[OOC: Another thread I want to keep. Currently ongoing, but on hold because of Generia's other commitments. It's a follow-up to the Yaforite-Generian War, from the perspectives of soldiers who went through hell there.]
The Gupta Dynasty 27-04-2008 21:27
"You can't go home." [Semi-open]
"In the years following the War of the Wolves, nearly 68% of Yaforite soldiers suffered from psychological problems brought on by their experiences in the war. The vast majority had extreme forms of post-traumatic stress disorder, and, for many, life after the war was difficult. Officers and soldiers alike felt the impact of what had truly happened on the Generian battlefront and what they had done there." - Introduction, A Psychological History of the War of the Wolves
Four Years Before, Southern Generia
Damer Kieones gritting his teeth, feeling his arms leaden with fatigue. Battles were a tough business, and the war in Generia had seemingly been more than simply a tough business. It was, plainly and simply, the fight for his life. The battles continued to wear on, as the Yaforite army pressed forward; out of the Lew Valley, and beyond. This had stopped being simply a war of revenge, had stopped being a war to regain Yaforite pride, and to defeat the degenerate race that many regarded the Generians as being. No, this was something else entirely. Damer would not admit it to himself, but this had ceased being the type of war that it had been planned to be. Instead, Damer was loathe to admit, this was simply war because no one knew how to stop it.
"There's a matter requiring your attention, Major Kieones." Damer silently gave a sigh of relief, dropping the "Achaea" that stuck to his arms as if it was born there, and moved to follow the other man. "What is this about, Adarias?" It was not that he did not care about what was happening during the war. No, if anything, it was the complete opposite - that he cared for his men too much, and, as such, neglected things that did not directly involve the men with whom he had fought, died, and battled alongside. No, if Adarias wanted something from him, it most likely did not involve his men in any way; instead, it was probably one of the million other things relating to the care-taking of the battle, the battlefield, and the Yaforite army involved therein.
"The Generian prisoner. He's refusing to move. We need to keep going, as you ordered, and he's refusing to move." Damer easily rolled his eyes as he continued, the younger soldier alongside him. So these soldiers wished for him to decide what to do with the Generian. Wonderful. "Couldn't you have thought of something? Bundled him up or something? Why do you need me?" His voice came across as far more abrasive than he had intended, but perhaps that was a good thing - Adarias was a much younger soldier, and the added incentive to do what his commander asked him would serve him well. Adarias flushed slightly, and responded. "Sir...I said he's not moving. Since all troops are packing up for the quick advance, there's no one to help us. So, we figured you would be the...best...person to go to." Damer grunted, the entered the tent.
"So I heard you weren't coming with us." His voice maintained the same level of rudeness that it had had when he was talking to Adarias - if anything, it was ruder - a young, impatient soldier was one thing, but a Generian pig-dog was entirely another. If Damer had learned one thing from this war so far, it was the fact that Generians needed to be handled roughly. Very roughly. "So you must be the commander, then." The Generian's voice dripped with contempt as he stared directly into Damer's eyes. "You know what I say to you wanting me to move? Go to hell, you Yaf bastard. Go to fucking hell. I'm not fucking going anywhere, and there's no way that you're going to make me." He spoke as if addressing one who was lower than him. There was no stubbornness in his voice. Only fact.
In one fluid motion, Damer Kieones drew out the handgun at his side and fired. There was a brief interlude of sound, and then the Generian's head lolled over to the side, his blood decorating the back of the tent behind him, spilling out freshly from the hole in his head. "Take him out and toss his body into a ditch." Damer's voice was still firm, but now it was tight, tight with irritation and anger at what he had just done. He looked around, at Adarias' shocked face, at the shocked faces of other young soldiers who had the same job as Adarias. "Did you not just hear me? I said to take him out and throw his body in a ditch!" As if to emphasize the point, he drew his arm out and pointed directly at the flap of the tent. "We have to be going soon, so you better get moving, unless you want to be sent to the front lines immediately!"
None of the soldiers moved an inch. Adarias' face still bore the same expression of shock that had played on it a second before. "Sir..." The younger soldier seemed to struggle to get his voice out, as his faced paled. "You just...killed him." He shook for a second, like a leaf in the breeze, then continued. "Killed him. You just killed a prisoner, sir. You just killed a man who couldn't defend against you, sir. A prisoner, sir." He had begun to shake again, his teeth chattering, and his eyes were slanted up at the ceiling. Away from Damer's eyes. To Damer, it seemed almost like he was avoiding meeting his eyes like Adarias would avoid meeting the eyes of a stranger.
"Yes, that's right. I killed him." Damer didn't need to steel his voice. It was already as cold as ice. "I killed him. Guess what, kid. This is war. We kill people." His voice, was it even possible, became even colder. "This isn't some parade, kid. We're killing people here. And guess what? I'll kill every sonofabitch Generian who gets in my way. Every single one. I don't feel bad for what I do, either. They deserve it. Every one." He meant it. Every single word.
The Present Day, Night, A House in Ajer
He awoke. His breath was coming quickly, his pulse racing, like he had run a thousand miles or more. He reached his hand up and felt the sweat streaming in rivulets down his face. He felt his face. It was warm. Putting his hand down, he stared at the mirror, across from his head. In the pale moonlight, it was evident that he face was red; it must have been very red for him to see it in the light. His breath continued to come quickly, despite all his efforts to slow himself down. His heart continued to pound, despite all his efforts to stop himself. His sweat continued to pour down, as he stopped trying to wipe it away with his hand.
"I didn't have a choice." His words seemed strange spoken into the stillness of the night, but he spoke them to himself, to reassure himself, to tell himself that he was okay. "I didn't have a choice for what I did." He was proud of the fact that his voice was steady. Over the past few days, he had managed only once to hold himself steady after the nightmares. They had become more and more common - intruding upon him when he was not only asleep. Sometimes he could see the Generians he had killed, the comrades he had left behind, walking alongside him, standing to the side of the wall. Sometimes he had seen the dead as if they were living. And the visions were becoming more and more common.
"I didn't have a choice! There was no choice!" His voice was beginning to show undertones of pleading, of fear. He had not yet seen a doctor, a psychiatrist. As of now, he had told no one. It was partially the fear, the fear that he was crazy, that he was mad. It was partially the fear that his mind was playing tricks on him, that he had seen those who he knew were dead. And it was partially the fear that he thwarting the plans of the Twin Gods. Partially the belief that the pain he felt was what he deserved. Partially that the visions were the dead taunting him for what he had done. Partially all of those.
"I DIDN'T HAVE A CHOICE!" He was shouting, now, his voice echoing through the empty room and the night. "I DIDN'T HAVE A CHOICE!"
Generic empire 30-04-2008 02:35
Lew Nys’ky walked beside the Kretanja river, his fur coat pulled tight around himself, bracing against the cold. On the opposite bank, the spires of St. Michael’s Cathedral were visible, and behind them the spires of the Imperial capital of Sofia. The lines on the old man’s face had grown deeper this winter, one colder than most, and as he paused to stare into the crystal blue waters below, he felt one of those unforgiving waves of age rush over his entire body.
The Lion of Generia shivered almost imperceptibly. His joints ached. He turned his back to the frozen breeze, and reached into his pocket for his cigarette case. The tarnished silver lid bore the seal of the Empire, surmounted by a gold inlay. The ruby on the symbol of the crown had long since fallen out, lost somewhere in time. The old man removed a hand rolled cigarette and placed it between his lips. With a trembling hand he struck his lighter and took a deep drag.
The air smelled of charcoal. Sofia was burning, inside of itself, and the warmth of its entire people filled the lungs of Generia’s greatest modern hero. He leaned against the ice-encrusted iron rail, and closed his eyes, taking in the evening silence of winter. He would head home soon, to his wife and his grandchildren, but for now he permitted himself the pleasures of reflection.
“You’re a rare sight in these parts, Lyov.”
The General’s eyes opened, and he stared into a kindly face from another life. Smiling back, he said:
“I haven’t been permitted the pleasure of Kretanja’s company these days. House arrest on doctor’s orders. And those of my wife.”
The other man chuckled, his own wrinkled face glowing.
“It’s been awhile, Gorya. Too long,” said Nys’ky.
“Don’t pretend you’ve missed my company. After three years in the trenches with me, you were entitled to a vacation.”
Lew laughed the laugh of a nostalgic. The man called Gorya stepped up and leaned against the fence beside him.
“Still indulging in old bad habits, I see,” he said, producing a pipe and beginning to pack it. The General nodded as he flicked the butt of his cigarette into the river.
“Well,” continued Gorya, “Generians are supposed to die young anyway.”
Lew grinned.
“I’m afraid we’ve both been cheated out of that possibility. I worry sometimes that we old soldiers might live forever.”
The other man nodded with mock sagacity as he touched a match to the tobacco. The two men stood together in silence for a few moments.
“It’s funny I should have found you today,” Gorya said at last.
“And why is that?”
“I’ve taken to writing. Soldiers’ memoirs; nothing fancy. My wife said it might be good for me.”
Lew chuckled.
“Waking her up with soldiers’ nightmares, then?”
“Ah, dreams are just the curse of old men. Memories are probably the real reason.”
“Memories of what? The war?”
“That and other things. It was a long time ago.”
Lew lit another cigarette.
“I wondered if you ever thought about it these days,” continued Gorya, whose name was Yegor Gemilev.
Lew was silent in thought for a moment.
“Not as much as the younger men do, but sometimes things come back to me. In dreams.”
Gorya nodded. The two stood quietly, smoking beside the stream. As Gorya finished his pipe, he stood up off the railing. Extending his hand, he spoke:
“I should be getting home. My son’s come in from Belgrade.”
The two shook hands.
“It was good to see you, Lyov.”
He began to walk away, but turned back.
“Do you still have that old clump of iron they gave you?”
Lew chuckled, and reached into his pocket, producing a shimmering medal in the shape of a star on the end of a frayed silk ribbon. Gorya smiled, before turning and heading off.
Lew looked down at the medal. Circumscribing it were the words, in Generian: “Hero of the Generic Empire.”
-------
“Radio Saigon, baby!”
Sergeant Filat Ipati grinned as he cranked up the radio to maximum volume, though it was still inaudible over the rotors and the rush of wind through the open doors. Howling, the Praetorian fired a few rounds from his GIR-47 into the canopy only a dozen meters below the gunship.
“Eat it, you Yaffie bastards!”
Across from him, huddled against the fuselage, rifle resting between his legs, Private Kolya Fedotov covered his ears. The chopper banked right and he felt his stomach turn along with it. Sergeant Ipati rolled to grab onto something.
“Fuck, warn us before you do that!” he shouted towards the pilots. “Dumb fucks! Trying to get us killed or something!”
As he said it, he was drowned out by a sound like rain on a tin roof. Fedotov hunched over and covered his head. A few streaks of light from fresh holes in the fuselage illuminated the emblem of the Imperial Regular Army on his uniform. Fedotov took a few more potshots at the canopy below, before returning to a seat and buckling himself in.
“Better play it safe with these jackasses flying!”
Below, the canopy began to open up, broken by barren ridges and the occasional crest of a granite hill. Smoke and fires dotted the landscape, along with broken fortifications and hastily constructed earthworks. The front lines, where the Imperial rearguard held against the storm of Yaforite soldiers pouring through the mouth of the famed Lew valley: the single artery that led through the appendage of Buchiana into the Generian underbelly.
Praetorians no bigger than ants scurried below, and Fedotov felt artillery explosions in his belly, even this high above the earth.
“This is Warbird 113, coming in for a landing. Make some space.”
The copilot reached a finger under his vest, and withdrew it, looking disdainfully at fresh red ooze.
“Better get that patched up when we land,” he said to himself. The chopper’s mad dash slowed, and it came to hover over a dirt helipad in the heart of the compound that was the Empire’s forward firebase.
Fedotov shook as the helicopter made its rough landing. Before he could recover from the harrowing journey, he was out on the ground, and running for the large concrete bunker under a hail of shells. A hundred meters away, a truck dissolved in a massive fireball just as Fedotov, Ipati, and a dozen others reached the entrance to the bunker.
“You boys got back just in time!” shouted an officer over the cacophony. “General Gemilev just ordered us to evacuate! We’re pulling back, up to the mouth of the Lew!”
Ipati cursed.
“Why the Hell? The Yafs are here! Why the fuck are we pulling back!?”
The officer ignored him, but saluted as a uniformed lieutenant rushed under the shelter’s fragile canopy.
“Sergeant,” he said, speaking to Ipati. “Good to see you men back in one piece. Sorry I can’t say the same for most of our forward pickets. Damn war’s turning into a clusterfuck!”
“You’re telling me. That bastard Gemil-” replied Ipati.
“Oh can it! Look, the whole rearguard’s pulling back. The 12th, the 15th, and all of the Praetorians. Command thinks we’re too valuable. We’re moving back to hold the mouth of the Lew.”
Ipati tried to voice another objection, but the lieutenant cut him off.
“Lucky for you, there’s still some work to be done here. Your squad’s going to join up with Desyov’s and insert across from the Yafs’ eastern flank to blow up a pair of bridges. To keep-“
An explosion outside interrupted him.
“To keep the bastards from crossing the river and hitting the flatlands!”
Ipati grinned. This was good news for him. Another chance to give it back to the enemy.
Another wave of explosions shook the bunker. The lieutenant covered his head, looked back at the men before him, nodded slightly, and disappeared into the interior of the shelter.
Fedotov uncovered his head, and moved towards the far wall. He slid down the wall, forcing himself to relax, to enjoy the brief time off his feet. As he closed his eyes, the door behind him exploded outward and a short, stout man stormed out, cursing. The young soldier looked up, catching the man’s backward glance, and instantly recognized him. General Lew Nys’ky: the war hero. The General shouted something back through the door, inaudible over the noise coming from outside. As he exited the shelter, strolling absent mindedly out into the chaos, a taller thinner man stepped out. General Gemilev looked down at the soldier slumped against the wall. Fedotov shot to his feet and saluted. The General’s eyes took on a far away look. He stared after Nys’ky, shook his head, and went back through the door.
Fedotov rubbed his eyes and reached for his rifle as Ipati approached him.
“Come on, man. You heard the lieutenant. You can sleep after we put a few more Yafs under ground.”
