The Fall of Voerdeland (IC: ATTN Vapor)

[Pavlostani]

Brandburg Birkenau
Gas Chamber Delta

Ming stared in absolute horror as Belstrad thrashed in agony within the chamber.


"No..." He whispered, unable to help he friend. As the Voerd shoved Ming next to Belstrad's body, Ming whispered into the dust,

"Breckton?" He was lifted up with the corpse on his shoulders.

"Come on, buddy, breathe!" Breckton's head lolled lifelessly. And then Ming understood. Ming understood everything.

Khamulite Encampment

"Halt!" A sentry grabbed his rifle seeing Ming carrying Breckton up the hill.

"It's me, Kergov." Ming said, a certain liveliness missing from his voice.

"Is that Lord Belstrad's boy?" Kergov stared at Breckton's body.

"Aye. Come on, I must speak to Wu." Ming continued on.

"Commander. What news from the camps?" General Wu saw Ming approaching. Ming dropped Breckton's body at his feet.

"Woe to the House of Belstrad!" He cried out in despair.

"I take it, bad news." Wu said dryly.

"It's the VPG. A man named Beinreicht is commanding them. They claim to have reinforcements superior to our numbers coming." Ming explained.

"Then we'd better hurry. I'm putting you in command of the siege." Wu ordered.

"With all due respect sir, I cannot do that." Ming replied.

"You will do it because I ordered you to." Wu's face darkened.

"I will not. I saw firsthand what is in the lower chambers, and it killed Breckton. I will not be party to this massacre." Ming said defiantly. Wu studied him.

"Very well. Gerev, please kill Commander Ming." He said casually. Colonel Vasili Gerev drew his pistol when Ming drew a knife faster than the eye could see and buried it in Gerev's left eye. In a flash, Ming fled into the forest.

[Pavlostani]

Khamulite Encampment
Outside of Brandburg Birkenau
December 27^th, 1890
20:15, Local Time

"Ming's departure was most inconvenient." General Wu spoke over a table bearing a map of the region to the surviving senior command.

"We must withdraw immediately. He spoke of enemy reinforcements, that much we know." Lieutenant General Leonid Molidov insisted, only to see Wu raise his hands.

"I will assign scouts to the borders of the territory. At the first sign of trouble, we will retreat, but until then I have orders to take this facility." The General said calmly. The officers nodded their understanding.

"Mr. Menshikov?" Wu asked. Menshikov looked up, startled at the mention of his name.

"Yes, Your Lordship?" He asked, alarmedly.

"You were the one to brought news to me that hostile forces had taken the camp, did you not?" Wu asked.

"I did, Your Lordship." Menshikov bowed his head.

"You have my gratitude. As thanks, I'm sending you back to Khamul. You need to bring word to the Diktador of the VPG threat and of Ser Breckton's death. His family will grieve the loss." Wu said.

"Aye sir." Menshikov swallowed, and hurried out of the tent.

"Leytnant General, assemble the troops, and prepare to besiege the facility. You are all dismissed." Wu stood and left the tent.

20:30, Local Time

Captain Anton Kolinski donned his heavy balaclava.

"Pretty bloody cold, eh?" He asked his friend, Illya Tupolev.

"Aye. 'Bout to get a lot warmer though." Tupolev gave a rough laugh.

"True that." Kolinski grunted as he started cleaning his rifle.

"Shame that Ming's missing. That crazy bastard probably could have taken the entire camp by his lonesome." Tupolev continued the small talk. Kolinski couldn't blame him. Neither of the two had been present at the Battle of Galinsk, in fact, the two had fought any major action when the Khamulites had landed in Brandburg. They were truly green, yet here they were, about to begin a siege. Kolinski was freezing, yet he felt the eye hole in his balaclava and was surprised to feel sweat.

"Well, we've got maybe thirty minutes until we begin." Kolinski said as he rifled through his pack. He drew out a pack of cigarettes.

"Smoke?" He offered one to Tupolev, who declined.

"Shame. We might die out there, you really ought to have one last one before we get snuffed out." Kolinski pulled his balaclava up and lit up a smoke. Tupolev wrinkled his nose.

"I don't smoke." He snapped. Kolinski choked on smoke and spat the cigarette out.

"Sorry." He mumbled. Tupolev reached into his pack and drew out a bottle of vodka.

"I have my own bad habits." He gave a cocky grin and took a small swig.

"Is that Vandon? Where did you scrape up the money for a bottle of that?" Kolinski stared.

"A magician does not reveal his secrets. Here, have some. Takes the cold sting away." Tupolev handed the bottle to his friend. The two sat for a while, then Kolinski said.

"Come on. Get your balaclava. We've got a war to fight." The two soldiers walked out on the snowy plains before Brandburg Birkenau as the first cannons began to fire onto the fortification.

[Vjiay]

Frank felt a nudge in the small of his back, he rolled over and tried swatting it away. Another nudge, this time harder. Frank muttered something about his mother and rolled onto his stomach. The next nudge wasn’t a nudge, it was a kick. Frank woke with a start.

“Hadley. Hadley!” came a quivering shouted whisper, “Get the fuck up Hadley, it’s your turn on stag!”

Frank groaned. Stag. The bane of any sleeping soldiers’ life. ‘Stag’ meant ‘Standing Guard’, and right now meant that Frank had to roll out of his lovely warm, deerskin sleeping bag, trot to the end of his section line, sit down and stare at and listen to the inky blackness that stretched inexorably before him.

He checked his timepiece, which showed it was now four minutes to two o’clock in the morning. The disembodied voice hadn’t been wrong, it was his turn.

He pulled the sleeping bag down - he had previously been curled up inside of it - and the cold hit him instantly. His eyes watered and his lungs struggled to breathe properly, instead snatching at short and fairly useless breath. Frank had to stifle a series of coughs as his lungs adjusted.

Tentatively he crawled out, trying to keep his bare hands off of the ground and on his slightly warmer equipment. He had of course slept prepared, so he already had the necessary clothes on, including his boots, and he had also slept clutching his rifle.

Hurriedly he packed his sleeping bag and ground mat into his Bergen, did up the clasps and walked quickly to the end of his section that he had been designated to watch, followed a string that had been propped up by sticks that ran parallel to the sleeping soldiers.

The platoon had bedded down in a triangle, each of the sections making up a side, with the command element in set up in the middle. It was a standard army practice and meant that attack from any side could be met with resistance from at least one section, while the others formed up a baseline through which to either bug out and counter-attack. It had been tried and tested in Valoria and was a very useful tactic.

Frank found the position and slumped down, sitting on a piece of waterproof fabric that had been laid down and provided some protection from the freezing ground. The man he was relieving got up slowly, patted Frank on the shoulder and left to find his toasty sleeping bag. Lucky bastard.

He sat in the night, shivering quietly. His eyes had adjusted as much as possible to the light offered by the stars and the moon and he found that he could actually make out quite a bit; a bund line to his South-West, the hundred yard pike that had been laid out in the distance to help with range finding should they need to open fire.

Now that he had woken up properly, Frank found that he actually wasn’t that tired. They had only marched around twelve miles during the ‘day’, punching through to the Exploitation Line which was about two miles into the enemy occupied zone. They hadn’t seen anything at all of the enemy and they and the battalion were, apart from the cavalry of course, the furthest South element of the Vjiayan army. It was expected to be like this though, the Cyprumese only had sparse reconnaissance patrols out here and the Vjiayans were quiet enough to avoid at least some of them.

The Vjiayan thunder would come a little later.


29th December, 1890
Edge of Enemy Controlled Zone
0200

Regimental Command had set up their camp three miles behind the forward forces, with telegraph lines running from a centre tent forward to Battalion Commands and rearward to Theatre Command. So far, all was well. The forces had moved into their positions without a hitch and were currently hunkered down somewhere to the South. The first Cavalry elements were due back at around 0800 for debrief and resupply and the trains that had dropped off the first wave would by now be on their way back South with the second wave aboard. Colonel Hale was pleased. From his Theatre Command Post, about a mile out from the Disembarkation Point, he had telegrammed all forces earlier on, reading. In code, it had said that everything was going smoothly so far and that the Queen expected them all back for tea and medals by her birthday in March, which got a chuckle from the men. The foreign forces of the Allied armies were in position too. The Inorothians had had to travel a little further West before turning South, screened by the Vjiayans, whilst the Fanaglians were happily bringing up the rear, as the main bulk of their force hadn’t even arrived in Theatre yet. Despite the generally jovial tone of the telegraph, he also included a quote that focussed the minds of the forward forces:

“No plan survives first contact with the enemy.”

[Fanaglia]

Clearing Outside Brandburg Birkenau
Khamulite-Occupied Voerdeland
27 December, 1890
20:30 Local Time

High up in a thick and snow-covered evergreen, Private Zinetula Nikulin straddled a cold branch between his damp and numb legs. He shivered and swore under his foggy breath; his shift was nearly over and his replacement could not come quickly enough. As if the cold weren't enough, the thought that a full-scale Khamulite retaliation force would be arriving any minute for Benreicht's slaying of their messenger was there to haunt his already wracked mind. Come on, Vasily, where the hell are ya? With every passing moment, his physical and mental discomfort increased exponentially. All Nikulin wanted was to go back to his relatively warm cot, beat off, and go to sleep.

Something down below, across the clearing. Movement in the branches, behind the treeline. He withdrew his spyglass to try to get a better look. Straining his eyes in the darkness, he could just make out the shadowy figures moving through the distant foliage. A dozen of them at least. There had to be more he could not see. They were coming.

"Blin!" He swore as he fumbled with the match between his numbed fingers, trying to get the lamp lit. A sound had begun to rise above the faint rustle of the evergreen branches in the wind that he had grown accustomed to -- the sound of boots trudging through packed snow. Many, many boots. Hundreds at least. They were coming. Then there was a new sound, very faint -- this time from above. KSHHHhhhh! went the match, finally lit, which he thrust with the utmost urgency into his lamp so he could signal back to the sentries posted in the towers back at the camp. The peculiar sound from above came nearer, grew louder. Frantically passing his hand back in forth before the lamp's flame to message the camp, the sound grew louder still. Realizing what it was, he dropped the lamp and cupped his gloved hands to his mouth to shout as loudly as he had ever mustered in the whole of his life, "INCOM--" before the artillery shell landed three meters from the base of the tree, sending shrapnel and ice and rock and flame surging outward, snapping the tree and the spine of the man in it like twigs and silencing forever the private's cry with it's own hideous, fiery shout.

---

Outer Compound
Brandburg Birkenau, Khamulite-Occupied Voerdeland
27 December, 1890
20:30 Local Time

The soldiers within the walls of the Brandburg Death Camp did not have the time to look on in horror at the explosion of the first Khamulite artillery shell, not two hundred yards away; more explosions followed closely on its heels, each one closer than the last, until finally they rattled the very walls of the compound from strikes within and without. But they were ready for this. It was an inevitability they had been preparing for ever since the brutal rejection of the Khamulite messengers' offer. Alarum bells were sounding as if for the Apocalypse; men were running half-dressed through the snow. Benreicht himself was swaggering around the outer compound with his woolen shirt half-unbuttoned, his tangled hair and beard as wild as his eyes, which were full of hellfire. He paid little mind to the explosions happening around him (sometimes close enough that the concussive blast noticeably swayed his gait) as he barked orders to his men. "Pick yourself up, you worthless hooy morzhovy! Push that body aside and take his place on that blasted gun! Stand up and be a man or I'll kill you myself!" The volley of artillery, both Voerdish and captured Khamulite, was returned with a ferocity that would terrify the god, Ares, himself. The forest surrounding the camp shook with earth-shattering concussions of fire and brimstone. All of the rage of the vengeful Voerdish men of the Army of the Voerdish Provisional Government was focused then at that very point from which the sub-human perpetrators of unforgivable atrocities approached them.

[Pavlostani]

Outside of Brandburg Birkenau
December 27th
20:30, Local Time

Private Vanya Zherpov's hands flew to his ears following the first blast of Khamulite artillery. He was lucky, a man near him lost his footing, clutching his ears. One one thousand... two one thousand...

"Maybe we eliminated their artillery." He said hopefully. Then, the ground below him seemed to uproot with an impossibly loud bang, and Zherpov flew. The man landed on his back, dumbfounded. Then the pain of his legs being blown off set in. Zherpov screamed as blood soaked the snow and cries erupted around him.

"Zherpov!" A voice shouted. Zherpov's head lolled in pain and he saw the silhouette of a man kneeling over him. Zherpov attempted to move and screamed in shock and pain as a shaft of fiery, excruciating pain shot up his spine. Zherpov's vision pulsed red as the agonizing pain in his lower half seared through his body. Zherpov screamed again, the man was examining his lower half. Vaguely, Zherpov recognized the man as his division's medic. Kill me! He screamed, yet nobody did anything and only then did Zherpov realize he had only screamed once more. Fear set in and for the first time in his life, Zherpov felt truly alone. Relief was abrupt, it came without warning. Just like the second shell that splattered Zherpov's skull.

---

Commander Ming breathed through his balaclava. He was certain that he would go unrecognized in the mask.

"Sergeant! Where's General Wu?" He gripped a passing man's shoulder.

"He moved back into the woods when we first heard enemy artillery. Why, who are you? I can send him a message." The man said.

"I am... Leytnant Commander Pezhev. Don't bother, it wasn't important." Ming growled, slipping his knife up his sleeve. He looked back at the camp. Khamulite artillery was firing a second volley. I hope I have enough time. He thought, nervously. For Breckton. For Voerdeland.

---

Kolinski, Tupolev and a dozen other men were making a mad dash towards the outer compound. Suddenly, the cold was no longer biting and the wind was exhilarating. A man next to him screamed and clutched his face as a Voerdish rifleman fired a bullet that pierced the man through the right cheek and smashed into his skull.

"Leave him!" Tupolev growled as the two reached the wall and huddled underneath. Behind them, other groups were making similar runs.

"It's no use, we can't break these walls!" Kolinski gasped, fear setting in. A man wearing an obscuring mask dove towards the walls next to Kolinski.

"Pezhev, nice to meet you!" The man yelped, shaking Kolinski's hand. Kolinski stared at the man. Pezhev had Eastern features and was decidedly handsome. At least, had been. Pezhev's face had gone gaunt and a harrowing look was in the man's eyes. Kolinski shook his head, he knew he would never be able to relieve his mind of Pezhev's haunting eyes.

"Well, let's knock." Tupolev suggested, and the band started banging on the walls, futilely trying to break through. Brandburg's artillery was pounding the Khamulite siege party. Kolinski stared at the Khamulite encampment with a defeated look, his countrymen seemed to be pulling into the woods.

"Well, we are royally, imperially fucked." He kicked the wall angrily. A rock fell from atop the wall and crushed the skull of a fellow soldier.

"Sukin Syn!" Tupolev swore, only then realizing at what a disadvantage the Khamulites were at. Soldiers around him nervously looked back at the large Khamulite mass pulling back.

"Stand and fight you cowards!" Tupolev screamed towards the Khamulite encampment.

"Stand and fight!" He howled, to no avail.

Neighboring Forest
21:00, Local Time

Khamulite soldiers were hard at work, cutting down trees.

"We're not retreating, we're advancing in the opposite direction." They joked as they worked.

"We want the wood thick and hard!" Wu ordered, walking past the soldiers. One man sniggered. Glaring, Wu drew his pistol and shot the man on the spot with a resounding bang. The lumberjacks halted their work, staring at their fallen comrade's blood soaking into the snow. One man gave a muffled gasp.

"I did not ask you to stop." Wu said softly without holstering his weapon. The soldiers got back to work quickly.

"Every extra minute we toil, a comrade dies, under the walls of the Burg. We need ladders and barricades fast." Wu shouted, his voice drowned out by the sound of axes striking wood and cannons firing on and from Brandburg Birkenau.

[Fanaglia]

Outer Compound
Brandburg Birkenau, Khamulite-Occupied Voerdeland
27 December, 1890
20:50 Local Time

The soldiers stationed along the outer wall of the camp, who had been picking off the Khamulite soldiers below who were attempting to breach or scale the barrier like an ape picks lice off it mates back, erupted into cheers of joy as the first wave of the cowardly enemy was retreating less than an hour after their assault began. A few of the men began to sing the national anthem of the Old State as they set to work repairing the damage left by the attack, rearming, reloading, and removing the fallen from the high-traffic areas around the perimeter to allow for easier movement and better response to the enemy, which was sure to make a second, likely more clever or better-organized attempt to retake the camp at any moment. Under Benreicht's screaming orders, the heavy main gate was sealed more securely and barricaded. The machine gun nests protected by sandbags left just inside the gate by the camp's previous occupants were righted and prepared for the worst.

Where in God's name are the blasted Gratians? Their surviving commanders -- provided they were not all killed by the Ineseans -- would have carried word of what had happened before the VPG arrived back to their command headquarters by then. Reinforcements were surely on the way; it would just depend on how quickly word was gotten to the proper authorities. Meanwhile, he eyed uneasily the frustrating slowness with which the Inesean wreck they had salvaged, its envelope a mess of leaky patchwork, was filling.

He lit a cigar and surveyed the rest of his men, every one of them hard at work preparing for the next wave of attack, trying to expect the unexpected. He payed particular interest to the men in the telegraph shack. The equipment therein was still a mess; someone had detonated some sort of explosive inside during the initial assault by the Gratians. Reestablishing communications with the outside world was essential; even if his men were not able to hold the camp, word had to get out about the situation, no matter the cost. To the men inside the telegraph shack, working at a frantic pace to sort out the mess of wires and switches and machinery, working up a sweat even in the frigid weather, he shouted, "Don't just stand around in there, you two! We need that telegraph! You two are about as worthless as perhot' podzalupnaya!" The two men paid him no mind, focusing furvently on the task assigned to them. No amount of shouting could speed up the process (much to Benreicht's frustration), yet they, and every man under Benreicht's command, had quickly learned to always give 110% every time, and that Benreicht would still be unhappy with the results. He was a demanding man, but that was part of what made him such an effective leader, if he didn't drive his men mad first.

[Pavlostani]

Forest
Three kilometers east of Brandburg Birkenau
December 27th, 1890
21:30, Local Time

General Wu winced as a piercing crack resounded, and a tree fell. He slowly turned to see a large oak tree lying prostrate before him, a team of proud looking Khamulites wielding axes standing around it. Wu examined their handywork, and nodded his approval. The Khamulites cheered, until Wu silenced them.

"Nice job gentlemen. Now don't dillydally. On with it!" Wu waved his hands at them. He took another moment to admire the fallen tree, then nodded at a man in a thick woolen coat who was not chopping wood.

"You there!" He pointed, breathing hard as the winter air chilled his lungs. The man looked up.

"Name's Private, First Class, Yefim Deshenko, Your Lordship!" The man struggled to make himself heard over the deafening axes on wood.

"Deshenko! You an engineer?" Wu also fought with the lumbermen and their axes for auditory dominance.

"Aye sir! Got a bunch of boys on that sycamore over there! Why?" Deshenko breathed.

"Get them over here-" Wu started when he jumped, another tree had fallen with a deafening bang. He chuckled, and glanced westwards towards the camps. They must think we're still shooting, given this cacaphony...

"Get them over here, and start building barricades and ladders!" Wu shouted. Deshenko's face took a deathly gray pallor. He took a few steps back.

"Begging your forgiveness, Your Lordship, but any barricades made from these trees won't get much in the way of a heavy gun. I'm sorry, but nothing I build will stop an artillery shell." Deshenko trembled in fear, wondering what the price for disappointing a noble was.

"Well, do the best you can. Can you build something that will stop rifle shots?" Wu demanded. Deshenko weakly rose his hands.

"Theoretically... yes. But it would take careful engineering. My boys are good, but we want to maximize wood use to build as many barricades as possible while making them thick enough to stop gunfire. We need to balance economic working with quality work. I'm sorry, but that's the best I can do." Deshenko gave a defeated shrug. Wu looked at Deshenko for a moment, then slapped him hard across the face. Deshenko stumbled and tripped over a log.

"Khamul's beard!" He yelped as he fell.

"I did not ask you for your defeatist opinion, I asked if it was possible!" Wu screeched, his face contorted with rage.

"Yes!" Deshenko scrambled backwards. Wu glared at the engineer, then walked away. Deshenko touched his face and saw his fingers come away wet with sweat, despite the frigid temperatures.

---

Wu walked away from the idiot engineer, swearing under his breath about the foolishness of his subordinates.

"I'm going for a walk. If anything should happen to me, please kill Private Deshenko." Wu informed Lieutenant General Molidov. Molidov nodded his understanding.

Shoua Wu was fifty-two years old, yet as he walked, he felt as though he had lived a century. Voerdeland seemed to prematurely age men. The General strolled west, and saw the imposing structure of Brandburg Birkenau in the distance. Wu drew a spyglass and examined the camp from a distance. His thoughts on the activities of the camps were mixed. General Wu was a military man and took orders from Pavel without question. Twenty years ago, Pavel ordered him to kill a six month old child and Wu had unflinchingly strangled the babe. Yet, even now, he was disgusted by that action. He felt much the same about the camps. Shoua Wu was not a Khamulist; he was secretly a member of the Church of Nyphron. He knew that his god, Maribor, did not flinch from violence and neither did he. Yet, in the camps, upon seeing the prisoners, he felt unimaginable pity and remorse. One of them had dared look at him and Wu realized that he would never forget the look in that man's eyes. Wu thought back to the engineer he had bullied in the woods. Looking back, Wu realized that Deshenko had felt obligated to tell the risks of his plan to Wu. General Wu wondered if his anger had been directed at Deshenko for his attitude, or at himself for his distaste for his orders.

Wu's introspection was distracted when he looked towards the camps and saw at the base of the camp, Khamulite soldiers were taking shelter under outcroppings. Wu's spyglass fell over one soldier, who peeked his head out of an outcropping. An instant later, a rock was dropped from the battlements, splattering the soldier's brains over the walls. Wu dropped the spyglass and fell on all fours. He began to violently vomit. A moment later, the episode was over. Wu wiped the side of his mouth and looked back. They're dying. My people are-

Wu never finished that thought. Before he could, a large brown mass exploded from the brush with twenty Khamulite soldiers underneath. Deshenko stood behind it, watching soldiers carrying his masterpiece into battle.

"You did it! By Mar, you did it!" Wu turned and before Deshenko could back up, Wu embraced the engineer. Quickly releasing him, Wu looked the man in the eyes.

"It's come to my attention that I may have acted... inappropriately back there. You have my apologies. These barricades are amazing!" Wu grinned. A second barricade left the trees, another team of soldiers carrying it towards the camps.

"Oh, they must be finishing up the third!" Deshenko punched the air in triumph. Wu looked back towards the, new hope burning in his eyes. Lieutenant General Molidov came running out from the trees.

"Orders, sir?" He panted. Wu looked back into the woods, then towards the camp.

"Recommence bombardment. Immediately."

[Fanaglia]

Outer Compound
Brandburg Birkenau, Khamulite-Occupied Voerdeland
27 December, 1890
22:00 Local Time

The men scurried about the outer compound, putting forth the final preparations for the Khamulite's next assault -- the coming of which was confirmed by the movement of the treetops not far beyond the treeline at the end of the wide, open expanse between them. "Is that blasted ship ready, yet, Lieutenant?!" Benreicht shouted hoarsely at one of his subordinates.

"Nearly, sir! Just a few more minutes! Cargo's already loaded!"

"Double-time it!"

"Yes, sir!" The Lieutenant darted off and began shouting orders of his own as the large, uneven zit of shoddy patchwork rose above the rooftops as it inflated.

"KILOS INCOMING!" Shouted several soldiers from their stations at the top of the perimeter wall.

"COMMENCE FIRING!" Cried Benreicht. Almost before the words were out of his mouth, the earth shook with the rumble of artillery and the cackle of small arms fire from both sides, followed shortly thereafter by explosions all around. Benreicht staggered up to the ramparts to stand alongside his men and get a better view of the battlefield. Out of the trees and the smoke from artillery-fire emerged three great, dark shapes. His mouth hanging agape, he tried to understand what it was he was seeing. "Give me that!" He spat as he snatched a spyglass from one of his men nearby, placed it to his eye, and focused on the dark shapes. Lumbering slowly towards them were three great rectangles fashioned from several felled trees lashed together to make a sort of wall shielding the many men behind it who pushed it forward. It was a mighty impressive construction in such a short amount of time; Benreicht found himself offended that such subhuman mongrels had come up with an idea he found to be so brilliant. Still, the bulk of the barricades meant that the speed of their approach would be greatly retarded -- perhaps it wasn't such a good idea, after all. Handing the glass back to the soldier from which he had snatched it, he barked at the same man, "You go and tell those baby-wakers to focus all of their fire on those smug turtle-bastards! We'll show them!" With a "yes, sir!" and a salute, the young lad was off to the artillerymen.

Just then, a faint groan arose over the cacophony of gunfire and explosions. Benreicht turned to see the crippled Inesean monitor ship limp its way into the air. It was quite a hideous sight: its rough patchwork was bulging here and there as it tried its damnedest to keep its precious lift gas contained within, its narrow nose hung low from the added weight of the aluminum plating which had been hastily lashed to it, and the words "For Voerda!" were painted with a quick. It looked like a dog with a serious case of mange walking along with its nose to the ground, sniffing for its next meal of someone's refuse. A cheer rose up from the Voerds as the creaky wreck lumbered over their heads and towards the enemy, towards whom she was already unleashing a rain of fully-automatic fire from her bow-mounted guns.

The men stationed on the ramparts continued to fire on the Khamulites with renewed vigor, trying their best to protect the barely-airworthy heap and its cargo long enough to accomplish its mission; the Khamulites, meanwhile, were still advancing, even as their wooden barricades were gradually whittled away by Voerdish arms. Soon, the Inesean ship was over the main contingent of the advancing Khamulite troops and the men aboard began casting out molotov cocktails at the unsuspecting men below, sending many of them and one of their precious barricades into a furious, panicked blaze.

Eventually, the inevitable happened: one of the main gasbags was finally ruptured when the envelope protecting it (a clever Fanaglian design) was reduced to tatters, sending out a great geyser of flame from where the hydrogen escaped. The ship began to lose altitude, falling with a slow spin right above the Khamulite troops. Realizing that they were done for, the three brave men aboard the ship opened the gas valves to drop the ship as quickly as possible to give the enemy below as little time as possible to get out of the way. The ship struck the ground hard, its envelope rumpling like the nose of the dog it so resembled before it erupted into a massive fireball, engulfing any Khamulite unfortunate enough to be nearby.

It was a horrendous sight, but, so far, all had gone according to plan; the men aboard the ship would, once the war was over, receive the highest honors available in the Voerdish military to go to their families.

As the Khamulites at the end of the field were recovering their wits after the explosion, the Voerds, who had never lessened their firing, witnessed several enemy soldiers near the blast fall over, twitching. Like a ripple in a pond radiating out from a drop of rainwater, more and more Khamulite soldiers began dropping suddenly. It was some moments before the Khamulites even realized what was going on: the Inesean ship had been loaded up with surviving canisters of the deadly gas the Khamulites had used on their prisoners. The Voerds were using their own weapon against them. Screams arose from the enemy soldiers as they scattered, trying to put as much distance between themselves and the wreck as possible; the Voerdish soldiers, meanwhile, continued to pick them off with just as much fervor as before.

[Pavlostani]

Outside the Birkenau
December 27th, 1890
22:00, Local Time

Yefim Deshenko gulped the frigid air as he surveyed the fight. The three turtles were advancing painfully slowly and he could see Voerdish fire intensifying on them. Damn.

Deshenko wrapped his long coat around him as he hurried through the encampment when a second sound rang through the air. The sound of an airship.

"General Haynes! General Haynes is here!" Cries erupted throughout the army when they stopped short. A heavy Inesean ship was rising out of the camps with painted words on it. Deshenko yelped as new machine gun fire tore through the air. He saw splinters fly out of a barricade and swore loudly. No matter, it should withstand a few barrages, he reasoned. The airship continued its onslaught.

"I got this bastard!" He surprised himself by speaking. The engineer scurried through the encampment, dodging soldiers and officers. Finally, he saw what he sought, an anti-aircraft battery. It was designated an AAK-82, and that particular gun was referred to as Nadya by the soldiers. Deshenko couldn't care less what it was called as he manned it though. He opened fire, a blistering torrent of bullets that shredded through the airship's gasbag like a hot knife through cheese. Deshenko gave a cry of victory, then stopped to see the hell he had unleashed.

One kilometer closer to the camp

Pyotr Shimsky was a sergeant in the Khamulite army, and was proud of his recent promotion at the Battle of the Wald. Promotion was the last thing on his mind as he threw himself into the dirt as Voerdish bullets whizzed around him. His friend, Aleksandr Politov took one into the chest and flopped.

"Sasha!" Shimsky crawled over to Politov who was choking on thick, dark blood. Arms pulled him away as Shimsky howled, trying to reach his dying friend.

"No, Sergeant!" A voice rang in his ears, and only a moment later, Shimsky realized what was about to happen. He scrambled back as a molitov cocktail fell from the airship laying waste and incinerated Politov. The man had still been breathing.

"No!" Shimsky howled in grief at the loss of his friend. Others patted him, reassured him, and in the end, Shimsky continued the suicide march towards the camp, the look in Politov's face before he died haunting him.

"Look!" A man pointed. Deshenko's flak gun had tattered the airship. A cheer went up from the soldiers as the behemoth fell. A moment later, Shimsky was on the ground. The man tried to pull himself to his feet. His lips were torn, a striking burn on his cheek, broken teeth and felt as if a party of Ghazel had struck him over and over with sledgehammers. Shimsky cried as he felt a broken leg and fell once more. He felt hands on him. Shimsky rolled over and saw a man yelling, but heard no sound. Oh god, I'm can't hear! I can't hear! Shimsky realized, fear beginning to cloud his mind. The man standing over him suddenly stopped yelling and froze. He started to scream, and keeled over, blood and saliva running down his face. And that was when a curious sensation came to Shimsky. The pain from the explosion vanished and something new set in.

Shimsky screamed. He screamed as his flesh withered and his body twitched. Bodily fluids escaped him, through the nose, the mouth and the ass. Shimsky screamed until blessed darkness came.

Encampment

Deshenko winced, seeing the cries and violence he had wrought. General Wu stood next to him, speechless.

"Your Lordship, I take full respons-" Deshenko started to beg when Wu raised a hand to stop him.

"It's not your fault. You couldn't have seen that coming. Our friends bottled up in that camp will pay." Wu said calmly, careful not to betray his revulsion at the horror on the field. He turned to Deshenko.

"Look there, one of our barricades is almost to the walls." He pointed, trying to get Deshenko's spirits up. He needed the engineer in the right of mind if he wanted to continue to coordinate the building of the barricades, ladders and rams.

"You there," He grabbed the arm of a young man running past. The man gulped.

"Captain Khelyev, Your Lordship!" He announced.

"Take a message to Leytnant General Molidov, focus all artillery fire on the wall facing us." He turned to Deshenko.

"Get to the forest, I want three more barricades before the eve is done." He began to pace back and forth.

"And spread the word to go out there with a rag over your face, I don't want people breathing that gas. It should disperse eventually, but I do not want to take chances!"

Under the walls of the Birkenau

Kolinski and Tupolev huddled under the cold wall. One of the three turtles had been severely burned and discarded after the airship exploded. A second had been battered and whittled down by machine gun fire before an artillery shell smashed through it. Only the third barricade had survived and Kolinski and Tupolev grabbed the sides. The wooden behemoth swayed back and forth as it struck the gate.

"Heave!" The barricade swung forth and hit the gate once more. One of the men carrying it took a bullet and a few screams were heard as blood, bone and brain matter splattered across the barricade. Around them, artillery shells were striking the walls.

"Alright, we can do this!" Kolinski roared, swinging again. Tupolev strained his neck to see the battlefield behind him. Bodies laid like rag dolls, some with horrific injuries, some looking like they were peacefully sleeping. Tupolev grunted, choking down vomit as he continued to ram the gates.

[Pavlostani]

Aquesta
Chadwick Province
Socialist State of Khamul

Lord Barristan Belstrad hurried through the streets. It was Saturday. He had loathed Saturdays since the war began. Saturdays meant casualty announcements. He knew that Breckton was in no danger, he had secretly told Wu to keep Breckton off the front lines. If his son knew about that deal, Belstrad was certain the two would never speak again. Sometimes, that boy had more honor than sense. Belstrad shook his head, it wouldn't pay to think such morbid thoughts. He arrived at the town center where casualties were being announced.

"Mikhail Yevgenniyev!" The man on the podium announced. Somewhere in the throng, a man broke out screaming and was hurried away by his family. Belstrad felt a pang in his heart for that man.

"Grigoriy Rasputin!" The next announcement came. There was silence. Rasputin had been a private man and had often spent time away from Chadwick.

"Breckton Belstrad!" Lord Belstrad stared at the podium, dumbstruck. It was a lie, it was a dream, it wasn't real. Belstrad heard a terrible scream and with a shock realized it was his own.

"Come here, you bastard!" He snarled, and plowed his way through the crowd until he grabbed the speaker's collar.

"It's a lie, it isn't right!" He bellowed into the man's face. The speaker gulped.

"Says it right here. Breckton Belstrad, murdered by the Voerdish Provisional Government in the gas chambers of a facility called Brandburg Birkenau on a diplomatic mission. Telegram from General Wu says that we have the Birkenau under siege and that every inhabitant will pay for what happened to Breckton Belstrad." The speaker hastily said.

"Murdered?" Belstrad felt his world falling around him. And sure enough, so was he.

---

"Dad?" Lord Belstrad woke up to the sound of his son.

"Breckton? Oh, heavens, I thought you were dead." He gasped with relief, and sat up, looking into the sad eyes of his bastard son, Wesley. Wesley sighed.

"Good morning. You hit your head pretty hard after fainting off that podium." There was a dullness to Wesley's voice.

"Breckton really is dead? Oh, no,no,no." Belstrad gasped, and held his head as sobs heaped out of him. He felt Wesley's arm around him, trying to comfort him.

"Get off me!" He snapped at the bastard. Wesley took a step back.

"I miss him too. He was my brother." He whispered. Belstrad lifted his bloodshot eyes to Wesley and hissed,

"No. You are a little bastard who is lucky I took him into my care. Breckton was a princely man, you do not deserve to call him brother. And my son is dead!" And he broke into a sobbing fit once more. Wesley gave his father a hard look and stood up.

"Then I will do my very best to be as honorable, brave and wise as Breckton until one day, you can call me your son." And with that Wesley turned and left the room. Belstrad gave a hateful look after him.

The world would remember the name of Wesley Belstrad.

[Fanaglia]

Outer Compound
Brandburg Birkenau, Khamulite-Occupied Voerdeland
27 December, 1890
22:20 Local Time

BOOM! Came the rumbling thud as the "turtle" struck the main gate once more. The men atop the ramparts fired relentlessly down at them -- the small arms could do little to whittle down the great wooden structure, so the best they could hope for was to strike the men who strayed too far to either side or hung too far back and exposed himself to their rifle fire. They picked them off pretty steadily, but enough men remained to continue to push the ram forward again and again.

Cheers erupted when a private arrived from behind with a shopping trolly loaded with bottles. Each bottle was 3/4 full of kerosene and sported a rag sticking from the top like a flag -- in fact, many of the rags had been fashioned from Khamulite flags found about the camp. It brought the men great pleasure to set fire to these symbols of hatred and death before they cast the bottles -- at least a hundred of them -- down at the wooden structure, where they shattered, releasing their fiery embrace all over the face of the "turtles" and all over any man unlucky enough to be near the splash of flame. It was only moments before the entire structure was aflame, the wood itself burning strongly. No longer could the Khamulites hide behind the once-safe shield as its flames licked at their bodies. They tried to find a way to back away from the flames without exposing themselves to the enemy, but few were successful. Their advance had been stopped cold (pardon the pun) and the few survivors were faced with a choice: surrender or be cut down.

Meanwhile, enemy artillery fire continued to bombard the base. Benreicht was red in the face from a combination of shouting orders, the bitter cold, and physical exertion as he shouted himself hoarse. He shielded his eyes as a shell exploded quite nearby, sending a rain of ash, debris, and what was unmistakably the sprayed blood of at least one of his own brave men to cover him."Are those damned things nearly ready!?" He shouted at a young private pushing another shopping trolly loaded up with all sorts of odds and ends.

"Nearly, sir!"

"On the double, zhopoliz!" He ran to his head artilleryman. "Where the Devil is all this heavy fire coming from? You found it yet?"

"It's coming from somewhere in the forest, sir! We haven't pinpointed it yet -- it's hidden by the trees and the dark!"

"Keep firing until you find it!" Parts of the forest were already on fire and the whole damned thing seemed to shake with every hit it took from their own artillery. Another explosion rang out in the forest and was followed closely by another, larger explosion. "What in the blue Hell was that?"

The artillerymen were cheering. "Found at least one of 'em, sir! That was their ammunition stores going up!"

"Keep firing until there's no more forest left, Corporal!"

"Yes, sir!"

[Pavlostani]

Outside of Brandburg Birkenau
December 27th, 1890
22:20, Local Time

Anton Kolinski swung the ram and then went blind. Moments later, Pezhev was dragging him back as his sight returned.

"The hell happened?" Kolinski gasped, scrambling for a fallen rifle.

"Molotovi." Pezhev said grimly. Kolinski looked back. Tupolev was dragging another fallen man from the burning wreck. Meanwhile, several soldiers were running, flames engulfing their bodies. Their screams echoed up the walls until they all fell silent.

"Gah!" Kolinski yelled, looking at them.

"We've got to retreat." Tupolev crouched next to Kolinski. The second soldier stood, then howled as his leg flared up in pain. Pezhev instantly felt it.

"Does that hurt?" He asked, urgently. Kolinski nodded, struggling to hold back tears of agony.

"Damn." Pezhev growled.

"It's broken." He whispered. Kolinski's eyes widened in fear. Pezhev drew a revolver, and pointed it at Kolinski's head, knowing what merciless fate would await him at Voerdish hands, memories he inherited from a dead man named Breckton Belstrad. Kolinski stared at the barrel in fear. Pezhev's hand trembled, and the revolver fell.

"Do it yourself." He snarled, and in a flash, he and Tupolev began their dash to safety. Kolinski hobbled over to the gun and saw six bullets in the chambers. Five for the Voerds and one for me... He pondered.

Forest

General Wu and Private Deshenko stood on the edge of the wood, observing the carnage below. The last turtle had been obliterated, stragglers were beginning a bloody retreat.

"Go to Lieutenant General Molidov, tell him to pull all troops back. We'll wait until the 3rd Army arrives. Tell him to establish a complete perimeter around the-" A deafening blast cut the general off. Deshenko swiveled, and saw flame and smoke rising out of the forest.

"That must have been an ammo cache." He stomped his foot in the snow. Wu got to his feet, and groaned, realizing that one of his batteries was inoperable.

"Come on. Let's get out of bombing range." He muttered, sparing one last look back at the great, terrible camp.

[Fanaglia]

Outer Compound
Brandburg Birkenau, Khamulite-Occupied Voerdeland
27 December, 1890
22:30 Local Time

Cheers went up from the Voerdish troops within the walls of the death camp when the Khamulites were observed retreating. One last, wounded member of the enemy's offensive was left behind one of their large wooden shields; the Voerdish made an attempt to capture him, but he fired upon them when they got near, taking out a single Voerdish private before planting a bullet in his own head. So much for that, Benreicht mused to himself, not all that disappointed.

The Voerdish were in high spirits after their victory. The fortifications of the camp were a little worse for wear after the artillery barrage, but the VPG had suffered surprisingly few causualties and morale was very high. Still, though, the Khamulites would surely mount a second offensive before too long, likely with reinforcements. They could only pray that their own reinforcements from the Gratians would arrive before the enemy's. There was also the hope that, once the Ineseans were made privy to the Khamul's true intentions and actions in the region, they would send reinforcements as well. But there were too many variables to consider -- Gratian and Inesean reinforcements could not be counted on. It was imperative that the VPG at Brandburg contact the main contingent of the army of the VPG immediately. In addition to making hasty repairs to the camp's fortifications, removing the bodies of the dead and tending to the wounded, taking an inventory of their remaining men and munitions, repairs to the telegraph equipment were set to with renewed fervor. As a backup plan, three pairs of horsemen were dispatched to three different routes away from the camp and towards their allies to carry the news back to Melhurst and the rest of the high command.

Someone would be coming with help for the besieged soldiers -- the only question was whether they would arrive in time. Benreicht had a plan, though, in case they were eventually overwhelmed. He gave a dark smirk as he watched the special team he had assembled. No matter what happened to him and his men, the Khamulites would never retake the accursed camp.

[Pavlostani]

Attograd
The Socialist State of Khamul
Chambers of the Steward
December 28th, 1890

"Ah, it's Yusuf, am I correct?" Pavel turned to see his visitor. Before him stood a well dressed handsome Hintindari man.

"Yes, Your Grace. I am Abdul Yusuf, recently crowned Emir of Hintindar. I also claim lineage to the line of Merton of the Nyphrons." Abdul Yusuf bowed before Pavel of House Ming, Steward to the Glory of Khamul. Pavel raised an eyebrow.

"Well, I'd love to chat with you, but there are pressing issues. You said you wished to help with the brewing war in Voerdeland?" He asked. Yusuf nodded.

"My position of power among those of my religion is rather unique. Hintindar is the stronghold of Islam in this corner of the world, as well as one of the most tolerant parts of the world. I owe that in part to your forbearance in allowing Hintindar to remain a Special Cultural Zone in Khamul." Yusuf began as the two started to walk down a hallway. Pavel nodded and stroked his beard.

"Are you aware of the concept of jihad?" Yusuf asked. Pavel nodded.

"Yes, it is your holy war, right?" He guessed. Yusuf snorted.

"I don't know who translates for you, but you ought to execute him. The term jihad refers to a struggle, both internal and external. The internal jihad is a struggle within one's self between sin and virtue, while the external jihad refers to actions taken to defend one's beliefs." Yusuf corrected the Steward.

"This is all very interesting, but I fail to see your point. How is it you intend to help me?" Pavel snapped, tired of his lesson.

"I am not a fool. I know of what is occurring in Brandburg and who is being sent to the facilities. I am offering to broadcast messages across the world of the glory and honor of the Khamulites and urge them to join into their noble cause. Before you know it, mujihadeen, er, fighters of jihad, will rise to our cause. Perhaps they will join our soldiers in fighting in Voerdeland, or perhaps they will rally in the streets of their nations. Either way, a sizable part of the world will support our cause. Most of them don't ever have to know what you are doing in Voerdeland." Yusuf said.

"What I am doing in Voerdeland? I am cleansing the world, I am fulfilling the wishes of-" Pavel spluttered, outraged, when Yusuf raised a finger.

"I know of your intentions, but look at it from the point of view of the west. You are exporting people for slaughter, you are murdering innocents in their eyes. I would not so openly advertise this fact if you want friends." Yusuf mused. Pavel frowned.

"If that's how you think, why would you lift a finger to help me?" He asked, not trusting the Saracen.

"I do so with a price. I want your word that Muslims will not be sent to the Brandburg Gulag Archipelago. Allow us to remain free, and you will always have our support." Yusuf demanded. Pavel glanced at Yusuf's face and gave the man a sly grin.

"I want you to bring Khamulism to Hintindar in exchange. Muslims may remain free but they must subscribe to the Old Ways. Give your word that when I die, you continue my work. Do this, and I promise you that no Muslim shall walk beneath the arches of Brandburg." Pavel reveled in his position of power over the man.

"Done." Yusuf declared. Pavel grinned.

"You swear to it?" He asked.

"Entirely. I always pay a debt. It is the Muslim way." He said.

---

December 27th
1890
Outlying Forests
Near Brandburg Birkenau

"There was nothing you could have done." Pezhev comforted Tupolev. The latter man kicked a tree angrily.

"Kolinski was my friend, and now he's dead. We should have brought him, we should have-" Tupolev was cut off by Pezhev placing a hand on his shoulder.

"Then we all would have died. Look, I don't want to sound cold, but the lives of two carry more weight than the life of one. At least we left him with a loaded gun. If he had been captured alive by the Voerds, he would have a much worse fate." Pezhev's voice was grim.

"And what the hell is that supposed to mean? He'd be alive and a prisoner." Tupolev rounded on the mysterious masked man.

"He would have been delivered to a gas chamber. I've seen them firsthand and I never wish to again." Pezhev sat down on a rock.

"I wish I could burn down the entire camp, but I can't, any more than you could have saved Kolinski." He snapped.

"That's bullshit!" Tupolev growled, not wanting to hear any more about how he was powerless to save his friend.

"That's war! Not everybody survives and not everybody returns. And those who do aren't the same afterwards." Pezhev bellowed, angered by Tupolev's naivete. Tupolev sat down, facing westwards, towards the camp, so Pezhev couldn't see the tear rolling down his face.

"I'm going to kill them all." He whispered softly.

---

December 30th
KAS Glouston
Approaching Voerdeland

Lieutenant Borenko gazed down at the landscape below them.

"Farmland. Reminds me of the fields outside of Vitograd." He commented. Colonel Filitov laughed behind him.

"Where we're going, all the farmland was burned down by a crazy bastard named Bates. He and a few rogues went to Voerdeland. We entered later, but Bates was one of the first few. Crazy Khamulist, that bastard. Well, we're trying to recivilize the area in Brandburg. Ironic, eh? Settling the Voerds where the first massacre happened? I was thinking about finding me a Voerdish wench and resettling her when we get there, if ya get what I mean?" He nudged Borenko. Borenko tried to hide his grin, the busted out laughing.

"So, we're slotted to get there in two days. Think you can hold back your urges until then?" He joked. Filitov raised an eyebrow.

"Not in the slightest. There's a room back there if you want to..." He gestured with his head. Borenko laughed, uncertain as to whether Filitov was being serious. He glanced back at the Colonel.

"Well?" Filitov glanced back at the room. Then Borenko realized that the officer wasn't joking.

"Well, um, I, you see..." He spluttered until Filitov sighed.

"You what?" He snapped.

"I have a wife.' Borenko lied. Filitov grumbled. Borenko glanced at Filitov and found it hard to meet his eyes. Filitov drew a knife and started carving into the wall, "Vsegda Odinoko"

Forever Alone.

[Fanaglia]

Mayor's Residence
Guryevbury, Republic of Nova Voerda
30 December, 1890
18:37 Local Time

A polite rap came at the door as Jaurdan Melhurst sat before the mirror removing the makeup he had used to cover the rather unsightly bruise that still marred his jaw after his row with his rival, Wayford. "What?" He barked hoarsely.

"Message for you, sir. From General Benreicht," came the muffled announcement through the door.

"Well don't just stand out there; bring it here immediately!" The door flung open, appearing almost to be itself tense with nervousness as an equally anxious young man stumbled in, telegram in hand. Melhurst snatched from his hand the paper which read as follows:

President Melhurst [STOP]

Telegraph repairs just completed [STOP] Change of mission parameters [STOP] Gratian discovery of Khamulite death camps near Brandburg [STOP] Gone to liberate Brandburg [STOP] Hundreds dead [STOP] Civilian and military [STOP] Brandburg liberated but forces weakened [STOP] Request additional troops [STOP] Situation dire [STOP]

General Boris Benreicht [ENDS]

Melhurst crumpled the sheet of paper, absolutely livid. How dare he disobey a direct order? And to not even bother informing me or anyone else about it? He wasn't even thinking about the Voerdish civilians being murdered by the Khamulites; the telegram was not enough to adequately convey the severity of the situation, anyway. Benreicht had abandoned his duty to the Voerdish Army, which needed every man it could spare to fight the Cycuiians. Now he was in over his head and needed help that he simply could not give him, for, no matter how dire the situation was in Brandburg, the Ultimatum had already been issued to the Cycuiians. To balk now after such a threat would make the entire coalition appear to be weak and would only further encourage the yellow dogs. Had Benreicht gotten word to him sooner, perhaps the president could have justified the absence of half of his fighting force and maybe even made a case for focusing on the Khamulites first and instead dealing with the Cycuiians later. Now, his hands were tied. There was nothing he could do.

Of course, he couldn't reply in the negative, either. Public opinion of him was already shaky at best and if it were to get out that he refused to help prevent the mass murder of hundreds of his own citizens, it would be political suicide and it would mean the end of the Old State. "You're dismissed, boy. Thank you," he said to the courier as he tossed him a shilling without looking at him. He waited for him to leave so that he could be alone. "The best I can do," he muttered glumly to himself, "is to pray for you and your men, General." With that, he cast the telegram into the fire. Benreicht already had a reputation for being a loose cannon. If he could deny any knowledge of the events at Brandburg and Benreicht came out victorious, then the VPG would look like heroes compared to the neglectful RNV; if the general failed, the whole of the blame for the fiasco could be cast onto his shoulders, sparing the president. "God be with you all," he said with a sigh as he turned his back on the telegram which was crackling away in the fire.

Of course, with his thoughts clouded in anger, there were a few things he did not consider. One was the courier boy who delivered the message; the other was the telegraph operator who recorded the message. These two might never have come together, called upon at a later date, to verify that the message had, in fact, been delivered, had not a third, unnoticed party not been privy to all that had happened in that room at the Guryevbury Mayor's house -- Wayford's covert guard stationed outside with a view of Melhurst's window.

---

Operation Manus Omnipotentus
Approx. ten kilometers west of the Ewynn foothills, northeastern Zhao (approx. 900 km to Brandburg)
31 December, 1890
03:39 Local Time

The engines behind Captain Iunii whined with exertion as they hurled the rumpled, ice-encrusted hulk of the Pax Dei's envelope at speeds well beyond which she was designed to travel through the heavy winds which buffeted her and the other Gratian reinforcements from the mountaintops and vales. They had kept up this blistering pace ever since leaving the village, codenamed Polar Outpost Theta, in the frigid Zhaoan Arctic to the northwest. It was there that the Voerdish survivors were offloaded and placed into the care of the friendly villagers therein, while the remaining reserve of ships was rallied, repairs were conducted on those returning ships which were still serviceable, and reserve troops and munitions were loaded onto the readied ships for another go at the accursed Khamulites.

The ships were beginning to show the strain of their long sprint, but Iunii knew that this would likely be a one-way trip for the great flying machines. He preferred not to think about the strong possibility for a one-way trip for his men, as well, but he was acutely aware of this reality. There were only 900 kilometers to go and he was confident his ships would hold up long enough to get the job done; he had a sinking feeling in his gut that they were already too late. He knew the VPG would have arrived shortly after his own men, but he had no way of knowing how well they had fared against the Khamulite horde, or in what sort of straits they were in had they survived. It was imperative that he and his men return to Brandburg as soon as possible. Meanwhile, he knew that those ships which were no longer combat-ready but were still airworthy were on their way at a similar pace in the opposite direction, across the untamed savage-lands of northern Promethia back to the Fatherland to convey Iunii's report, to request backup, and to request assistance from Gratia Infinita's allies. He prayed his message would be received in time, let alone heeded.

His meditation was broken by a call from an ensign on the bridge. "Ho! Airship spotted to starboard!"

"Civilian?" Iunii demanded, trying to mask his hopes. His anxiety grew with every passing moment as the ensign glassed the horizon, trying to determine from whence the ship hailed.

"Nay, sir. It's...It's Khamulite..." His words dropped like a bomb on the crew's ears.

Iunii knew that he faced a choice: remove the threat immediately while there was still the possibility for a surprise attack (visibility was low with the stiff wind full of snow and ice) and risk losing valuable ships and men before even arriving in Brandburg, or ignore them and focus on the target, hoping the enemy ships were bound for a different destination and had not yet caught sight of the Gratian ships. If they were also headed for Brandburg, though, then they would just be delaying the inevitable, possibly even exacerbating the situation by bringing the distraction of an air battle to the unknown situation on the ground. "Ensign, how many Khamulite ships can you make out?"

"Only the one to be sure, sir, but it's hard to tell in all this snow. It's impossible to say. There could be fifty ships hiding out there."

"We have seventeen ships. Leave two behind -- the Agnus Dei and the Shadrach to deal with these dogs. The rest of us shall continue on to meet our enemy and, God willing, our Maker. Pax tecum." The two ships broke from formation, as ordered, and began firing on the Khamulite ships as soon as they were within range while the larger part of the squadron disappeared into obscurity.

[Pavlostani]

December 31st
KAS Glouston
Over Zhao
4:00 AM, Local Time

"Filitov, you seeing this?" Borenko gazed out the window. Colonel Filitov leaned to see out the glass pane.

"Clouds. More clouds. More fucking clouds. Oh, look, snow." He grumbled and sat back. Borenko shook his head.

"I saw something out there. Do snowy owls come this far south?" He asked.

"Beats me." Filitov shrugged.

"You know, it could have been an airshi-" Borenko started when an immense blast knocked him off his feet.

"Son of a bitch!" He yelped. Filitov jumped and peeked out the window to see the KAS Stradaniye explode. The charred skeleton of the airship plummeted as smoke mixed with cloud.

"It's the Gratians!" General Haynes sprinted out of her ready room with Tolkunov. Borenko got to his feet and stood at attention.

"Return fire!" Haynes screeched. The Glouston was armed with six mounted Erivan machine guns and was quite a sight when they all opened fire.

"Report." Haynes demanded. Filitov shrugged from his post.

"Haven't a clue. The storm's hiding the bastards." He snarled.

"Well, keep firing!" Haynes ordered. Filitov nodded and bellowed,

"Continue fire!" To the gunmen who continued to spray the blizzard with fire, along with the rest of the flotilla.

Ten kilometers east of Brandburg
Khamulite Encampment Delta

"So, what's tonight's lovely ration." Lieutenant General Molidov picked through their butteries.

"Chicken, goose, quail. I guess fowl is on the menu." He pulled out a goose carcass and tossed it to a subordinate.

"Well, cook it." He leaned forward, trying to warm himself around the fire. Voerdeland was proving to have a brutal winter. Molidov was scared witless to be the closest encampment to the Voerds in Brandburg and flinched everytime he heard a shell landing in the forest.

"Hey, Misha, this remind you of the Baker's Day War?" He asked one of the troops. Mikhail Kharyenko rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, just like the Bakers Day War. Except during Baker's Day, we had plenty of food, the winter was milder in Khamul and the trees weren't fucking exploding from artillery. Other than that, just like it." Kharyenko sat back against a rock, rubbing his hands against his red cheeks to get the feeling in them to return. Molidov was about to make a burning retort when he heard a stick crack in the woods. His head shot to the right and his grabbed his rifle. The other troops heard it as well and began to draw their weapons. Finally, a dozen men walked out of the woods carrying scimitars along with their firearms. They had long hair and a few of them donned turbans. Their skin was dark and suggested a desert upbringing. Molidov made a disgusted sound and lowered his rifle.

"Saracens. What the fuck are you doing here?" He spat at them. The lead Saracen gave a disarming smile.

"Is that any way to treat friends? General Wu sent us from Encampment Epsilon. Said you guys needed some backup. I'm aware that Private Gryushkov died of frostbite, and Sergeant Khortov starved out here." His accent made his voice sound annoyingly cheerful about the deaths of two men.

"The fuck's your name?" Molidov demanded.

"This one is named Mohammed ibn Hadal." The Saracen gave his head a respectful bow. He motioned to two of his troops, who carried a bag over to the fire and drew a shoulder of lamb. The other soldiers suddenly fixed their attention on it. The warm smell of meat filled the air as the troops dined on the lamb, while Molidov ate the goose and gave suspicious looks at the Muslim who laughed and joked with the soldiers.

[Inoroth]

Hasty entrenchments, Inorothian sector
Outskirts of Korford, Voerda (~400 miles from Lux)
28 December, 1890
20:47 Local Time

Corporal Pietro Bibberoni jolted forward, catching himself awkwardly from falling flat on his face. He realized that he had nearly fallen asleep on his feet. One or two heads turned, and someone chuckled a bit, but everyone in the column kept up their lock-step rhythm, and after a few more steps, he had righted himself as well. They had been on the march for over an hour now, passing through the heart of the little town of Korford.

"Figures we'd pull the longest march."

Muttered someone in the rear of the formation, a bit too loudly.

"Quiet in the ranks!"

Growled one of the sergeants over his shoulder, though he no doubt could sympathize with the private. The Fanaglians were off somewhere in the rear, doubtless already hunkered down for the night, the Vjiavians were probably about done setting up camp as well, and in any event, they had far shorter to march, and of all the Inorothian regiments deployed here, it was the 19th Regulars who were positioned on the farthest flank. The 101st Royal were sitting back at the rail head, snugly put up in the local inn with the command staff of Brigadier General Matteo Barcilone. The 13th Royal Granatieri and most of the 1st Bersaglieri had started the march with the 19th, but they were positioned closer to the line as well, and except for a few sorry souls who had pulled scouting and picket duty, they too were already busy making camp. But the 19th, no, they were all the way out on the end of the line, and Corporal Bibberoni's outfit, Company I, would be one of the last units to reach their campsite.

Then again, at least they were here: most of the boys had been left behind, after all. At last, Company A was told to fall out around their captain and make camp. Company B was let out a few minutes afterwards, and on down the line it went, march a minute or two, lose a Company, march a minute more, there goes another. Ten or so minutes went by, and then the Colonel at the head of the column shouted:

"HALT!"

Only Companies I and J remained out in the bitter cold, standing at attention and trying not freeze.

"Company I, stand fast, Company J, you're dismissed!"

Shit! Thought Corporal Bibberoni, We're pulling picket duty, AGAIN!

The Colonel wheeled his horse to the front of the Company and confirmed that they were on picket. They were to leave most of their gear behind, to be watched by Company J, and fan out ahead of the entire regiment in a loose network of lightly entrenched and concealed positions, entrenchments that they would have to build themselves in the dead of night. Instead of enjoying the quick work of setting up their tents, they would spend hours digging in the frozen soil and losing sleep, every man rotating watches, with no fires to keep them warm, not even a cigarette (so as to prevent their position being spotted). With well drilled but rather annoyed movements, they set out by squads to more or less where they were supposed to be and began digging.

Corporal Bibberoni was a squad leader, responsible for eight green Privates and one more seasoned Specialist, split into two fire teams. Each fire team bunked down together, and tonight they had to dig for it. After checking with Specialist Verroni, he trotted back towards his own fire team. Now that they were out of formation, they were free to talk at last.

"Bum luck."

Muttered Private Lorenzo Faleremo as he carelessly unslung his shoulder pack and let it flop to the ground, making a loud crunching noise as it did.

"I'll say!" Growled Private Edmoundo Pontreda, visibly angry but careful to set his rifle against a tree as gently as he might a newborn in a crib. Private Alanzo Dari thought aloud while he rummaged through his pack, looking for his entrenching tool:

"What I don't understand is, how can the Colonel put us on picket the night before we leave base in Inoroth, and then do it to us again our second night out of the boats?"

"And the first night on campaign, don't forget."

Added his brother Eduardo, also a Private. Corporal Bibberoni cut in, commanding all eyes as he spoke.

"Let's not forget, gentlemen, that only a few boys have the privilege of being out here tonight... let's make sure we're acting worthy of that privilege... Carry on"

Of course, he was as miffed at the Colonel as any of them, but it was his job to keep up the morale, and unchecked complaining killed morale like little else. The boys quieted down a bit, and then started talking about back home. Corporal Bibberoni tuned them out a bit, searching for his own entrenching tool and scanning the slope, picking out a spot to build their foxhole. As he pulled the folded spade from his pack, he pointed out to his fire team a raised mound relatively free of trees and looking over a rutted road leading West. From their position, they could see a good bit of the valley spread out before them, and a few buildings from the town on the crest of the hill behind them. They could not see the rest of the regiment, which was on the other side of the slope.

I can't help feeling like we're digging our own graves with these things. Though the Corporal as they began digging. At first, the ground scraped off easily, but then they hit a layer of frozen soil, and it grew increasingly harder to cut through. The Dari brother, Eduardo and Alanzo, unsheathed their bayonets and tried slashing and stabbing the icy soil, with little effect. Private Edmoundo began laughing loudly.

"What's the matter, boys? Your pa's a butcher, right? Didn't he teach you how to cut?"

"This is different... wasn't your dad a convict?" answered Private Alanzo "Didn't he teach you how to break rocks? Go and grab your gun or a log, and smash some of these larger chunks."

Private Eduardo was too naive and kind to have meant it spitefully, but everyone else caught the humor and laughed... everyone, that is, but Private Edmoundo. He sulkily continued to chip away at his part of the foxhole. Eventually, they had scraped holes in the ground big enough to squeeze into (whoever had picket tomorrow could widen it out if they chose, but the closeness provided extra warmth, and they were tired). Corporal Bibberoni would sit out first, so he grabbed his blanket and lay out a few feet away from the foxhole, shivering. It would be a long night.

[Fanaglia]

Operation Manus Omnipotentus
Approx. ten kilometers west of the Ewynn foothills, northeastern Zhao (approx. 900 km to Brandburg)
31 December, 1890
04:04 Local Time

The sky glowed a fiery orange in the distance as the black smoke from fallen Khamulite airships mingled with the white, howling screen of snow that shaded the adversaries from each other. Captain Auriel Bertramus of the Shadrach squinted through his spyglass, ignoring the hail of machine gun fire that whizzed hotly through the freezing air around his ship and the nearby Agnus Dei, trying to make out what he could of his shrouded enemies. Even as the occasional lucky bullet perforated the fuselage of the cabin and tore at the already-rumpled envelope above, he remained calm and focused, calling out targets to the bow gunner in front of him as best as he could based off of shadows and fiery reflections in the obscurity.

"Captain! We've lost prop number three!"

"Compensate for it," the captain replied stoically. "Compensate and maintain course. If the Lord wills this ship be lost, then lost it shall be, but not without a fight." He chewed the inside of his cheek as he concentrated on the hazy shadows in the distance. These fools have no discipline. Far too close together. And judging by the fire they are returning, they are not spectacularly armed, even if they clearly outnumber us. Aim higher, Lieutenant -- fifteen degrees. Good. Five degrees to your right." Another flash followed by the falling orange glow of a fallen airship. "Excellent," he muttered.

"Sir! The Agnus Dei is hit! Hard in the envelope!"

"Captain Abrahamus is a more than capable officer. Maintain course and continue firing." Another one down.

An ear-splitting explosion rang out just above the bridge, shaking the whole ship. "Sir! Forward gasbag number two is compromised!"

"Is the damage contained?"

"For now," the ensign said anxiously, the comm horn to engineering to his ear, "but there's no telling how long they can keep the fire from spreading with it exposed."

"Jettison the ballast we need to stay airborne and maintain our present course of action."

"Already done, sir," he said as the ballast tanks gushed and the ship heaved its weight, not unlike the way a dog shifts his weight off of a wounded paw.

"Many of God's creatures are the most ferocious when wounded. We are no exception." Right on cue, there was another explosion in the distance, punctuating his words with the fiery deaths of more Khamulite murderers who would never again taint His glorious creation.

[Pavlostani]

Northeastern Zhao
Ten kilometers west of Ewynn foothills
31 December, 1890
4:04, local time
KAS Glouston

Filitov yelped as he heard the screech of metal on metal.

"Fuck!" Borenko shouted as he looked out of the airship, seeing a fellow transport vessel explode into a twisted hulk of steel and fire.

"Did they hit the balloon?" Filitov said in wonder.

"Could have been the arsenal!" Borenko shouted over screams of terror and flashes of gunfire.

"There was a whole platoon on that airship!" Filitov sunk against a wall and clutched his hands over his ears, when Borenko gave him a hard kick.

"Get up! Colonel Filitov, get up and do your job." He growled angrily.

"I can't!" Filitov begged. Sighing in frustration, Borenko ran over to Filitov's gun post, and shouted to the neighboring gunner,

"Where are they?"

"We can barely see in the clouds. We're guessing somewhere to the south." The gunner shrugged.

"Dammit man, give me three dimensions, point." Borenko growled. The gunner edged his thumb in the direction they believed the Gratian airships were. Borenko swiveled his gun, and fired a spray in the direction. Without warning, a hail of Gratians bullets struck their position. The gunner was cut down with a swath of weapon fire shredding his chest. Borenko swore violently and turned his own weapon in the direction of the enemy gunfire when the second barrage hit. Borenko felt a bullet his his leg and was suddenly wrenched away from his position with a bellow of pain as he felt his wound. Turning to the interior of the airship, he saw a bullet pattern that would have killed him had he not been somehow removed from his position. Turning, he saw Colonel Filitov had dragged him away from the onslaught of weapon fire.

"I can take it from here." Filitov said with newfound confidence in his voice. Borenko nodded as two stewards ran over to help him limp back to the interior sections of the airship.

[Fanaglia]

Operation Manus Omnipotentus, Bridge of the Shadrach
Approx. ten kilometers west of the Ewynn foothills, northeastern Zhao (approx. 900 km to Brandburg)
31 December, 1890
04:07 Local Time

The two Gratian ships, which at this point were clearly doomed, were beginning to close on their targets. Captain Bertramus squinted, his eyes stinging from the smoke of his own dying ship, as an orange glow began to dance upon his stony face -- a glow cast both by the falling Khamulite ships which were now becoming quite close and by the fire on his own ship above him.

"Sir, we've jettisoned all forward ballast and we're still losing altitude," the increasingly tense-sounding ensign called to him.

"Jettison the rest of it," he ordered.

"Even the aft ballast, sir?"

"All of it! This ship is not going to make it -- few, if any, of us shall survive the crash. But we, men, are on a mission from God! And we shall take as many of these heathens down with is as we can!"

"Dominus vobiscum, Captain," the ensign said sadly, but with a renewed sense of purpose in his voice.

"Et cum spirito tuo," the captain replied as another fallen enemy ship lit up the bridge of the Shadrach like daylight. As the crippled ship began to list dangerously forward, her hull quickly becoming reduced to matchsticks, she continued on her course, her forward gunner giving the enemy all she had. "Dominus pascit me nihil mihi deerit," Captain Bertramus began, his stare focused on the ever-nearing envelope of an enemy ship. The men on the bridge fell silent as he spoke. "In pascuis herbarum adclinavit me super aquas refectionis enutrivit me. Animam meam refecit duxit me per semitas iustitiae propter nomen suum." A tear came to his eye. The enemy ship's bulk filled the entire field of vision before them. "Sed et si ambulavero in valle mortis non timebo malum quoniam tu mecum es virga tua et baculus tuus ipsa consolabuntur me," he said, his voice trembling as it rose. "Pones coram me mensam ex adverso hostium meorum inpinguasti oleo caput meum calix meus inebrians." His voice had risen to a shout; the flames of his own ship had spread to the bridge right behind him. Sweat beaded on the brows of every man on the bridge. "Sed et benignitas et misericordia subsequetur me omnibus diebus vitae meae et habitabo in domo Domini...IN...LONGITUDINE...DIERUM!!!" The last word of the captain's final prayer was the last thing any of them heard before the ear-shattering crash and rumble that came moments before each and every one of them was vaporized by the massive fireball created by the midair collision, the twisted wreckage of both ships falling in a tangled web of twisted metal, flame, and ash, towards the dust below.

Seconds later, the Agnus Dei, suffering far more fatal wounds than the Shadrach, limped her way similarly into the midst of the enemy formation, her keel slashing a fiery tear in the envelope of one enemy ship before going into an uncontrollable spin, which sent her headlong into a second Khamulite ship, the two of them plummeting to the earth in a hellish embrace.

The battle was over, but the rest of Operation Manus Omnipotentus would be waiting for the crippled Khamulites when they got to Brandburg.

[Cyprum Xecuii]

- ボルケツココル
- シャイクイヤ の チュインコク
- 八日 | 一月 | 千八百九十一

"Gunkousai, MI~GI!" ("Soldiers to attention, ri~ght FACE!")

Two hundred soldiers, in ten ranks of twenty, promptly direct their attention to a diminutive but boisterous ensign, and his superior, a Lieutenant Colonel dwarfing him from a few paces behind. The ensign examines the men in his view, then quickly looks back at the battalion commander. The latter and former make brief eye contact, and in silence, the battalion commander offers a simple raised right hand in deference to the men of her battalion. With a crisp and cold tone the officer speaks a mildly curt remark,

"To the western devils, may we send you back to the depths from which you came. For the glory of our empire, long live Cycuiia-"

The rank and file counter in a chaotic but compelling roar,

"FOR OUR COMRADES, FOR OUR KIN, FOR. OUR. CYCUIIA! BANZAI! BANZAI! BANZAI!"

The Lieutenant Colonel smiles faintly and responds to her soldiers, once again with a hand raise. The ensign turns to face his superior directly and salutes; she returns it and the ensign briskly marches to the end of the forward-most rank of troops. "Min-na! (Together!)," the ensign proclaims, "All to his or her NCO for briefing and task execution! Soldiers to dismissal, FORWARD FACE, DIS~MISSED!"

The conscripts kick up the murky snow-melt with a stomp forward and immediately scramble to the supervisors standing at the rear-most ranks.

[Cyprum Xecuii]

Shinjishou-Noruka POW Labor Camp
21st of December, 1890, 8:23 AM
Prisoner Arrival Grounds

A lone engineer peers at the scenery beyond his cabin. A light fog engulfs much of the camp and surrounding region, though blotches of sunlight pierce the cover inconsistently across the land. The locomotive passes the fence securing the innermost camp perimeter, and the engineer begins decelerating the vehicle as it closes distance with the platform ahead. The engineer takes another glance to his right and sees prisoners trudging towards what appears to be a large patch of eroded land in the midst of some wooden barracks -likely to be grounds utilized for roll call. Cycuiian soldiers -dressed in overcoats and padded tunics- flank the prisoners as they begrudgingly move to their destination, with heads low and dejected faces present on many. Though most of the prisoners consist of Voerdish partisans or regular army personnel, Cycuiian political dissidents and 'enemies of the state' also make up the mix of interned. The divide among prisoners is clear even to the engineer in his moving locomotive, as they all begin to cluster and form groups along the paths, based upon their ethnic background.

The train passes a guard walking parallel alongside the railway; his overcoat billows as the rushing air strikes him, prompting the young conscript to pull down his cap. The engineer notices the soldier's predicament and jestingly waves his hand out the cabin. Returning to his control station, the engineer orders (via speaking tube) for the porters in the car behind to put their breaks to work. As the railway platform comes into view of the engineer's windshield, he sounds an air-horn to alert the arrival. A few number of soldiers deviate from the camp paths and scramble to assist the prisoner transfer; the majority continue their patrols and watch of the POWs. The locomotive grinds to a halt with its cowcatcher almost beyond the platform. Steam flushes out from brass apertures surrounding the boiler and driving gear, enveloping the guards and officials on the platform with a warm mist.

Among the officials a captain steps forward,

New prisoners, what a delight... the officer says halfheartedly. He views the conscripts and platform watchmen around him with disdain as they stand staring at the train with clueless gazes and disinterested expressions. With clenched teeth and a tranquil tone the captain directly addresses the soldiers to his left, You four. Do this one freight car at a time; knock on each one and alert the soldiers inside to set those prisoners in front of me as soon as everyone exits a car. Repeat this with each boxcar until there is no one left on the train. Do I make myself clear?

The soldiers were sure to heed their orders well; Yes Captain! the four shout in unison. The highest ranked enlisted (a staff sergeant) among the four leads the remaining three to the end of the train, where the first of the five boxcars containing the POWs is located. Upon reaching the first boxcar the staff sergeant turns, gives the command, Fix bayonets! and then knocks on the door. The three soldiers prepare their rifles and wait anxiously for the response from the inside. Seconds pass, and the sounds of *clunk clunk* and *tap* from within can be heard quite clearly. Suddenly, the door lever from the outside of the boxcar is turned; the staff sergeant walks off the steps attached to the boxcar and watches as the door slides open.

Two Voerdish partisans step out slowly and cautiously with their heads low as the soldiers behind them hold on to their arms and oversee their exit. The captain watches the two prisoners as they are brought to stand and face him. Hmm, they don't look really look like warriors, he muses. A grenadier to the officer's right immediately offers an explanation, Sir if I may, as far as we know most of the Voerdish Regular Armies have collapsed in the areas we occupy. Much of the violent exchanges we've faced are the result of partisan and insurgent resistance. The captain nods in understanding, So, that's how these Voerdes wish to go down, hmm. Well, no matter. Bring out the remaining prisoners! One by one the remaining boxcars are opened and the prisoners set in line in front of the captain. Eventually, the four soldiers reach the fifth and last boxcar (behind the break car accommodating the porters); the staff sergeant treads the boxcar steps and knocks on the door as he had for the previous cars.

Three minutes pass however, and the boxcar door has yet to open. The staff sergeant turns to the captain for directives, but the latter simply holds his hand as if expressing "Wait for a moment". Pressing his ear against the car, the NCO can barely hear the sound of his comrades discussing something indiscernible. Another three minutes pass and finally, a knock comes the inside. The staff sergeant steps down and waits for the door to open. The outside lever turns, and the door slides open; from the boxcar, a soldier emerges. She immediately salutes the captain (who returns in kind) and reports, SIr. One of the prisoners isn't moving, and the other has become somewhat hysterical. The officer pauses and rubs his temple briefly. That is fine. he replies, Set the one that is able to move in the line with the others. Grab a stretcher to secure the downed detainee and get him in line as well.

The three soldiers guarding the final boxcar pull out the conscious and resistant partisan onto the platform. He droops about and bends towards his sternum, making it a pain for the soldiers to set him in place for the captain. Once in line, the partisan crouches on the ground in what appears to be an act of blatant disobedience. The captain and the partisan lock eyes, glaring each other down until a medical NCO and enlisted arrive with the stretcher. As they enter the boxcar to retrieve the immobile prisoner, the defiant partisan begins to show signs of distress and becomes slightly submissive. As the captain jots a mental note of this behavior, the soldiers depart the boxcar with the fallen prisoner tucked snugly in the hammock-like stretcher. The resistant partisan now appears relieved, and once again the captain takes a mental note of these events. With all prisoners now at attention on the platform, the captain decides to formally introduce the detainees to their new residence.

Wercome genrelmen, the captain begins mockingly in stereotypical Zhaorish, it appears that you've all unfortunately fallen into our hands. Yes, you are all now POWs of our great Empire of Cycuiia. Now I understand that most of you will not talk to me despite the fact that I know you all speak English, is that not true? I'm speaking in English to you now, you hear? As customary we require all of our prisoners to identify themselves for matters concerning repatriation, spoils of war, productivity, and the many other issues that will be completely irrelevant to you, now that you've all arrived here.

Now then, a corporal strides to the officer's right and brings out a prisoner roster, flipping the pages to an empty list; the captain faces the defiant partisan and asks of him, since you appear so eager, why don't you tell me who you are?