly whether to knock or not but decided against it thinking that the people in there were probably too injured to respond or worse. Still, he intentionally made the process of opening the door as gentle as possible to avoid startling the inhabitants within.
What awaited him inside was still unique on its own account. There were three men altogether that were looking worse for wear, yet fully intact amazingly enough. He had to remind himself just whom he was dealing with, but their mistrustful gazes were making him a tad less confident than he usually was.
Still, he put up a brave front, and greeted them.
"Um, h-hello," he stuttered. "I-Is anyone in need of medical attention?"
All three of the men raised their hands in unison.
The Next Day at Camp
It was just entering noon when I stepped out of the storage tent for the first time in hours. I was sore in every muscle, and on the verge of sneezing my nose off after a nasty encounter with my archnemesis, dust. At the same time, I couldn't be more than happy with myself!
Organising the damn storage shed was a pain and it showed! Mike made it his lifelong mission to make sure the two-by-five metre enclosure was well-organised, but more importantly, easy-to-access for the rest of the week. I'd seen the old man going around asking and writing down details on a notepad he carried. I can't help but admire him though. He worked fast, seeing as how he would've already been assigning me, Goof and Duck different jobs by lunchtime.
Speaking of which, I turned to look to the right, where there was a path that led to the main road that ran down the centre of the camp. Technically, it was a giant crossroad that divided the base into four neat squares. However, I'd seen plans for a defensive ring to be established after that one time I peeked from behind one of the engineers.
Anyways, I'd put my grumblings to the side by the time I reached the mess tent. It was a rather big area that covered the daily meals for a third of the camp. Benches and tables set around the made it kind of reminiscent of a picnic area in a park. Only, there were no ladies and everywhere I look I get reminded I'm technically the only one with a baby face.
I earnestly didn't find that fair.
It took me the usual ten minutes in the waiting line. I got a grunt in acknowledgement for thanking the cook, then scurried off to find somewhere to sit.
"Hey, Caramel! Over here!"
The voice was familiar over the crowd, but I could feel my brow scrunched up over the term being used to refer me. I turned and soon enough saw a familiar slouched hat.
Walking towards them, I pressed. "My name is Zeke," I said.
Goof shrugged. The man then simply gestured for me to sit in front of him. Beside me, was Duck and he looked just about halfway done with his meal. The atmosphere was hectic yet comforting in a way that was familiar to me who reminiscent to the times I went to markets.
"Where's Mike?" I asked, taking a glance at Goof.
"He said something about having to meet up with the brass. Didn't say much just that we could expect something big soon."
'Which means I'd get the honour of cleaning and assembly duty again,' I internally grumbled. This was deliberate on the old man's part, but I won't say it wasn't worthwhile. Learning the ins and outs of the arsenal was way more fun than it should be once I'd figured out how to read the manual and a few schematics the guys procured.
Wisely, I went back to paying attention to my consumption. The food wasn't as terrible as the sources made it out to be. Sure, it was dull, and I earnestly wished there was some appetisers or toppings I could add, but, personally, I kinda liked it the way it was.
The rest of the meal went by silently. As we were heading out back to our quarters, Duck approached me with an interesting offer.
"You wanna learn how to shoot?" came the abrupt question so much so at first, I nearly had to take a double take.
"Pardon?"
"Do you want to learn how to shoot," he asked, and I could tell that there wasn't much room for a loose answer.
"… Yes," I replied almost without thinking.
The first few weeks of the war hadn't seen me doing anything spectacular like in those fanfics or fantasy stories written. I'd mostly grown comfortable in my time as part of the Rear Echelon; stacking boxes worth of supplies, counting bullets, and keeping the storages full. Indeed, without doubt, I am the type who doesn't venture far from what I'd know. However, I had to acknowledge I was at war just like everyone else here, and so I had no choice but to learn to fight.
…. Mainly, how to kill.
The target range wasn't crowded but that's just how it's always been since the camp was first built. Most of the troops were way too busy up at the front, and those not fighting spent their time essentially resting until they were called back up. Hence, the only ones here for now were others from Rear Echelon who were probably doing what is essentially a mix of practice and gun testing.
I took a spot somewhere in the middle and began appraising the field. It looked to be basic to me, with a decent number of targets and some obstacles here and there to hinder eyesight and get people to think.
The weight in my hands was almost surreal. I'd seen replicas of weapons and often watched the ones showcased on television that were implied to be authentic. Yet, those things paled in comparison to the killing invention now held in my arms.
Before my very eyes, I was holding an actual M1 Garand. The weapon made me feel something I couldn't quite place; a tingling, jitteriness that I'd only felt in uncommon occasions. I was broken out of my thoughts when I heard a metallic thump on the makeshift counter.
There was a hand on the counter, I could make out the extra ammunition clips peaking just underneath the appendage. Tracing it to the source, I found myself eye-to-eye with Duck who gave me this expression between annoyed and crossed. In response, I kept my lips straight and tried my hardest to not start twitching like a rodent that was caught red-handed.
The staring contest didn't last longer than a minute. Duck walked around the table and proceeded to grab both my hands to adjust my grip. He worked quietly and for the most part so did I. After a few slaps on my knuckles, I learned to loosen my grip and let him do the fine tuning.
It was a solid five, maybe seven minutes of adjusting before I guess he was satisfied. I was aiming down range upright, which didn't sit well with me and the fact that I wasn't sure where I stood as a trainee.
What made me even more confused was when he removed the clip and made sure only a single round was loaded. I gave him a look, but he remained impassive.
With nothing to do, I adjusted to make myself comfortable with the weight.
I pulled the trigger. Hard.
BANG!
And immediately got fell on my ass. Felt like I got socked in the joint and was SORE. God, the ringing in my ears. It was thankfully not as bad since I'd already spent days hearing gunshots ring around my section of camp.
Still, I guess it would've been worse…. Oh, they're laughing.
Duck, stop giving me that look. I'm trying alright.
"…. Why are you helping me so much Duck?" I asked him out of the blue.
We'd spent the better part of the day perfecting my stance and getting me used. The shooting bit of training was held back to only a few shots occasionally, since I hadn't recovered from how the first attempt went. The last hour was spent in cleaning the rifle and I'd take satisfaction in that the PFC seemed happy enough with my work that we left immediately after without fuss.
Returning to my earlier question, Duck's answer was, "Why shouldn't I?"
"Well, surely, you'd want something out of this right? A favour, some debt, maybe ownership?" I answered back.
The older man turned to look at me. A serious -and for me intimidating- look on his face.
"…. Listen," he began after a brief silence. "This isn't some game or roughhouse time in the playgrounds, alright? This is war. People will die. People are already dying. You saw the wreckage on the way here the other day. You wanna be the next guy they have to throw on the pile?"
"No, I-…,"
"Then quit being an airhead, alright!" he snapped, leaving me dazed.
"Ever. Since. Coming. Here!" he repeatedly jabbed me with his finger. "All you've done is mingle and wander around the base looking like a miserable shit! Sure, you help us out where you can and we appreciate it, but have you ever thought you've been taking this FAR too much for grunted, huh?!"
'Just where was this even coming from?' I thought. I wasn't doing anything wrong. I didn't do anything wrong.
Why were people still mad at me?
I was snapped back to attention when Duck suddenly grabbed me by the collar and brought my face mere centimetres from his.
"Duck!" someone interrupted.
We both turned our heads to seek Mike standing right behind Duck and to my right. He had a set of paper in his hand, and his helmet in the other which allowed us to see the aged face with greying hair. It was frankly amazing really for me the first time I saw it a few weeks back. This middle-aged man whom I was certain could clock me by simply sneezing my way.
"Where've you been? Been looking for you all evening," the senior man spoke. He didn't seem fazed at all at the scene before him and walked with absolute confidence and stopped just of getting in between us.
"Here, take this," he handed a stack. "It's for Charlie. You, Heath, and his boys need to bring out the supplies and have them ready by the time their back," he checked his watch. "They'll be here any moment now."
True to his word, the very audible noise of at least a few dozen engines, wheels and treads filled the air along with a brilliant light show from main street. It was enough to make more than a few heads turn towards the source. There was a shift in the atmosphere; a sense of haste and purpose as personnel got to work in handling the needs of the returning task force.
I felt the grip on my collar loosen, and I stumbled back a step or two unused to the sudden return of my own weight. Duck had walked off; I could see his brisk pace as he disappeared into the crowds.
"So, what's gotten into him?"
"He's just worried, sir."
"Anything I need to know?"
"No, it's just a minor disagreement. It's not worth it."
'Other than me at least,' was the unsaid clause. A feeling of unease burrowed within me as I processed the man's words.
Was I really taking this too easily?
Glory. Fame. Wealth. It's always the same tunes being sung. Always the same vices offered for every audacious and dashing for youth when there's a war going on.
Fortunately (or not), there were no wars when I'm from. At least, that's what I knew before being sent here. Not that I would've joined the army even for the reasons stated. No, I'd just join for sake of it, or perhaps a lack of self-preservation if circumstances were drastic.
When you learn history, you understand that bad and good are irrelevant at best and subjective at least. There is no way for one to ever know how the river of time would respond when tampered even slightly. The same can't be said for war, however, at least for the common man.
War is suffering. It's hell. History is very informative on that.
I was eager to aid these men the best I could, but I was also more than self-conscious of how liable I was to be a burden. Modern war was such that attention to detail and hair-trigger reactions were the essential for survival in a combat environment. An untrained civvie like me had no place in the slaughter.
Another thing, I didn't want to kill. Shortly put, there was no walking away from that once started. Call me a coward, you may. However, any sensible human would tell you that seeing the blood of Man being spilled by its own is truly an awful sight.
Of course, fate can have a crushingly firm grip on how you lead life and how life leads you. I should've known my hypocrisy would be called out and punished for. Still if I was glad of one thing….
It was that I wasn't given the chance to stop and process the killing until long after the sun had set that day.
AN: So, it's been a while…. This is probably the part where I say that the fan was hit and things when flying all about. However, I'd figure to just skip it.
In between a crappy finale, depression, Europe at War for CoH and also writer's block, I'm just happy to be able to finish this. Feel free to critic, 'cause I surely need it and it's kinda messy because I feel like a mess. GG I guess.
See you guys next chap! Hopefully soon.
EDIT: Fixed the missing line breaks. Fanfic works weird at times.
And to guest reviewer, I can't thank you enough for your kind words, but I feel obliged that you have Mike's name mixed up with Zeke's(MC). Nonetheless, I'm just glad your review appeared. Thought the site was acting up on me.