Klaus' War {IC|MT|CLOSED}

by **Akordania** » Fri Oct 18, 2019 7:18 am

QUASSDORF
NOVA CAPILE

Alex peered through the gap between a set of boarding, nursing a cigarette.

"The Udarnaoborona's air support is thoroughly drained, our divisions have retreated from the field of battle, and here I am standing in a fucking barn...ankle high in shit and hay."

He turned toward a gathering of his fellow soldiers- tending to their weapons. One looked up, pushing the visor of his helmet upward with a bloodied hand.

"Well, look on the bright side- we're about to be sent back out into that hell if Corps HQ has their way. Air support or not. I'm sure General Utkin's shitting a brick, after his last attempt at flanking the monarchists. Hell, I'm surprised we made it out of there without slaughtered ourselves."

Alex snorted and took a long drag from his cigarette.

"Agreed, Pavel. I think this next battle is going to be the nail in this army's coffin." Alex drew a long, slender magazine from his chest rig and slammed it into his submachine gun. Glancing back out through the gap, he muttered, "If it is, so be it. But let's make them bleed for it."

--

Alex would never grow used to the shelling. The howl and the thunder, especially at such a tempo, was chilling to the bone- friendly or not. His lungs burnt with each ragged breath as he sprinted past smoldering iron and piles of gored men. Rounds from distant enemy positions zipped and snapped all around him, and yet he and his brothers pressed onward. At last, the first line of trenches came into view; obscured by a thick cloud of dust from the Akordanian onslaught. Overcome by adrenaline and raw emotion, Alex roared as he shouldered his submachine gun and let loose a short burst- hitting his first target true. The young boy at the other end of the salvo cried out and crumpled down into the trench as a pack of brown uniforms descended into the trenches after him. Alex himself leapt over it, withdrawing a stick grenade and hurling it into the next row of positions before diving onto his belly. Behind him, a vicious melee ensued as the surviving monarchist soldiers kicked, bit and stabbed their way through seemingly endless waves of adversaries. Many a monarchist met the end of bayonet and spade, and within minutes lost control of their frontmost positions.

The ear-piercing crack of Alex's grenade pulled him from cover and into the next trench. To his immediate left and right were merely the shredded bodies of those unlucky enough to be in the blast radius. Further down, however, he eyed two gaunt, mud-caked men operating a heavy machine gun. Wasting no time, he knelt down, emptying the entirety of his magazine on the soldiers in question. The duo wilted and collapsed under the hailstorm of rounds; just in time for Alex's brothers to arrive. "Ho-lee shit!" Alex cried out hysterically as he clambered up and out of the trench. Ahead of him, Royalist troops were strewn about the landscape, mostly dead by means of artillery...the rest picked off in the disarray by Akordanian machine guns. The pillboxes that formerly occupied the landscape were now merely piles of rubble, but out of the ruins came soldiers who more closely resembled beasts than men. Wild-eyed, bloodied and many without guns, they charged the attackers without hesitation. The advance hit the brick wall that were the battle-hardened bastards of 2. Battlegroup, who cleaved into men with spades, knives, bayonets, and bricks alike.

Alex remained at the edge of the scrum, picking off the kiborhy as they exposed themselves. Royalist after Royalist dropped, and yet the violence carried on. Even worse, progress was minimal; just two layers of the defensive arc had been breached. Cursing to himself and casting aside doubt, Alex advanced, settling his sights on another target before blacking out. Moments later, he turned over to see the blurred figure of his assailant; a burly monarchist soldier, trench knife in hand. Alex was given no time to recover as the assailant leapt on top of him, bringing the blade down on his chest. Crying out, Alex grabbed hold of the soldier's wrist, utilizing every remaining drop of energy he had in his body to push it away. With the other hand, he fumbled for something, anything to use as a weapon. His free hand at last settled on a stone, which he bashed against the temple of his attacker. Blow after blow sent the hulking soldier rolling off, holding his throbbing head in his hands. Seizing the moment, Alex pounced on him, tearing the trench knife from his grasp and shoving it deep into his throat. The enemy soldier thrashed about for what seemed like an eternity; prompting Alex to twist the blade and force it deeper. Bright red blood shot out from his wound like a geyser, and in seconds he fell limp. Alex pushed off of his body and spun around in circles, glancing about frantically for his comrades. The only fellow Akordanians still present were nothing more than corpses.

They had fallen back.

A deep sickness overtook Alex. Turning toward the direction of friendly lines, he broke out into a sprint, before catching a rifle round in the small of his back.

by **The Grand Duchy Of Nova Capile** » Sat Oct 19, 2019 9:05 pm

ROCHEFURT
NOVA CAPILE

The Rusalka waded slowly into Rochefurt’s harbor, weaving between hulking warships and puttering trawlers and going largely unnoticed in the tumult.

Crates heavy with supplies of all sorts– bullets, carbines, medicines, and food– were unloaded constantly from impatient liners crowding the docks. Military vessels of all descriptions, from the humblest patrol boat to the mightiest cruiser, stood shining in the port’s drydocks. Last were the innumerable craft which had been refitted to be civilian transports. Burdened sailboats, dainty yachts and barques, sagging fishing boats, and even a few huge cruise-liners had been packed with weary, gray people and were now ducking and weaving out of the harbor. They were bound for countless places: the Capilean colonies in Africa, or what was left of them, in the hopes of finding a familiar community; the distant commonwealths of Europe, if they were lucky enough to be admitted; the countless far-flung allies of the Duchy that were accepting refugees, where they would have to settle into a foreign land; and many more bleak places. Looking at the countless small faces that peered at them from the decks of these ships, the Karevkan sailors observed that they seemed to be drained of color. Each was a faded gray; even the children were ashen. Though they knew they were facing a great peril, they did not once look back.

Amidst all of this maritime chaos, Capilean harbormasters fought desperately to retain control. Under their guidance cargoes and crews were offloaded, transports were cleared for departure, and the Rusalka was ordered to dock.

Awaiting the sleek Karevkan vessel was a team of gray-haired, tired-eyed men armed with clipboards and slender pencils. The phalanx of inspectors was headed by a trio of stolid soldiers and a hawkish officer, whose uniforms shone color over the otherwise drab dock. The Rusalka came to a final, jolting halt, and as soon as its gangplank clattered to Earth, the soldiers sprang aboard. The scriveners came after, moving with a deliberate sluggishness.

In peacetime men such as these would have done a fastidious job of searching the Rusalka, cracking open every crate in search of contraband. But there were too many other ships awaiting inspection for the Rusalka to attract more than a once-over. As the half-hearted investigation was consummated, the steely-eyed officer exchanged terse words with his Karevkan counterpart, indicating quite clearly that were he the harbormaster, the Rusalka would already be at the bottom of the ocean.

Presently, the inspection was complete. The inspectors nodded gravely to the officer, who, gnashing his teeth, announced that the Karevkans were free to step foot on Capilean soil.

QUASSDORF
NOVA CAPILE

Blunted by the thick shield that was 2. Battlegroup and corroded by Royalist airpower, the blade of the Reich’s advance had fallen just short of Quassdorf’s jugular.

But Henrik von Ravenstein’s arsenal was not limited to but one weapon. In addition to the heavy dagger he had slashed so deeply into his opponent, he had a deadly sword, a rapier he now plunged into his enemy’s breast.

Where the Stoßtruppen had failed to break through, the general’s panzers could not. Concentrated densely, hundreds upon hundreds of tanks now surged across both the northern and southern fringes of the battle, alongside thousands of trucks and other armored vehicles loaded with panzergrenadiers.

With 1. Panzerarmee bearing down on Quassdorf from the bottom, 2. Panzerarmee from the top, and 1. Stoßarmee charging in through the center, the Reich’s plan called for an overwhelming assault. It would take the last of their vigor, but if successful, would completely overrun the crumbling amalgam of armies that defended Quassdorf.

The enemy had been given little time to rest after the apocalyptic fighting which had been inflicted on them from the assaults of yesterday. Already, in the wee hours of the morning, Colonel Lothar Dienst was leading an armored spearhead of epic proportions into the side of his enemy.

Although the Stoßwehr had run roughshod over the Royalist lines many times before in the previous hours of fighting, never had it been condensed into a single, killing thrust, a javelin to be thrown squarely at Quassdorf’s heart.

The Royalist line was anchored at its ends by hardy veterans, by these old fools were so far and few in between that their diehard opposition did naught but slow the Reich’s offensive by seconds. Bunker after half-constructed bunker was crushed by the lumbering Wolf main battle tanks, whilst the nimbler Fuchs models weaved in and out of the collapsing enemy formations.

Lothar was in the middle of the boiling centrifuge of battle, separating the men from the boys, the spineless from the sturdy, the dead from the living like cream from milk. From his command tank he observed as the enemy lines at long last gave way, beset by unstoppable force. Even as the Crown’s jets thundered overhead, he laughed.

In the distance, he beheld the sprawling suburbs of Quassdorf like a child taking an early peek at his Christmas presents.

STAMMBURG
CAPILEAN REICH

Announced by the whir of a craft overhead and a few seconds of whistling doom, the missile struck the Party Offices like the hammer of St. Peter condemning a sinner on Judgement Day.

Erupting in titanic hellfire, the building was reduced to a shrapnel-rain of brick and concrete. A heavy fog of dust clogged the air, obscuring the vision of the only survivors of the attack– the German operatives.

After what seemed like minutes, the dust began to thin and settle. Gradually the magnitude of the destruction was realized.

The Fascist vehicles had been blasted against the walls of the buildings surrounding the Party Offices, and were now little more than charred metal skeletons. Twisted corpses littered the pavement, brutalized beyond recognition. In the center of the scene was what remained of the building, a shattered foundation.

Cautiously, the Germans fanned out across the area. After a pregnant pause, there was a rumble from beneath the foundation, as if the building had been punched down into Mother Earth, and she was now spitting it out.

A heavy metal trapdoor was flung open from the center of the foundation, and a helmeted head peered out. Even in the dim light, the Germans could see that the soldier had clearly taken a skull-rattling. He stared blankly at them for a few moments before suddenly shouting out a curse and pointing a gun out of the hatch.

The shell-shocked man never stood a chance; he was riddled with bullets and fell back into the ground. There was a clamor of shouting from within the bunker, and then several long moments of silence. Finally, there was a flicker of movement from the top of the hatch, and the Germans trained their guns on it.

Slowly, a long mop-handle was pushed out into the evening air, a stained but discernibly white handkerchief fastened to it.

When no more shots were fired, a pair of open palms next appeared, followed by the head, shoulders, torso, and finally the lanky legs of a flaxen blond man in general’s uniform. Though he was missing his cap and his composure, the Germans clearly recognized him from their briefings as General Maximilian Wetter. He was followed by his counterpart, Jürgen Reudel, unmistakable for the two silvery duelist’s scars which marked his now gaunt face. Even in the aftermath of a nearly atomic impact and a shameful defeat, he maintained a stately dignity.

A small collection of staff officers, some of them unconscious, others bleeding, emerged, alongside a few soldiers who, had they not discarded their weapons, would have opened fire then and there.

At length, Reudel took a step forward, his arms still held up in surrender. “That’s all of us, I’m afraid,” he revealed, somber blue eyes glancing wistfully at the carnage all about him. His voice was bitter, furious, and yet eerily polite, like a chess master who had been beaten by an amateur and couldn’t comprehend his defeat.
“It would appear you have us, cousins. I am willing to hear your terms of surrender.”

by **Pan-Asiatic States** » Mon Oct 21, 2019 4:40 am

Neo-Tokyo
THE PEOPLE'S FEDERATION OF PAN-ASIATIC STATES

"You cannot make a revolution with silk gloves."
- Iosef Stalin

Another cold morning rose on the fields of the Army Training facility at the heartland of the Japanese Soviet Socialist Republic, a State of the People's Federation of Pan-Asiatic States. Here, assembled and united, were the strongest of the strong. These were the most battle-hardened troops of the Pan-Asiatic States Armed Forces, hailing from almost every East Asian and Southeast Asian ethnicity: from the depths of the Pacific to the heights of the Himalayas. Here lay the veterans who cast the Fascist Japanese out of the palaces of old, who stormed the heated deserts of Gaza, who swarmed the jungles of Samporna, who manned the anti-tank canons at the Battle for Skyhooked.

A bugle summoned a company of army specialists to order themselves rank-and-file in attention. Each soldier held with him a rifle and all other combat amenities. A Datu, the term of referral to the stout, black-shirted officer of the unit with a serious look about him, donning the sun-shaped insignia of the Pan-Asiatic revolution and the badge of the special forces' 9th Urban Combat Company, fully inspected each man finding only the finest and most organized equipment there was to be had. Should he have looked beyond the uniform, he would have also found a piece of cleanly-ironed shirt tucked behind the thick greatcoat of the urban combat company and into their long, cloth pants held together be firmly-tightened leather belts. Each soldier was paramount of the skills beseeched upon the bravest heroes of the Pan-Asiatic States Armed Forces. The order was given by the Datu for the men to lax their stances. They unilaterally hid both their hands behind their back, in an eerily parallel manner.

The flagbearer unleashed his banner: not the flag of the atypical Pan-Asiatic States Armed Forces' ground army, but a traditional hammer-and-sickle banner. Noticeable too was how each man save for their commanding officer was lacking of the decorations conventional to highly-esteemed units such as the 9th Urban. Instead, they bore non-party communist pins generic to the socialist cause.

The Datu took the limelight, facing his men, looking into the eyes of his comrades with a fierce thunder and eagerness to lunge into the line of fire.

"Men of Company A, 1st Battalion of the Capilean-Asiatic Socialist Volunteer Cadre! Urrah!", exclaimed the Datu.

"Urrah!", loyally responded the troops.

"Comrades, comrades," continued the Datu, calming the mob and taking a leaderly disposition.

"Our state system, the people's democratic dictatorship, is a powerful weapon for safeguarding the fruits of victory of the people's revolution and for thwarting the plots of domestic and foreign enemies for restoration, and this weapon we must firmly grasp. Internationally, we must unite with all peace-loving and freedom-loving countries and peoples, and first of all with the emerging People's State in Nova Capile, so that we shall not stand alone in our struggle to safeguard these fruits of victory and to thwart the plots of domestic and foreign enemies for restoration. As long as we persist in the people's democratic dictatorship and unite with our foreign friends, we shall always be victorious.

This is the reason why each one of you has been called-up by our great People's Federation today. In each one of you lies the future of the Socialist society. While our friends in Neo-Manila and Moscow further the struggle through tireless organization of our already-victorious revolutions, the fight must go on. Revolution is not a dinner-party. It is not a debate nor a speech. It is the means by which one class violently overthrows another. So let us do that, then, comrades! Not only here, but abroad!

There are indeed difficulties ahead, and a great many too. But we firmly believe that by heroic struggle the people of the country will surmount them all. The Nova Capilean people have rich experience in overcoming difficulties. If the Soviet forefathers, in cooperation with one another, and ours also, could weather long years of extreme difficulty and defeat powerful domestic and foreign reactionaries, why can't we now, after the victory of the first out of many Communist nations, continue the revolutionary struggle for self-determination? As long as we keep to our style of plain living and hard struggle, as long as we stand united and as long as we persist in the people's democratic dictatorship and unite with our foreign friends, we shall be able to win speedy victory on the Nova Capilean front.

The Pan-Asiatic Revolution is accomplished! Onward to the World Revolution! Crush the imperialists from within!

Hail the victory of the People's War of Liberation from Fascist despotism and the people's revolution!

Hail the workers and peasants of Socialist Capile!

Serve the People! Serve the People!"

KONGSBURG
SOCIALIST CAPILE

Terry Blücher had been coordinating with the Pan-Asiatic Ambassador, Wu Jingyi, for several weeks now, through a sometimes-reliable mode of smuggling communications and supplies in and out of the neutral Republic of Saatland, through Ludislau, unbeknownst to the state's officials, who were way too busy with the protection of their own self-determination to worry about foreign subversion which wasn't even necessarily directed at them. There was of course, the occasional rumor or two - and those who propagated such indiscrepancies were either compensated to keep their mouths shut, or were never heard from again. For the Ministry of State and Public Security, an ideological descendant of the feared (and revered) Soviet NKVD, the task of supporting international revolutions was a job they had always been accustomed to.

Nevertheless, there was much caution to be exercised given the delicate political situation the Pan-Asiatic States could be put in if the operations were discovered by the international community. Even from within the International Socialist Congress, of which the Pan-Asiatic States government held great influence in, there had been much dissatisfaction with the idea of open revolution. Many Congressmen also filibustered the militaristic agenda of the Pan-Asiatic States' de jure leader, Secretary-General Abra, who had been shadowing the entire procedure as to preserve his own political gain. Despite efforts to repress the actions of the militant internationalists, the funds continued to pour into the Ministry of Defense through local sympathizers or quid pro quos made at a Federal level. If a trade unionist coerced his friends in the arms manufacturing industry to "dispose" of certain surpluses, he would be awarded with a rank in the Asian Communist Party. Minimal interaction was effected by the Secretary-General himself, who kept only a loyal circle of close friends notified of the grandeur of the operation to fund subversion in Socialist Capile.

The Secretary-General's greatest accomplishment thus far however, was the organization of the Capilean-Asiatic Socialist Volunteer Cadre, handpicked from the Pan-Asiatic States special forces armies to work in cooperation with the leader of Socialist Capile. They would pour-in to the Republic of Saatland as part of a newly-negotiated border agreement, masked as a questionable "tourism" and "cultural exchange" initiative by the Pan-Asiatic Ministry of Foreign Affairs. By luck, cunning, and careful planning, the Pan-Asiatic Ministry of Defense could now offer not only to import vast materiel to the Socialists in Capile, but send for military advisers to fight as volunteers alongside the Capilean workers as well.

Highly-knowledgeable in urban combat and mountain guerilla fighting, the contingent's company commander would be led by Datu Ōshiro Nagato, a War-Hero of the 11th Okinawa Echelon "Suliko" Ranger Division, recipient of the Order of Heroic Exemplar in his contributions to the suppression of insurgents in Samporna. Organized in Neo-Tokyo, this unit had been receiving intelligence from the Socialist Capileans through Wu Jingyi, training for the cold terrain they would encounter in Europe. After many weeks of harsh preparation, they could now be deployed at a moment's notice.

All that was needed to be done left was to convince the Socialist Capilean executive council to approve the Pan-Asiatic initiative. With newly-manufactured batches of HAR-87 Indigenous Service Rifles imported from the Pan-Asiatic States, and fresh units of military advisers, the Socialist Capileans, under Terry Blücher, could mount a new offensive in however direction their leaders willed it to be.

The banner of red socialism could soon fly over the age-old imperial regime of the Grand Duchy: the hammer could wipe-out the Monarchists, while the sickle could cut-off the many disillusioned heads of the Fascist "revolution".

by **Luxembourg-Bavaria** » Mon Oct 21, 2019 10:58 am

Indian Ocean
Capilean Coast

The waves rolled by as the fleet fought on. The trip from Bavaria was nearly over. At the bridge of the aircraft carrier Dauntless, a deep strategy session was taking place.

The captain of the Dauntless outlined the plan to the rest of the fleet through the MTAC* screen.

"Keep the entire fleet on high alert. Guns hot. We will not have a repeat of last time. Am I understood?"

The host of naval officers responded in unison.

"Understood, sir!"

The transmission cut off as the fleet began to move.

Before long, the formation would be complete and the fleet would be ready.

Roappe
Free French State

Roappe was a bustle of activity. The constant work by the French and their Bavarian allies had finally come to fruition. Not only was Roappe heavily fortified, but the road to the city was layered by a network of defenses. In the city outskirts, Bavarian officers still trained the French, adding numbers to the Free French army daily.

Out in the plains before the city, Bavarian troops surveyed their work, admiring the maze of defenses. The last project was nearly complete. SpecOps troops were hard at work building a radar station. When completed, any Fascist movements across the Cornelissen River would be detected by the station, eliminating a surprise attack on allied positions. This would complete the Franco-Bavarian defenses.

The work had paid off. The allies watched and waited. The time for revenge was coming soon.

MTAC stands for Multiple Threat Alert Center

by **Akordania** » Tue Oct 22, 2019 6:38 pm

QUASSDORF
NOVA CAPILE

Exhausted and depleted of manpower, Army Corps East was soon absorbed into the rear of the Udarnaoborona's 1. Stoßarmee for relief. There, the armored companies of the 5th and 12th Divisions organized a mass reform; taking accountability of all lost armor and additionally deadlining any tanks that were far too damaged to see combat again. Both rifle regiments took up static positions to similarly count their losses and replenish drained supplies. The 3rd Brigade under Lieutenant Colonel Rybakov, having seen little combat at Quassdorf, was entrusted with the protection of the recovering Akordanian host. After approximately an hour of recovery efforts they thinned their ranks and deployed across the breadth of the center push, where the Udarnaoborona had made significant headway; crushing the last pockets of resistance and sending the remnants of 1. Army and 2. Battlegroup fleeing into the city. Though the Akordanians could undoubtedly match the tenacity of their fascist Capilean counterparts, it was evident their army was plagued with troubles. In particular, the 5th and 12th Motorized Rifles, despite being mechanized units had immense difficulty keeping up with the pace of the Blitzkrieg. In matching the tempo of operations, they would often become spread too thin and encounter shortages in relief, resupply, and fire support. With the lack of an Akordanian Air Force presence, all forms of limited air support were drawn from the Udarnaoborona, who first received the requests at Army HQ and relayed translated orders for air assets. Akordanian military doctrine, while similarly focused on mechanized assaults, held vastly different opinions on the methods of asset deployment; which caused far too much confusion and an inconsistency in coordination. Realizing this and seeking to avoid causing any serious detriment to the war effort, Krovoposkov packed up his headquarters and merged directly with General Ravenstein's staff. The only unit to maintain any form of autonomy would be the 3rd Special Airborne Guards, who had recently taken up their natural role as a reconnaissance and sabotage entity for the Reich.

On the roads south of Quassdorf, much of the civilian traffic had died down due to the city's encirclement; trapping many hundreds of thousands within the combat zone. Additionally, in a desperate effort to keep the guns firing, Royalist forces imposed a complete restriction on any travel south or westward of Quassdorf, and utilized the roads solely for the transportation of troops and supplies. It was a hastily produced and vulnerable strategy.

In the evening a sizable column of ammunition and vehicles made its way down the road at a crawl. What would have been inky blackness was disrupted by the infernos that persisted within the combat zone, as well as an ongoing air battle above. Flanked on both sides of the column was dense woodland, devoid of any life as it was driven from the chaos. Unbeknownst to them, what appeared to be a small box sat in the dead center of the road. The vehicles sped up carelessly as they approached the suspicious debris, and within seconds crossed over it.

The box was flattened, and the convoy continued on its way.

Some time later, the outlying suburbs of Quassdorf came into view against a fiery backdrop. Yet another supply run would yield success, and the lifeline would be maintained until reinforcements could arrive. Just as the column passed a roadsign directing into the city, three devices in a daisy chain made their presence known with a deafening upward blast that sent a handful of vehicles airborne. The subsequent fireball belched and shot up toward the clouds, blanketing the area below in shrapnel. The howls of dying men drifted across the landscape. Surviving trucks panicked and veered off every which way to avoid a collision- some tipping over into ditches and sending crates of invaluable ammunition spilling into the dirt.

All down the column, soldiers jumped from their vehicles to aid their wounded comrades, ignorant of their surroundings. Many men were pulled from the hungry flames that overtook the disabled ammo trucks and brought to relative safety along the side of the road. Those vehicles that remained intact pulled back into an organized line- still hellbent on finishing the run and returning with help. As they rolled forward, another, much larger blast obliterated the area and send handfuls of gored corpses spiraling into the air. As the smoke cleared, the treeline some eight hundred meters east of the explosion erupted with small arms fire. Man after man was cut down by the wall of hot lead, and those who were left bled out from their previous wounds.

The entire stretch of the road was blackened and marred by smoking hunks of metal, meat, and burning ammunition caches. A lone man stood to flee, achieving little more than a pained stagger. As the unknown assailants converged on the remains of the convoy, the distinctive chatter of the eastern Akordanian dialect could be heard within their ranks. The man made little progress as a paratrooper stepped in his path, raising a slender pistol to his head and squeezing the trigger.

by **New Decius** » Fri Oct 25, 2019 11:03 pm

Battle of Stammburg
Operation Faust: Stage Four/ Operation Ludwig
Grand Duchy of Nova Capile

Sara was extremely tempted to put three rounds through Reudel’s head and only her years of experience and training kept her from pulling the trigger and likely starting a six month insurgent action. Certainly it would mean the revocation of her commission, all decorations and awards, and a trial before the Reichstag’s Committee on the Treatment of Prisoners of War. Instead she merely motioned for her troops to apply appropriate accessories, zip-ties, to their new ‘guests’.

Holstering her weapon as she got on the comms to contact General Ulräch’s headquarters, she did content herself with spitting on the ground in front of him. “I’m no cousin of yours you fascist filth. Unlike you I am not so vile as to betray the God-Empowered throne of my rightful sovereign, a true German would never dream of betraying the Kaiser nor their people.” She turned around and relayed a quick message asking to be put through directly to Rommel’s headquarters. Turning back she favored Reudel with a sneer.

“Generalfeldmarschall Joachim Rommel, His Imperial and Royal Majesty’s duly appointed Commander in the Capilean Theater has simple terms for your surrender. You shall order all your troops in the field to lay down their arms and surrender to German forces. Any knowledge you have of civilian partisan forces either organized or not is to be turned over to Generalmajor Baum the Abwehr Operations Chief for the Capilean Theater. All Stoßwehr officers below the rank equivalent to a Major within the Kaiserliche Armee are to be remanded to Capilean Royal Authorities, any officers of or above said rank are to be interned with Imperial German Authorities.”

She made a show of cradling her assault rifle before making the final point known. “Any en mass or organized resistance to the Kaiserliche Armee during the surrender process will result in all Stoßwehr personnel being declared active combatants once again including those already Prisoners in German custody. We have approximately fifty thousand of your troops as Prisoners of War, many if them wounded and being treated at field hospitals...” Sara flashed an almost savage grin now. “Unless you want them all shot where they stand or lay I would recommend complying with the terms for your surrender.”

There would be no amnesty agreement as Rommel had offered Krebs before the start of Operation Faust. Reudel would either comply and his men would retain their rights as Prisoners of War as mandated by international law, or Imperial German forces would enact their first large scale purge of Fascists in almost forty years.

Headquarters of Heeresgruppe Siegfried
Temporary Encampment of 25th Armee, Near Südhoof
Grand Duchy of Nova Capile

“So allow me to simply clarify the facts for my own understanding Oberst Mehlen.”

“Ja Herr Feldmarschall.”

“You intend to setup a black site within the zone of my jurisdiction as commander of Heeresgruppe Siegfried.”

“Ja Herr Feldmarschall.”

“You have obtained sanction by the Reichstag to disregard the Rules of War, the Geneva Convention, and basic codes of morality at this black site.”

“Ja Herr Feldmarschall.”

“All of this is to be hidden from our Capilean allies? It is to be hidden that we have designated the Communist civilian militia as full combatants as opposed to civilian semi-combatants. It is to be hidden that any officers captured by our forces are to be remanded to your custody where they will for all likelihood be tortured and killed in the Abwehr’s pursuit of information.”

“Ja Herr Feldmarschall.”

“So in a sense I am being ordered to ignore a war crime right under my nose, and to aid in committing more?” Right now Feldmarschall Franz Lütold von Sonnenschein looked as if he was willing to strangle the Abwehr officer in front of him. Not that his appearance wasn’t frightening enough as it was, he was especially furious over the orders which one Rolf Mehlen had handed to him from the Kaiserliche Marschall.

Rolf had arrived in Capile to find Project Freya effectively ready for activation after the Pioneer’s finished building the ‘special interrogation center’ near Feldmarschall Sonnenschein’s headquarters in proximity to Südhoof, and with most of the deep cover operatives left in Capile reporting in directly to him. Personally Rolf would have preferred not to have the site so close to Südhoof in case any nosy civilian’s came poking around, but as Heeresgruppe Siegfried was still temporarily camped and awaiting orders for the campaign, that was where it had to be built. The only problem remaining was to brief the Feldmarschall on Project Freya, a daunting task if ever there was one.

“Why on Earth do you believe I would lend my name to such a travesty Oberst Mehlen? Unlike you I am a man of honor and dignity and such actions disgust me to no end.”

“Herr Feldmarschall if you refuse to cooperate, your son Friedrich will be posted to anti-partisan operations in Indochina and your nephew Johann as well.” That stopped the veteran staff officer in his tracks; Indochina had been an insurgent hot bed for the last thirty years and it was unlikely to stop being one any time soon, hence why casualty rates for troops deployed on garrison duties there were so high. No one ever requested duty in Indochina, nor did anyone ever want to be deployed to Indochina where three in every ten were likely to die within the first four months, usually in some of the most horrible manners jungle warfare could offer up. Certainly not a place anyone would want their son to be sent....

After a few moments of clearly difficult internal debate, Feldmarschall Sonnenschein seized a coffee cup from his desk and flung it at Mehlen’s right where it shattered against a wall. “Get out of my sight you filthy rat!” Then under his breath, just loud enough for Mehlen to hear, he surrendered. “And just make sure you cover your tracks well.”

With a salute, Rolf turned on his heels and left the office, a cocky smirk fixed in place on his features.

That was how you broke the will of good men to make them do evil.

by **Akordania** » Sun Oct 27, 2019 12:23 am

QUASSDORF
NOVA CAPILE

Fighting still raged at the edge of the city, with the Reich steadily encroaching upon the Royalist holdout minute by minute.

On the southernmost outskirts, logistics personnel from the 2. Battlegroup loaded trucks with fresh ammunition, water, and medical supplies and made frantic runs to the front line. The process had quickly become streamlined and ran round the clock; until recently. Supply columns were disappearing out of thin air, and with a lack of manpower, there was no ability to uncover their whereabouts. For the time being, they simply had to make due.

Enlisted darted back and forth within the courtyard of what was formerly a foundry- now converted into a supply processing center. Meanwhile, officers worked tirelessly to arrange new routes through the city in an effort to avoid any scrutiny from Stoßwehr aircraft. Planning was done on a massive table beside the entry point with little more than grid maps and rough calculations. The commissioned element of the Battlegroup's logistics troops had long lost their sense of composure, with many having torn off their peaked caps and heavy coats for the sake of some relief as they worked.

Even still, they were easily identifiable.

Assaulting the foundry was possible but not at all worth the effort. The way Colonel Rybakov saw it, her plan was much more cost effective.

The Royalist contingent at Quassdorf utilized civilian freight transport just as much as their own, which was telling of their growing desperation. With the Brigade's grip on the roads further south of the city, they gained the ability to dictate who and what could pass. In an effort to prevent suspicion, they would indeed loosen their grip to allow for passage. With the battle reaching its tipping point, Rybakov decided it was high time to double down on the pressure. One such civilian supply column encountered a roadblock manned by heavily-armed bandits, and after a thorough shakedown, were sent on their way.

The truck at the head of the column was stuck with a 4G GPS tracker during the "shakedown". The remainder of the trucks were stuck with thick molds of C-4 beneath their chassis. As it reached Quassdorf, like every other truck before it, it was waved through checkpoints without a second glance. All the while, Rybakov watched its movement in real time on a smart phone, utilizing public satellite imagery to confirm its location.

As it swung right into the foundry courtyard, officers waiting nearby with mountains of paperwork were greeted with a wave of heat and shrapnel as the entirety of the convoy blew. Both people and supplies alike were utterly eviscerated by the blast; while those remaining trucks in the streets blew apart not only the outer wall, but the entirety of the final checkpoint. With the added primer from the fuel tanks, the blackened landscape was quickly set aflame...producing a cloud of smoke visible throughout the entire city.

by **Luxembourg-Bavaria** » Wed Oct 30, 2019 8:32 am

Roappe
Free French State

The citizens of Roappe watched with excitement as the Bavarian fleet slowly rolled into port. As the ships began docking, the unloading process began. Quietly and efficiently, Army Group Leimann moved through Roappe.

In the city center, General Werner met with the new arrivals.

"General Leimann, how was the trip?"

"Well, it certainly went better than the last one."

A bout of laughter tore through the fellow officers as Leimann continued.

"Once we have completely unloaded we must re-evaluate the tactical situation with our French allies."

"Agreed. Our officers have been drilling them relentlessly and recruitment has stepped up. They are transitioning to a true military. Soon, we should be able to mount an offensive of our choice."

At this, the officers began the walk to the General Staff Headquarters.

Outside the city, Bavarian officers drilled their men side by side with their French counterparts. The bond between the two nations was evident in the plains of Roappe as the armies set aside their national differences to fight for a common goal.

Overhead, Bavarian jets roared through aerial maneuvers as the soldiers below cheered. Spirits were high as the allies admired the fortifications stretching all the way back through the city.

In the port, Bavarian soldiers still poured out of the ships into the city and beyond. French children lined streets, greeting the new arrivals as their parents shouted with joy. The city came alive to greet their steadfast allies. The dream was very much alive.

The time was coming soon.

by **The Grand Duchy Of Nova Capile** » Sun Nov 03, 2019 2:11 pm

QUASSDORF
NOVA CAPILE

With as much stealth as a seventy-ton war machine could muster, Lothar Dienst’s command tank crept through the blackened streets of Quassdorf. A snake of tanks and troop carriers slunk behind it. Stoßwehr commandos drifted alongside the column of vehicles like cats of prey, ready to lunge at the first sight of a mouse. Together they cleared one of the last districts of the city yet to be secured by the Reich.

The crux of the battle had lasted a full day and night, with the blackcoats fighting ferociously just to claim a foothold in Quassdorf’s outskirts. By morning’s light, however, the bloodshed had ebbed. Disintegrating after a combat more intense than their minimal training could have ever prepared them for, the fresh recruits which comprised the bulk of the Royalist army routed en masse. Only the veterans of 2. Battlegroup remained, like the skeleton of a man left behind after years of decomposition.

It was these tenacious diehards that Colonel Dienst was now combating. Driven from the heart of the city to its eastern outskirts, the Royalist remnants had dug in their heels at the very edge of a cliff, refusing to fall no matter how hard the Stoßwehr pushed them.

A shot rang out, glancing off the heavy armor of the Wolf command tank, and was joined by a flurry of others from the windows of nearby buildings. Dienst’s forces swung into action, pelting the offending windows with fire while the heavy machine gun mounted atop his tank shredded a brick building filled with enemies. In less than a minute, the firefight had ended, a dozen more Royalist corpses decorated the street, and the column rolled along.

In this manner, Quassdorf was captured, street by street, block by block, house by house, by the Reich.

Colonel Lothar Dienst, a tall and burly man, stood beside Henrik von Ravenstein in what had once been the office of the mayor of Quassdorf.

The room was modern and expensively-furnished, with a huge floor-to-ceiling window in place of a back wall. Standing there, in front of the mayor’s desk, the pair could look out on all they had just conquered.

One might expect such a sight to be repugnant, replete with screaming, abandoned children, raging fires, and cadaver-choked streets. But, to the Stoßwehr’s credit, they had restored order in record time. Civilians walked the city’s streets; their faces were downcast, but they lived. What able-bodied citizens remained had been drafted into the gray-clad army of laborers ubiquitous to the Reich, and now swept the streets clean, carried away bodies for burial or burning, and were just beginning to pick apart the smashed bricks and concrete of ruined buildings.

Ravenstein nodded. “We’ve done it. Added the crowning jewel to our conquest. The Reichsleiter will be pleased.”

“And,” Dienst interjected, “so will the men. A boon such as this is just what we needed to reinvigorate the army after this bloody and draining campaign. They have fought hard, and won the respect of the Reich and the fear of our enemies.”

The conversation was interrupted by the automatic opening of the electronic door to the room. Ravenstein’s electric blue eyes fell upon a delegation of Akordanian officers.

“Ah, and our victory could not have been so rapid if not for the aid of our newfound allies,” the general greeted them. “General Krovoposkov, General Sobol, General Utkin, Lieutenant Colonel Rybakov, perhaps you have become acquainted with Colonel Dienst?” He gestured to the taller man beside him, who saluted respectfully to the foreign officers. Lothar Dienst possessed a trim mustache and dark, intelligent eyes, which regarded the others with curiosity.

“Normally my other, higher-ranking subordinates would stand beside me, but they are attending to the reorganization of their men at present. Colonel Dienst was nearby and, seeing as he was at the forefront of our conquest of Quassdorf, I saw it fit that he should be privy to this discussion.

“To the point. I summoned you four to first thank you for your service to the Reich. The aggression General Sobol and General Utkin lent to our attack is commendable, as is the cunning sabotage conducted under Lieutenant Colonel Rybakov; and both were instrumental to our overall success.

“Next, I wanted to issue you your next orders. Now that Quassdorf has fallen and Operation Hel has concluded successfully, I believe all of our soldiers have earned a respite. Especially you Akordanians, considering you came here fresh from the capture of Gravines. Take a week or two to recoup and reorganize. You may have more than that, even, for if rumor is to be believed, the Reichsleiter is considering a general order to hunker down and simply defend our conquests for the remainder of the autumn and the coming winter. After which we shall begin renewed and vigorous offensives in the spring.

“In any case, you should take this time to recoup– and to celebrate our victory, of course.” Ravenstein now took a bottle of champagne, plundered from the mayor’s kitchens, and poured each of the officers a glass. When all had a glass in hand, he toasted.

“To the new Reich!”

RAUS
SOCIALIST CAPILE

Terry Blücher sat in a simple compartment of the train which now ran uninterrupted from Kongsburg to Raus, through BSU controlled territory and without threat of Royalist attack. Except by air, which was why anti-aircraft guns spotted the racing train. Extra security had been added because of Blücher’s presence on this very first trip between the twin cities of Capilean Communism.

But Blücher did not lounge in a first-class car; his message was sincere. He sat on a stiff wooden bench, surrounded by humble workers who were ecstatic to be in the same room as their great leader. During the hours of travel the deep-lunged man regaled the proletarians with tales of his daring exploits as an insurgent during his youth, of his travels to revolutions abroad, and of his triumphant return to lead the current Revolution. He even indulged them in a government secret, telling of how he had convinced the Socialist Council– despite the protest of Comrade Pabst– into approving Pan-Asian volunteers for service in the Revolution. Soon enough they would be arriving in Kongsburg to further aid the Revolution.

The car soon filled with wide-eyed steel workers, coal miners, factory laborers, working mothers, and men and women of countless other walks of life, all united in their devotion to the Revolution. The crowd spilled out into the corridor and listened eagerly at the door of the car to catch fragments of the big man’s talk. Eased by Blücher’s conversation, the journey seemed to be over in minutes.

Escorted by gruff bodyguards, Terry Blücher made his way out of the train, and emerged onto a clapboard rail station at the outskirts of Raus.

The open-air station revealed a city bathing in the glory of one of summer’s final days. Blücher, still standing at the edge of the train, was so astonished by the chirping of the birds, the warm rays of the sun, and the distant edges of the Nordbrau, that he barely noticed the mass of people swarming the station.

When his steely eyes finally fell upon them, he gaped. He had scheduled a half-dozen speeches for his pilgrimage to Raus, and had expected many to turn out to listen. But he had not anticipated that from the very second of his arrival he would be mobbed by his supporters.

There they were, the steel workers and seamstresses and maintenance men who had watched him on the train, multiplied ten, nay, 100 times, and flooding the clapboard rail station from all directions. Red banners waved, voices rang out in song and cheer, and a thin line of Party men and railway conductors fought a losing battle to dam the human river.

At once, Blücher cried out for the Party men to step away, and for the crowd to quiet. Both commands were followed at once.

Terry looked out at the crowd once more, at all of the beaming, expectant faces, and he smiled a tearful smile.

“Comrades, I shall briefly speak.” These simple words resulted in such a jubilant uproar that any onlooker would have thought Blücher had pardoned all of the crowd’s debts. “Our Revolution,” he continued over the dying shouts, “is rising. The Crown cannot hold it back. We proved that at Osthilt and Rulund and a hundred other towns where we have triumphed over what bourgeoisie academics have called ‘the greatest army on Earth.’

“We are a movement that can no longer be held back by the empty promises of tyrants. The Capile people are waking up. Look around you! Here stand some thousands of people, all united through love rather than hate, through love of each other, of the common man! This is the way forward, through peace and love– but it must be won through force of arms!”

Blücher held no notes; he spoke directly from his heart.

“Through the valor and brotherhood of our citizen army, we have linked the two centers of the Revolution; my journey here is a testament to that. We have reached a critical mass, my friends. For two hundred years the Capilean proletariat has been rolling the boulder of Revolution up this mountain, only for it to tumble downward.

“No more!” he thundered abruptly. “We have reached the peak, and pushed it over. Now, the boulder is going to tumble down the other side– through our enemies! We are through the floodgates, comrades!
Capile will be liberated!”

There was much jubilation after his speech, and Blücher allowed the crowd to flood over him. He began shaking an assembly line of hands, watching faces blink in and out of his vision at unimaginable speed, so that he could barely comprehend one’s features before the next appeared.

STAMMBURG
CAPILEAN REICH

Jürgen Reudel watched the Germans before him with a hateful curiosity. He was clearly agitated by the conditions of his surrender– treated like a common prisoner and forced to surrender to a woman!

“Perhaps you are right,” he said, allowing himself a rejoinder even as his hands were bound behind him. “You are no cousin of mine, and neither is anyone who calls himself German. Nay, I am of a different breed; for I think that no true Prussian would ever fight on the same side as corruption, vice, and decadence.”

When the terms of surrender were relayed to him, Reudel looked to his compatriot, Wetter. Until then Wetter had stood very still, like a porcelain doll painted in an expression of misery. At Reudel’s request, he nodded once, the action seeming to take all of his strength.

Reudel turned back to his captor. “We agree to your terms of surrender. What records and battleplans that were not yet burned are still within the bunker. I know not any details of the partisan operations, and neither does Ma– General Wetter. Those were left entirely to the late Scherk.

“As for the surrender of my troops, I shall order them to do so. A great many may obey out of respect for me and a recognition of the futility of resistance. But many will not. It is in our nature, to resist to the bitter end, you understand?”

GRAVINES
CAPILEAN REICH

Karl Worgen looked down at the carefully detailed plans before him, and then back up at the man sitting across from him.

“Colonel Drach, I have my doubts about this operation.”

Drach bared his teeth, like a wolf growling at his prey; this was the way that he smiled. “I assure you, General, that my men and I are saboteurs of the highest caliber. You may reference my career of twenty years with the SD, and some of my actions with the Stoßwehr over the last few years.” The smile deepened, tearing into the man’s cheeks. “I am particularly proud of my assassination of Richardson, that troublesome Columbian ambassor who nearly revealed the Stoßwehr’s warcrimes after the Second Great Division. That was clean.”

Karl shifted uncomfortably as he surveyed the beast before him. Tall and well-built, the colonel could have been handsome if not for the savageness of his smile and the multitude of scars lashed across his face. His pale skin had been tanned by years of travel to exotic countries; the silver patches in his black hair and the lines on his face showed that he was well into his middle age, but his body retained youthful vigor and strength. The eyes were magnetizing; bright blue, they danced wildly about, and Drach seemed to have to focus in order to rest them on the general.

“I recall that you were associated with the kidnapping of Princess Elizabeth,” Worgen said.

“That was my operation,” Drach returned, eyes flickering with annoyance.

“And that was ultimately a failure. Perhaps you’ve lost your touch?”

The colonel’s eyes flashed dangerously, and he looked wildly at the general. “That operation was a great success!” he spat, lunging forward in his chair. “I had nothing to do with her eventual escape.”

Karl, sturdily-built and a few inches taller than the colonel, felt himself recoil when the other snapped. There were a few tense moments where neither talked, and Drach audibly fumed. At last, Worgen said, “Let me review these once more.”

Drach had meticulously laid out his plans, which involved the dispersal of several dozen highly-trained, French-speaking agents– including Drach– throughout the remnants of the French Free State. Once embedded into the French military, they would extract as much information about the French fortifications as possible before carrying out a huge subterfuge mission. Supply depots, harbor facilities, and fortifications would all be targeted for bombing while French and Bavarian officers would be assassinated en masse.

At length, General Worgen exhaled and locked eyes with his counterpart. “Very well. I do not see what damage could be done to us by this. And, should you succeed, perhaps it will be a proof of concept that allows you to do greater things for the Reich.”

The wolfish grin returned, seeming to stretch from one of the Colonel’s ears to the other, which Karl now noticed had been terribly disfigured by a bullet.

Jumping to his feet, Drach flung out his arm. “Heil Nemetz!”

Even though the man had gone, Karl felt a malaise for the next few days, as if Drach had left behind a baneful aura.

by **Akordania** » Mon Nov 04, 2019 1:09 am

QUASSDORF
CAPILEAN REICH

With Quassdorf now in the hands of the Capilean Reich, General Krovoposkov had at last fulfilled the wishes of both Yukashenko and Nemetz alike. Army Corps East had performed exceptionally well against their enemies- though it was evident that they were battered from the appalling brutality of the campaign. If there was to be a lasting Akordanian contingent in-country, Army Corps East would absolutely have to be relieved, he thought as the door to the former mayor's office slid open. Flanked by his subordinate field grade officers, he advanced into the center of the room before snapping to attention and rendering a crisp salute in front of General Ravenstein, alongside an unknown Udarnaoborona officer.

“Ah, and our victory could not have been so rapid if not for the aid of our newfound allies. General Krovoposkov, General Sobol, General Utkin, Lieutenant Colonel Rybakov, perhaps you have become acquainted with Colonel Dienst?”

Krovoposkov glanced over toward Dienst.

"No, General, I don't believe I have." He gave him a slight nod before outstretching his hand. "Colonel. A pleasure."

The others followed suit in greeting Dienst as Ravenstein continued.

“Normally my other, higher-ranking subordinates would stand beside me, but they are attending to the reorganization of their men at present. Colonel Dienst was nearby and, seeing as he was at the forefront of our conquest of Quassdorf, I saw it fit that he should be privy to this discussion."

Krovoposkov nodded approvingly before speaking in a thick accent.

"I'm assuming you were in charge of the final armored spearhead into the city, then? Simply masterful work there, Colonel. I was particularly impressed by your ability to maintain your battle lines and navigate the streets in spite of the chaos. My armored assets would not have fared well without your guidance."

“To the point. I summoned you four to first thank you for your service to the Reich. The aggression General Sobol and General Utkin lent to our attack is commendable, as is the cunning sabotage conducted under Lieutenant Colonel Rybakov; and both were instrumental to our overall success. Next, I wanted to issue you your next orders. Now that Quassdorf has fallen and Operation Hel has concluded successfully, I believe all of our soldiers have earned a respite. Especially you Akordanians, considering you came here fresh from the capture of Gravines. Take a week or two to recoup and reorganize. You may have more than that, even, for if rumor is to be believed, the Reichsleiter is considering a general order to hunker down and simply defend our conquests for the remainder of the autumn and the coming winter. After which we shall begin renewed and vigorous offensives in the spring."

The entirety of the Akordanian party voiced their thanks, having all been honored to serve alongside such a distinguished military force. It was common knowledge that the post-Soviet Akordanian military was largely unblooded; having only seen some semblance of conventional warfare in their conflicts at home. Additionally, the prospect of rest had certainly become more attractive after the struggles at Quassdorf.

Ravenstein then proceeded to pour each officer a glass of champagne, before offering a toast.

"To the new Reich!"

Krovoposkov would be the first of the Akordanians to raise his glass.

"To the new Reich. Slava Capilea!"

by **New Decius** » Tue Nov 05, 2019 9:44 am

Luftwaffe 5, Personal Aircraft of the Imperial German Family
En Route to Rochefort International Airport
Grand Duchy of Nova Capile

“Monsieur le Premier ministre, je serai très heureux de votre soutien lorsque le moment le demandera.”

Wilhelm hung up the phone and passed it back to his valet Theobald before sipping at a very nice Bordeaux while across from him his Great-Grandson was chatting speedily with his cousin Sergei von Kushalyn in Sevastopol. As progressive thinking as he was, Wilhelm always bit back a groan when he thought of how he had a Ukrainian Grandson; why on Earth did his youngest daughter Rosa Maria have to fall in love with a Ukrainian Baron of middling wealth and prestige. It wasn’t so much a racial thing, though Wilhelm wasn’t particular fond of the Ukrainian’s as they struck him as being far too arrogant, but a status one. That a Princess of Germany and Prussia should marry a lowly Baron and not even a wealthy or distinguished one at that.

At least in the case of Prince August Wilhelm, even though he did have a Polish wife, she was the daughter of the Grand Duke of Poland so a fairly equal marriage.

The former Emperor finished off his wine and Theobald quickly took it away, replacing it with a cup of nice strong coffee in the same move. “Ah thank you Theobald. I do so love a nice Brazilian coffee blend.”

“Indeed Sir, though there is a new blend out of Italian East Africa that is gaining much popularity in Paris and Rome.”

“No I don’t think so Theobald, I’m always a bit paranoid the Ethiopian’s are poisoning their crops in the field just to spite the Italian’s.”

Across from him Claude was just saying his goodbyes.

“Alright Sergei I suppose this’ll be the last time I speak to you for a while. I don’t imagine a legend like Rommel will leave much time for personal calls. Give my love to Aunt Rosa.”

”Likewise give my love to Grandfather.”

With his conversation now done, Claude closed the lid on his laptop and leaned over to look out the window at the clouds below. His limbs were fidgety with the energy of youth, bringing a smile to Wilhelm’s face as he remembered the days, now many decades past, where his limbs also twitched with the same youthful energy.

“You can stop looking out the windows Claude, we’re still about an hour or two away from landing and even then I imagine some ceremony or otherwise will detain us for another half hour or so its how these things are done.”

Claude cocked his head to one side. “But we’re not on an official state visit.”

“Doesn’t matter, as much as I wanted this to be a discreet trip to post you with Rommel and for me to visit Klaus, as well as officially grant my blessing on Elizabeth and Karl, old Richthofen, the Reichskanzler that is will have put stop to that. He’s terribly frightened I’m going to shatter the carefully woven web of diplomatic and military options he’s crafted in Capile to try and keep chaos from spreading.” He sipped at his coffee. “No Richthofen will’ll called ahead to Reichskanzler Knott in Rochefort to officialize my visit and make some ceremony out of it. This will give the appearance I’m only here as as figurehead and prevent my acting as a dealmaker in Capile.”

“But wouldn’t Reichskanzler Knott want to take as much advantage as he can out of your visit?”

Wilhelm nodded. “Usually yes, however Knott and Richthofen have worked together as counterparts for many years now. I imagine they both have not only enough professional respect of one another to convince the other, but also knowledge of enough backroom deals to ‘persuade’ each other.” A quirked smile. “Knott might also be worried I’ll sway Klaus’ opinion away from the direction he wants it in.”

“But aren’t administrators, politicians, and bureaucrats like Richthofen and Knott loyal to their sovereign?”

A hearty chuckle. “In theory yes. I’m not sure about Capilean law but when the Kaiser appoints a new Reichskanzler his first appointment isn’t with the Reichstag, its at Court at the Stadtschlosse. The Reichskanzler kneels before the throne and swears his undying fealty to Kaiser and Fatherland. Its the fealty to Fatherland part that gives them a bit of room to breath.”

“What do you mean?”

“While the Reichskanzler has sworn fealty to the Kaiser they just have to avoid harming the Imperial House to fulfill that. However while they do swear fealty to the Fatherland they are also the Head of Government so in theory they decide what is good or not for the Fatherland. The Reichskanzler has always sought to guide the Kaiser towards one path or another because the Kaiser’s support means support from a great number of the Reichstag and members of Cabinet.”

“So the Reichskanzler basically uses the Kaiser, the God-ordained sovereign of the Kaiserreich and God’s Lieutenant on Earth, as a shiny toy to lure in supporters from the legislature?”

“You’ve got it in one. Warranted its up to a sovereign to decide whether to lead his government or be led around by it. When I was first crowned, I dismissed four Reichskanzler’s in three months for trying to lead me around like a puppy. Its very rare for a sovereign to find a counterpart in government with whom he, or she, can genuinely and honestly work with as an equal. Richthofen was perfectly happy to work as an equal counterpart with me and Erwin, however your uncle, my grandson, isn’t quite the monarch either of us were.”

Claude nodded his head. “You mean he’s nervous, indecisive, and almost civilian in his nature.”

“I wouldn’t have put it quite like that but yes.” Wilhelm frowned and leaned back in his chair. “Richthofen thinks he can lead my grandson around like a puppy with ease and the sad truth is he can. I’ve arranged for certain allies in Berlin to try and keep the balance while I’m gone.”

Just then Theobald came back around and leaned down next to Wilhelm. “We’ve received clearance to land at Rochefort International and have been directed to runway 3B. They’ve sent notification to both the Grand Duke and the Reichskanzler.”

“Ah thank you Theobald. Well here we go into the circus.”

Surrender of Stammburg
Operation Faust: Stage Four/ Operation Ludwig
Grand Duchy of Nova Capile

Before this aggressive banter between General Reudel and Major Brücke could escalate into something further, though really all of said roads ended with Reudel dead or injured, a third party intervened. That in the manner of the sound of helicopter blades approaching as a Fe-311 came soaring in over the square before descending for a landing. As soon as the doors opened, six soldiers in full assault gear hopped out and began establishing a perimeter while a man stepped out of the helicopter and began making his way over to the group in the square.

As he came closer Sara and the rest of the KSK Operatives sprang to attention, the resounding click of so many heels echoed across the square. The man was in a relatively plain uniform, in fact the rank badges said he was only a Corporal, however the air he carried around spoke of a rank much higher than that. He gestured towards Reudel and Wetter’s bound hands. “Kindly release these gentlemen Major. After all regardless of anger, binding the hands of staff officers is really overkill.”

“Ja Herr Generalfeldmarschall!” Sara sounded out and quickly produced her combat knife and moved for Reudel and Wetter. Both men eyed her warily but all she did was cut the zip ties and free their hands. She growled at them both. “Don’t you two know to salute a superior officer!”

The man, now identified as a Generalfeldmarschall, waved his hands and gave Sara a reproachful look. “Now now Major. They have been defeated no need to humiliate them further. After all the greatest humiliation for a soldier is defeat or dishonor; they have been defeated but we cannot deny them an honorable surrender.”

“You must excuse Major Brücke’s attitude gentlemen, but the sole operative lost in this operation was in fact her old mentor and a dear friend. Dewa Edobé a sixteen year veteran of the KSK, honored by Kaiser Wilhelm Augustus III for personal valor in saving the life of Princess Rosa Maria of Prussia from an assassination attempt. I suppose we would all act in the same way on losing an old friend.”

It suddenly dawned on the man that he had yet to introduce himself. Deigning to do the men the courtesy of saluting a fellow staff officer he began. “My apologies gentlemen. Generalfeldmarschall Joachim Rommel, His Imperial and Royal Majesties Commander-in Chief of the Capilean Theater. I apologize for my lack of rank badges but on a battlefield it is best not to be recognized by the enemy as a commander.” He turned and pointed to the helicopter. “The equipment on that helicopter should allow you to make contact with your forces and facilitate a peaceful surrender. If you would wish your forces only have to surrender to German authorities rather than Royalist ones. In this way you can say you did not surrender in your ideological struggle merely on the battlefield.” Rommel rubbed his hands together in satisfaction. “After that gentlemen I intend to return to my headquarters for a nice dinner with my staff, would you care to join us?”

by **The Grand Duchy Of Nova Capile** » Tue Nov 05, 2019 10:36 pm

STAMMBURG
NOVA CAPILE

Reudel rubbed his wrists indignantly as he was freed, and eyed the newcomer with carefully hidden curiosity. Wetter stared with open interest. He supposed that he would eventually treat with a higher officer– surely that martial elegance so unique to Germany had not finally eroded!– and now he wondered who the speaker was. It could very well have been one of Rommel’s subordinates, but if Jürgen Reudel had judged his enemy correctly, then the Steel Wolf would want to finish the operation himself.

The general’s suspicions were confirmed when the disguised corporal finally revealed himself as the Generalfeldmarschall Joachim Rommel.

Freed from the tyranny of the lowly Major Brücke and reassured by the calm and eloquent mien of the Wolf, Reudel became less defensive and openly assessed the man who had defeated him.

“I shall make an announcement to my men at once, so as to forestall further bloodshed,” Reudel said at length. He made his way to the helicopter, and assisted by one of his own communications officers and a German counterpart, quickly came into contact with the commanders of both the forces outside and within Stammburg and those trapped within the Sumpfwald. After a brief pause, he issued his message, to be heard by all of his men and transcribed to be read by those who missed it.

“It is I, Lieutenant General Jürgen Reudel, Acting Commander of Heeresgruppe Süd, speaking at 2200 on the twenty-fifth of September. I order the immediate laying down of arms and surrender of all Reich-affiliated personnel, including Stoßwehr, Volkssturm, and other paramilitary and guerilla units, to the forces of the German Army under Generalfeldmarschall Rommel. As per the conditions of this surrender, failing to comply with this order will result in the loss of prisoner of war status of all Stoßwehr prisoners held by the German Army, presently and in the future.”

All of this Reudel said mechanically, as though read from a script, though no such thing existed before him. He swallowed heavily before continuing in a strained tone that seemed to be holding back much passion.

“It has been an honor to lead you. Lieutenant General Jürgen Reudel, signing off.”

Reudel stepped back from the radio and threw his gaze away from it, as if the very sight did him pain.

“If we cannot surrender to equals, at least we can surrender to Germans,” he said, finally releasing the one thought which had been raging to enter his surrender order. Jürgen had restrained himself; it would do no good to stir further resentment among his men.

Stepping back toward Rommel, he gave a quick nod to convey that the surrender had been ordered. Taking a deep breath, the general tried to put the events of the day behind him.

“I would not presume to refuse your dinner invitation, Generalfeldmarschall.”

ROCHEFURT
NOVA CAPILE

A small crowd, all silver and gray heads, had gathered to witness the arrival of the former Kaiser Wilhelm; much smaller, in fact, than any had expected.

Perhaps it was only these few ancients who remembered the days when the august Wilhelm had presided over Europe and appeared weekly in Capilean headlines; more likely, there were no young people able to attend, despite their want to do so.

Apart from these weary onlookers were the spawn of the press, slowly fighting their way past the line of policemen who dammed their tide. Beyond this line of yeoman was a much more formidable phalanx of soldiers, uniforms pressed and bayonets gleaming. Before the war, the Stoßwehr would have been trusted with such a prestigious function; the creation of an honor guard drawn from the army had been a hasty affair.

Before these stalwart men and their accompanying military band, which tapped out cheery marching music, stood Wilhelm Knott and Grand Duke Klaus, conversing quietly with one another, along with a few other officials unworthy of mention.

Presently, the jet carrying the guest of honor appeared on the horizon, like a double-headed eagle swooping down toward a new perch. The band struck up a new and thundering tune, and the elderly onlookers pointed and gaped at the sight. As the craft came to a smooth landing on the airstrip provided to it, the soldiery came to perfect attention.

The stairway descended from the eagle’s belly, and its occupants emerged. Klaus stepped forward to see for the first time in years a friend and steadfast ally. The dying summer used the last of its power to reveal just how much the Duke had atrophied.

The color had drained both from his hair, now a dull gray, and his flesh, ashen. The lines etched across his noble face were cruel for a man of his age. Even the angular, marble-cut features so distinctive of the Saxtonburg line seemed to have weathered during the storm of war.
Only the eyes, the intelligent, sophisticated, and kind pools of purest blue, were unchanged.
And when they fell upon Wilhelm, they warmed with brotherly passion, and with hope that seemed to flow throughout and innervate his broken body.

by **Karevka** » Thu Nov 07, 2019 12:10 pm

Korodvinsk
Democratic Socialist Republic of Karevka

T the SSD orderly speed-walked through the subterranean hallways, clutching a sheet of paper in his right hand and a pack of cigarettes in his left. He was uninteresting like most of the staff that weren't spooks, security troops or higher-ranking officials. Average build average height, not too smart but not too dumb. Perfect for someone to deliver mail or coffee. He came to one of the many steel doors in the Central Secretariat bunker complex and, shifting the cigarettes to his right hand, gave the coded knock to be allowed in. The door swung open, and the orderly entered. The submachine gun-toting guard closed the door behind him.

"Ah, the extra cigarettes. Thank you, comrade." Artur Dernov, Director of State Security, said to the young man. All the men in the room, Komissarov, Yudin, and Ledovsky, were all smokers but Dernov smoked the most out of all of them.

The orderly placed the cigarette pack on the table, which Dernov quickly opened, and walked around to Komissarov's chair. "Report from Major General Stepanov, Prime Secretary." the young man placed the written report in front of Komissarov who said nothing as he read through or reread various reports and dossiers. After giving a quick salute, the orderly left the room. Once the door shut, Komissarov picked up the report from Stepanov. He knew Nikita was a good soldier and had a commendable combat record, not to mention a firm believer in socialism, but he knew of his doubt in the operation.

Komissarov began to read aloud the report to the other Politburo members. "Docking in Rochefurt successful, the cargo was searched but the inspectors were cursory at most. The hidden equipment was not discovered. I will make contact with SSD administrative staff ASAP. Operation Wolfstone is in motion."

Artyom put the paper back on the oak table. Nothing was said.

"Sergeant Major, new dispatch for you." the SSD colonel had returned after a few days of absence the sergeant major had noted. She took the sheet of paper from the man and began typing. She had done this enough times to remember exactly how to do it. It seemed to be a special trait for SSD comms staff to quickly memorize specific tasks. Later, she turned to the colonel. "Done sir."

[table][tr][td][blocktext]

This communique is delivered to General Secretary Terry Blucher on behalf of Prime Secretary of the Democratic Socialist Republic of Karevka and the Foreign Ministry.

Our troops have successfully landed in Rochefurt. Our heavy equipment wasn't discovered. Where can Major General Nikita Stepanov, the commanding officer, and one of your people meet?

by **New Decius** » Fri Nov 08, 2019 12:18 pm

Rochefort International Airport
Visit of Kaiser Wilhelm Augustus III
Grand Duchy of Nova Capile

As the former Kaiser descended the steps towards the tarmac and his waiting friend, he acknowledged the ceremonial and media presence around them. Admittedly it was smaller than he had been expecting, probably due to Klaus’ intervention. This reception was ceremonial enough to limit Wilhelm’s official role but light and respectful enough to consider him a dealmaker in the region. Though whether or not he would be making any deals after all remained to be seen, though Wilhelm imagined that both Reichskanzler’s Richthofen and Knott would prefer him to keep his visit restricted to simply a personal visit to Klaus. Surely both bureaucrats were terrified that Wilhelm would sway Klaus away from the course they were trying to guide the Grand Duke on.

Wilhelm greeted his old friend and ally with the warmest of smiles and grasped his hand firmly when he touched ground. Though Wilhelm had done more business with Klaus’ father at least as far as cooperation between sovereign’s went he had fostered a very good relationship with Klaus over the years. In fact he first met the then Crown Prince during the 70’s when he (Wilhelm) was an Oberst in the Kaiserliche Armee and was sent to Capile as part of an international exchange initiative to help combat rising terrorist extremism in Africa and South America. During the 80’s after Wilhelm ascended the German throne he worked to foster better ties with Capile, largely successfully and only briefly broken when Germany intervened during the Second Columbian Civil War to prop up a potential puppet. Despite that Wilhelm had made more unofficial and official state visits to Capile than any other German ally, besides the other members of the European Federation, half of them merely excuses to foster a friendship with Klaus and the former Grand Duke Hans.

“Ah old friend it is good to see you again after so long. I see that this war has worked its ravages on you, not to worry I’ve learned from experience that those worry lines are a temporary ailment alone. If it makes you feel better you still look far better than I do.” Wilhelm burst out into laughter, though in fairness he was almost ten years older than Klaus was so there was no saving his looks from the march of time. He leaned in a bit closer so that Knott and the other officials couldn’t hear. “I’m guessing that this reception is as small as it is due to your intervention. Thank you for that. I was fearfully anticipating a media circus and lots of pompous twaddle. I would’ve thought Richthofen would ask Knott to use the opportunity to make me appear nothing but a mindless figurehead.”

He leaned back and took in the sight around them. “It seems strange arriving in Rochefort rather than Saxtonburg, not that I expect Nemetz to hold your rightful capital for very long. A thug like him will eventually be struck down by the righteous foes arrayed against him.”

Even with his age, the old Emperor was still able to manage a cheeky grin. “By the way, I do hope you know that before I give my official blessing to Elizabeth and Karl that I will make the boy sweat from nervousness. In truth I entirely approve of the match but there’s no reason not to have a little fun beforehand.”

There was a light cough from behind him and Wilhelm suddenly remembered his tag-along. Turning he gestured to Claude who gave a respectful bow to Klaus. “May I present my great-grandson, Claude von Aachen, Prince of Prussia. He’s to be assigned to Rommel once the old Steel Wolf is back from his fox hunt.”

Surrender of Stammburg
Operation Faust: Stage Four/ Operation Ludwig
Grand Duchy of Nova Capile

Rommel nodded in understanding, well something akin to it. When one had never suffered a defeat greater than a minor withdrawal in a very long and extensive military career, consoling the defeated was not an easy skill to learn. In his distinguished military career, Rommel’s only defeats had been of his own choice to regroup so as not to risk his men in a battle they could not win; along with the occasional feint to bait an enemy into an overconfident pursuit.

“Well Major General you and your colleague will be happy to know that in the days that follow, you will not be snapped up by the Abwehr.” The look Rommel gave the two said very plainly that they should feel extremely grateful for that. Any senior Stoßwehr officers or VF Party Leaders the Abwehr got its hands on would likely face weeks of the worst tortures the human mind could dream up, before finally being granted an equally gruesome death. If anyone in Germany wanted Nemetz’s head for sure it was the Marschall der Abwehr, Heinrich von Lausitz, who held Nemetz personally responsible for stringing up his agents in Capile; in specific, Marschall von Lausitz’s nephew was one of the agents caught by the VF at the start of the Civil War and brutally murdered before he could get out of the country. “You will be remanded to my custody and for a time will be in relative comfort gentlemen. Now you might very well wonder why I am doing this. Simple, I refuse to waste potential assets.”

He held up his hands to delay the obvious oncoming questions. “Now I’m not questioning your loyalty to your cause regardless of my personal feelings in regard to said cause. To start with while you gentlemen are not the greatest tactician’s in the world, you clearly have capable minds in those heads of yours and it’d be a shame to waste such a thing.” He turned to Reudel. “Major General Reudel I will admit it was nothing short of masterful the way you played cat and mouse with 12. Armee in the Sumpfwald despite the overwhelming odds set against you. Then later on when your 3. Panzerarmee clashes with 16. Armee, I was impressed by your orderly withdrawal after your main battle line was smashed by General Witold’s Panzer Divisions.”

“Now the point to all this is I must be prepared for all eventualities. For instance what if you do decide to once again serve your Grand Duke and offer your services to the Royalist Army. Or what if Germany, unlikely though it is, cuts a deal with Nemetz and we switch horses to him. What if the Royalists and the Reich sign a ceasefire in favor of joint action against the BSU? There are so many possibilities and it would be foolish not to prepare for them.”

He then turned back towards the helicopter, signaling the two men to follow behind him. “And now gentlemen, shall we go?”

Headquarters of Heeresgruppe Siegfried
Temporary Encampment of 25. Armee, Near Südhoof
Royalist Capile

“Your absolutely positive about the state of 30. Armee General Ströhm?” Feldmarschall Franz Lütold von Sonnenschein asked the staff officer standing on the other side of his desk, not that he had much of an office; as the commander of a Heeresgruppe he was awarded a slightly larger tent in the literal city of tents and temporary buildings housing 25. Armee near Südhoof.

Ideally the forces of Heeresgruppe Siegfried should’ve been able to go into action as soon as they arrived in Capile much as Beowulf had done. However, conditions on the Eastern Front were far worse than anyone had known particularly in terms of the infrastructure, severely hampering the speed in which Franz could bring in and establish his logistical apparatus. Not only that, he had to fight tooth and nail with local bureaucrats just to get permission to set up the temporary encampments for his troops before they were sent on campaign. Had the logistical situation been far improved before Siegfried had arrived in theater, at least two if not all three field armies could’ve gone to the front immediately on arrival.

“Ja Herr Feldmarschall, I have confirmation from all divisional commanders that all units report combat ready status. I could have 30. Armee on the move within the hour, I only need a destination.”

“Well that will greatly improve matters for our Royalist allies, an extra three hundred thousand fresh experienced well-equipped troops to shore up their line. As I understand it, Großmarschall Winser is about to undertake a massive offensive action to try and regain the initiative on the Eastern Front. Give me a little time and I shall give you your destination Ströhm, Dismissed.”

The Feldmarschall was left to his own thoughts.

The big question was where would Winser want 30. Armee sent? Franz did not know full operational details about the planned offensive but he did know it would involve simultaneous attacks on the Dutch, Saatlanders, and Reich, offering any proper number of targets. Given the location of 30. Armee at present the most logical front to send them to would be against the Dutch in the East, or to be used in a diversionary attack towards Kongsburg to make sure the BSU didn’t interfere with the Royalist efforts.

To be honest, Franz would prefer that Winser asked him to send the 30. Armee East against the Dutch Republic, at least at the present time. Even if the fresh and well-equipped German troops were vastly superior to the Communist militia’s in terms of quality, the sheer overwhelming numbers the BSU could bring to bear was a daunting prospect in its own right; not to mention that Heeresgruppe Siegfried had absolutely no dedicated anti-partisan units in any of the divisions attached to it. If the partisan’s ferocity and tenacity was anything like what Rommel had been facing at Stammburg, Franz would have to fight for every single centimeter of ground he took from the Reds. Much better to send 30. Armee to fight the Dutch where the threat was from conventional forces and tactics which Ströhm’s troops were both trained and equipped to handle.

There was also the potential that Großadmiral Horst’s command could lend Winser a hand; if the reports he’d received were accurate then part of Winser’s offensive involved the use of amphibious troops. Großadmiral Hermann Horst had brought a whole four Kampfgeschwader of the Hochseeflotte to the Capilean Theater for naval operations, as well as having several supporting elements transferred over from the Atlantikflotte and Pazifikflotte, why not put them to use. Horst had two out of his four squadrons anchored at Rochefort right now acting as a fleet-in being ready to move if Nemetz meager fleet showed any signs of life at all, while the other two were on patrol and escort duty securing the Western sea lanes leading to Capile, specifically the Atlantic lanes rounding the Cape of Good Hope, and the Suez Canal-Red Sea lanes rounding the Horn of Africa. Those carriers could bring quite a lot of strike aircraft to support an amphibious landing and those battleships had the guns and missiles to blast any shore fortification to pieces so surely Horst would be willing to send out one of his Kampfgeschwader held in reserve to support Winser’s operations.

“Stern!”

A young man in a Corporal’s uniform rushed into the tent from outside and sketched out a quick salute. Dietrich Stern was certainly a very young man to be a Gefreiter at only nineteen years old but the rank jump came with being Feldmarschall von Sonnenschein’s batman; the lad was quick on his feet and tight with secrets hence why the Feldmarschall found him so very useful.

“Stern I want the following message sent to Großmarschall Winser’s headquarters. Priority Double A and make sure it is encrypted.”

Stern produced a notepad to take down the message. An old fashioned method yes but you cant hack a notepad and if someone burned the note afterwards you couldn’t read it after the fact either.

“Großmarschall Winser, as Commander of Heeresgruppe Siegfried I am pleased to inform you that I finally have a field army worked up and ready for campaigning. 30. Armee is ready to move out at an hour’s notice and so I place it at your disposal, 300,000 fresh and experienced German troops ready for action. As I understand it based on our shared intelligence, you are about to undertake a large scale multi-front offensive, thus I would recommend utilizing 30. Armee against the Dutch given their present location. General Hubertus Ströhm is a very capable officer, a good head on his shoulders and does not suffer fools to stop him from carrying out his orders. I shall have the other two field armies under my command ready for action within another two weeks however I have both combat and surveillance air assets ready and able to support your offensive in airspace over the South-Eastern Front. If you were to contact Generalfeldmarschall Rommel he could also see to having Großadmiral Horst release one of the two naval Battle Squadrons he is holding in reserve near Rochefort for your usage.”

Stern had managed to keep pace perfectly with his commander’s speech pattern.

“Sign my name and have it sent off at once.”

Stern saluted and rushed from the tent.

’So it seems that its time for the fun to start.’

by **The Grand Duchy Of Nova Capile** » Tue Nov 12, 2019 9:26 pm

STAMMBURG
NOVA CAPILE

Reudel accepted Rommel’s complements with a stiff nod which signaled that he was in no mood to discuss strategy at present.

“I only hope that we don’t lose too many men to the Oath tonight,” he said at last, seeming to direct the comment more at his compatriot Wetter than at Rommel. Wetter nodded solemnly, and his spirit seemed to finally return whencever it had gone to his body.

His soft blue eyes locked painfully with Reudel’s, and begged an unspoken question. Reudel shook his head, conveying much more information than an onlooker could ever interpret with the gesture.

After an awkward pause, Rommel interjected, “And now gentlemen, shall we go?”

Turning slowly to face their former adversary, the two defeated men assented, and followed the Steel Wolf into the helicopter.

Reudel’s directive was generally received in three different ways by the men under his command.

The first and, sadly, least common of the three was to follow the directive and surrender. Those who had grown weary of the constant fighting, who had recognized long ago that the fight was hopeless, and who had suffered quietly ever since, now surrendered, not with joy, but with a stoic silence, to the Germans. Amidst boos and jeers they abandoned those who wished still to doggedly resist; quite a few were cut down by their spiteful brethren as they left.

Another, the most common, was to assume that it had been a German ploy, a gross underestimation of the average Stoßwehr man’s intelligence, and to disregard it as such. These deluded fought on with an extra tenacity, refusing reason, beating it back with machine gun and flamethrower. As the hours turned to days, however, and these men were left with few to speak to but their conscious, they gradually realized the truth. Those who had not perished against the overwhelming odds either threw up their hands in bitter surrender, or fell upon their last recourse.

The third option was to accept the order as genuine, but to disobey it and instead honor the Oath they had taken upon their induction to the Stoßwehr. “Our duty lies beyond the grave,” they were wont to say, “and in Valhalla.” They were young men, fit and healthy, and with fathers and mothers and sweethearts who loved them dearly; but, evidently, these men loved their Reichsleiter more; for, upon hearing the surrender order, they very mechanically reached into their breast pockets, withdrawing capsules and swallowing them. These had heretofore beaten daily against their breasts, the potent poison threatening their steady heartbeats. These the men took and imbibed without hesitation, slumping over and dying in great droves, the last thought on their minds of Walther Nemetz.

Within a few days, the fighting had subsided to a few bastions within the Sumpfwald. A story spread rapidly among the German victors: It was said that one private, rosy in cheek and demeanor, had come alone to surrender, as the rest of his entire company had fallen victim to the capsules. When the lad led his captors to the site, they felt as if they had crossed a cosmic boundary, and entered a land of fantasy. At the camp, so many men stood, sat, and lay, like marble statues in an ancient ruin, cheeks ashen and eyes glassy. A dozen men’s heads rested on a mess table, its rotting food never to be eaten; two officers sat across from each other over a chess set, whose ferocious battle would never be resolved; a man and his dog slumbered together, forever.

It was as if Walther Nemetz had commanded time itself to stop, and his troops had obliged him.

KONGSBURG
SOCIALIST CAPILE

At a quiet tributary of the Kongs, in the center of the blurry area between Communist and Royalist lines, a handful of alert soldiers stood, waiting for their partners to arrive.

The Karevkans, through a clever and risky scheme, had smuggled a large band of their finest soldiers to aid the Revolution, and now the deal was to come to fruition. As soon as they had slipped out of the Crown’s huge but distracted eye, their convoy had darted, as per the secret instructions of the Socialist Council, to the rendezvous point.

Now, the short officer in command of the Communists alighted upon a distant column, rolling nearer every second. The Karevkans had arrived.

The comrade had his orders; he was to escort the friends of the Revolution, under the blanketing cover of night, to the city of Kongsburg, where they would be given BSU uniforms and have their vehicles repainted with BSU markings. From there, they could join the war effort.

The international legions were assembling; the Revolution could not be resisted any longer.

ROCHEFURT
NOVA CAPILE

Klaus seemed reassured and invigorated by the presence of his old friend.

“I restricted the ceremony as much as I could; but the media could infiltrate the most secure of my general staff’s meetings, had they the want. In any case, I am glad that you feel welcomed, and not like a zoo animal.”

At the mention of Wilhelm’s plans for Karl, the Grand Duke chuckled. “The boy deserves some fright, after the events of the last few months.”

Wilhelm Knott raised his eyebrow meaningful, and at the sight, Klaus added, “But he really means only to do what is best for Elizabeth. I believe it is high time not only that our two families are united, but also the Prince and Princess.”

It was at this point that Claude von Aachen was introduced. Klaus and the Reichskanzler shook hands with the youth and exchanged polite greetings.

“You have the bearings of a fine officer,” Knott complemented, locking eyes with the younger, “and under the tutelage of Rommel, I have no doubts as to your prospects, provided generalship is the path you choose to pursue.”
After these pleasantries had been settled, the group was escorted to a limousine, which quickly transported them to Rochefurt’s city hall. The tall building was in the Greek Revival style; its giant maw was held agape by a dozen Corinthian column teeth, and was fed by an endless flow of bureaucrats and soldiers.

The car came to a halt before this, the new and fitting epicenter of the Capilean government. Klaus and Knott led Wilhelm and Claude past marble statues of crouching lions, rearing elephants, and flag-waving patriots; into the bustling lobby; up a richly-furnished elevator; down a corridor lined with portraits of impressively-mustached men; and, finally, into a handsome chamber which, at one point, had served as a sitting room for the mayor and his intimate guests.

There, awaiting them as per Klaus’ request, were Karl and Elizabeth. The former was standing pensively at the window, and turned round hastily at the sound of the opening door. More than a little pale, the boy nevertheless managed a confident expression, and strode across the room toward the newcomers.

The Grand Duke, Reichskanzler, and their guests entered the room in a solemn procession; and, following an unspoken agreement, Klaus and Knott affixed the Capilean Prince with witheringly stern expressions.

By this point, Karl was steeling himself in vain for a scathing reproof, even for a revocation of Elizabeth’s hand in marriage; thoughts of elopement even crossed his mind. But he persevered, and stopping before the man whom he wished to be his in-law, he bowed almost deeply enough to kiss his shoes, and awaited judgement.

POLDORF
NOVA CAPILE

Hermann Winser stared at the battleplan laid before him. There were but a few more days until Operation Panoply’s execution. It had, through the utmost care and diligence, been kept an exclusive secret to Winser, the officers he commanded, and a select few generals within foreign forces. Each had been given only the barest of information needed to do his job; only Winser, in fact, knew of the entire plan.

He had received enheartening news from his ally, German Feldmarschall Sonnenschein, who had promised him a full army for the campaign. As per Sonnenschein’s suggestion, Winser had approved 30. Armee to rendevouz with the forces of General Wittendorfer. With the help of experienced and well-equipped German soldiers, Wittendorfer’s work would be significantly eased. For all their tenacity, the Dutch did not have the resources to resist the sheer might of the Duchy and her allies.

Even better, perhaps, the Feldmarschall had offered air support to Winser, a request that was immediately granted. Although the Großmarschall already had access to a large, well-equipped, and elite air force, German assistance would finalize Royalist air supremacy and allow them to hammer the enemy even harder from above. Finally, Sonnenschein had even advised that Rommel could spare some of the naval forces under his jurisdiction for the operation.

This was crucial, as the amphibious landings of General Lohmüller were to be some of the riskiest maneuvers of the entire campaign, despite the relatively small number of troops involved. The naval forces available to Winser had been limited, as the vast majority of the Crown’s ships were occupied protecting shipping lanes from the Reich’s hungry wolf packs or blockading enemy ports; should Rommel assent to the request Winser had just sent out, however, their naval supremacy would be assured.

Examining the plans once more with his buzzing blue eyes, the Großmarschall was reassured. His careful hand had authored many a war-winning blueprint before. Unless he was senile, the bulldog had done it again.

by **Akordania** » Wed Nov 13, 2019 10:01 pm

WOLFCOUR
CAPILEAN REICH

Beside a crackling fire, an Akordanian soldier strummed a lonely and dark tune in the company of his comrades. The entirety of the group were either shirtless or adorned in little other than telnyashkas, despite the arrival of autumn. The northern Capilean breeze had little effect on the easterners as they sat in silence, passing around a bottle. A certain peace had settled upon the camp with the arrival of news from Krovoposkov's headquarters; Army Corps East was to return home. In their stead, a contingent of Yukashenko's personal troops would arrive to maintain control over French-Bavarian and Royalist prisoners of war, as well as aiding in logistics and security efforts.

Since the siege of Gravines, the Akordanians had erected a sizable prisoner of war camp, Zhytlo, near Corps HQ in Wolfcour. In a manmade clearing, Akordanian engineers built two layers of barbed wire fencing- cornered off by hulking watch towers bolstered by machine guns and spotlights. Within the fenceline, row upon row of canvas tents were hastily propped up for the sudden influx of POWs. On one side of the camp, enlisted personnel and police auxiliaries were interned. On the other, officers and low-level officials were crammed into tents all the same. There were no defensive positions of any kind within the camp itself, as Akordanian guards could undoubtedly be slaughtered in droves in the event of a mass escape or riot. Instead, in support of the watchtowers, a perimeter of defensive fighting positions were maintained and trained on the interior of the camp. Just a few meters outward, yet another perimeter was established, this time facing the surrounding wilderness.

It had become evident that more thought had been placed into security than the actual prisoner housing itself. Conditions were rapidly deteriorating, and with word of a potential holdout through the frigid months, the state of Zhytlo was unsustainable. As Army Corps East prepared to pass control of the camp into the hands of Yukashenko's "Berkut", assurances had been made that improvements would indeed be implemented. There were doubts. Even in the mind of Krovoposkov, a diehard supporter of the regime, the arrival of the NRV "Berkut" to the conflict was by no means a welcome development. They had rightfully acquired a dreadful reputation as a vicious and repressive entity within the motherland, and were considered to be the most fanatical of the regime's supporters. Choosing them as caretakers versus professional military authorities was a dangerous choice; one he had advised against repeatedly, but to no avail.

As the days crept on following the conquest of Quassdorf, troops continued to stream northward to rest and reform before being shipped home by means of air. In turn, more regiments of NRV arrived to Wolfcour, crowding the barracks with their distinctive uniforms. Though it was possible supplies were still on the way, it seemed that Berkut forces had arrived with more firepower than construction equipment. The air of uneasiness continued to build, and with the introduction of new leadership to the camp, Krovoposkov was more than ready to be rid of the Capilean ordeal.

by **Luxembourg-Bavaria** » Fri Nov 15, 2019 8:08 am

Roappe
Free French State

Out in the countryside, the cycle of change continued for the allies. The constant drilling of the wave of French recruits was starting to show. Slowly but surely, the shattered Free French Army began to repair itself. It was only a matter of time.

In the plains just beyond the allied fortifications, Bavarian tanks executed pinpoint maneuvers under the watchful eyes of their commanders. On a hill overlooking the city, the Bavarian generals observed all around them.

General Werner spoke to his counterparts.

"We have accomplished something here that no one thought was possible. The French State will fight on, despite the loss of Gravines. That alone is something to be proud of."

At this, General Leimann shook his head.

"See, Lukas, this is what we cannot afford. Yes, what we have done here is a great accomplishment. But we must not rest on our laurels. The Reich is counting on us to do just that. We must remain vigilant. Keep drilling, keep working, keep fighting."

As Leimann spoke, a Bavarian officer, identified as a captain by his uniform, ran up the hill.

Panting heavily, he saluted both generals and gave his report.

"Sirs, urgent message from Colonel Beck. Intelligence has picked up chatter about a possible Reich operation. We now believe they are sending French-speaking agents in to infiltrate the Free French forces. Their mission has yet to be determined, but we believe that they will target key points in our defensive lines."

Leimann swore loudly as Werner mustered a response.

"Inform the troops. Tell everyone to be on the lookout. Whatever their mission is, we must not allow them to execute it. Additionally, tell the officers to vet all the new recruits. If they don't have the proper papers or if something seems off, send them away. This may cause our recruitment numbers to go down, but hopefully, we will prevent most of the spies from embedding themselves into the French military."

The captain snapped off a crisp salute and began the trek back to the city.

Leimann's orders were issued throughout the allied forces. The fight continues on.

by **New Decius** » Sat Nov 16, 2019 9:54 am

Rochefort City Hall
Visit of Kaiser Wilhelm Augustus III
Royalist Capile

Wilhelm watched patiently as Karl strode forward and bowed in front of him, impressively low that it was almost as if they were in Japan instead of Capile. Technically since Wilhelm was not a reigning monarch this was appropriately respectful as a greeting by official etiquette; were he still German Emperor and King of Prussia then a man would be expected to kneel before Wilhelm alike they would when at Court. Still take any opportunity for fun where you can.

He turned to his right and gave Klaus a cheeky look as if to say ’This is where the funs begins’.

Turning back to Karl, Wilhelm quickly wiped all traces of positive emotion from his features and straightened up into the military posture he had known for so many years during his time in the Kaiserliche Armee. Clearing his throat he looked down at Karl with a gaze that would be considered lethal if looks could kill.

“A bow? Do I appear as a humble Baron or Count to you young man? Pardon me for I was not aware that I had been so demoted in stature and rank. I was under the impression that I was a man who at one point in time held the titles of German Emperor and King of Prussia for over thirty years, yet all you see proper to greet me with is a mere bow.” Behind Wilhelm, Claude was just barely containing his amusement, he was perfectly aware that a bow was perfectly respectful enough for a former sovereign. “I come here intending to give my blessing as to the union between yourself and my great-niece only to be greeted by such disrespect. After His Majesty the Grand Duke greeted me with such kindness and respect on my arrival, his own grandson practically spits in my face.” He gave a great, dramatic sigh. “I am afraid that after such a display I shall have to withdraw my blessing from this union and return Elizabeth to Europa. The Grand Duke of Luxembourg has an unmarried son perhaps he will make a better match.”

For a moment the room was in stunned silence, Karl appeared to be struck dumb while Elizabeth looked absolutely shocked. Wilhelm let it stand for another moment or so before his composure cracked and the former emperor began to chuckle and snicker like a schoolboy. With the silence broken several of the others whom had been aware of the trick beforehand also broke out in small amounts of laughter.

“I do apologize if I overdid it my friend.” Wilhelm said as he turned to look at Klaus, the foreboding look vanished from his expression. “Once I started it just became so difficult to stop until achieving maximum impact.”

Looking back at Karl, Wilhelm’s expression morphed into an almost grandfatherly apologetic one. “Sorry about the joke lad but I’m almost seventy-three years old so I have to take my opportunities for fun wherever I can find them. No need at all to worry though, I am still perfectly prepared to give my blessing as the dynastic patriarch for you to marry Elizabeth.” Though technically Elizabeth was a member of the Habsburg-Lorraine dynasty, her grandfather had been Heinrich von Germania, Wilhelm’s elder brother, which made the Austrian dynasty a cadet branch to the Germania Dynasty. “I can imagine that for a moment there you were thinking of just grabbing my great-niece and making a run for it?”

by **Akordania** » Sun Nov 17, 2019 12:59 am

ZHYTLO
CAPILEAN REICH

Ruslan took a lengthy drag from his cigarette as he peered off into the sky. In an instant, his chest was consumed by a dull warmth, followed by the familiar buzz. He loosened his cracked lips to blow out a thick cloud of stale smoke into the twilight. At last, his eyes settled upon the men gathered before him.

An amalgamation of French, Bavarian, and Capilean prisoners stared back...though now it was hard to tell the difference. Their individual uniforms were battered, faded, and caked in dirt; their faces gaunt, defeated. They all, however, were officers in their respective units.

"Gentlemen. You know why you've been summoned, I'm sure. An introduction first. From here on out, I, Ruslan, am the new commandant of this fine institution." Ruslan brought up his arm in a dramatic swoop gesture, before flicking his cigarette off to the side. "Now," He began to pace about, squinting as if in deep thought.

"I'm not entirely sure how the army did things around here, and quite honestly I'm not sure if I could be pressed to give less of a fuck. However, I'm willing to bet that this particular policy stood: obey my orders, and you go on living. No attempts at escape...go on living. Doing your part to inform us of a potential escape...go on living. Inciting riots, fraternization with enlisted inmates, theft, and other such misconduct will most definitely warrant you a bullet to the back of the head. You people are my chosen representatives within this camp. You are my mouthpiece. You may be thinking, yob tvai-yu mat, does this guy really believe I'll do anything to help him? Right? Well, in exchange for your cooperation, I will gladly improve the quality of life here. I've got the equipment and the manpower. If I see things are under control with the population, then I'll allow you all to decide upon the first improvement. Pretty damn good deal I'd say. However," Ruslan would feign a grimace, "God help you if you upset me. Fair enough?"

The inmates begrudgingly muttered words of acknowledgement, to Ruslan's visual delight.

"Excellent. Excellent. I'm really glad we could reach an agreement. Just a few more minutes of your time. If you'll direct your dead eyes to the main entrance!"

Underneath the main gate, a restrained man struggled with two militants as they tightened a noose around his neck. At the completion, they took turns relentlessly burying their boots into his body. As he crumpled to the ground, the duo took the slack of the rope, formerly fastened to a rail tie, into their hands. With several deep grunts, they heaved him upward. The man thrashed about violently as he ascended, to the dread of Ruslan's audience. Having achieved the desired effect, Ruslan stepped back into their line of sight against the backdrop of the dying captive.

"Not to worry. None of your own. Some other poor bastard we caught poking around. But I feel you all are bright enough to get the point, yes? In any case, I am a real stickler for good first impressions. With that, you're all dismissed, but don't forget what I've asked of you. Oh! And...welcome to the new Zhytlo."

by **The Grand Duchy Of Nova Capile** » Sun Nov 17, 2019 1:07 am

ROCHEFURT
NOVA CAPILE

Karl took a deep breath.

To his credit, he maintained eye contact with the former Kaiser despite his withering glare, although he did not dare to interrupt the elder. The boy retained his composure until the very last, when Wilhelm threatened to revoke his engagement to Elizabeth.

At this point, two forces fought for control of Karl’s brain, and thus his actions. On the one side was the polite, cultured, and well-mannered gentleman which had been cultivated for so many years by scholarly tutors and royal academies; he urged the Prince to remain rational, to not make a fool of himself before a gathering of crowned heads richer than a dragon’s hoard.

The other animus had been passed down, rather than drilled into him, by a line of ancestors tracing their lineage back to the Stone Age. This was a Teutonic impulse of anger and pride, which had exercised its influence on Karl many times before, and now compelled him to declare that he and Elizabeth would marry no matter the whims of a had-been monarch; to proclaim their immediate elopement; even, shockingly, to strike the older man, though, of course, this basest of urges was dismissed almost before it had entered the young man’s mind.

The battle of these two wills, the learned and the instinctual, raged across his mind, and was visible in the straining lines of his face, even as he fought to retain his composure under Wilhelm’s bombardment. The host of anger was innumerable and barbarous, the defenders of reason mighty but few. The siege on Karl’s mind had reached its bloody crux just when Wilhelm began to laugh; and the combatants made a contemptuous peace soon after.
The war never had to be decided, and luckily, too.

There was a fair amount of laughter from the men around them, and Wilhelm revealed the nature of his jest.

Karl’s first reaction was to flush with embarrassment; this, and not fear, made him cast his eyes downward from the Kaiser at last. But, the well-bred royal returned quickly, and soon enough Karl was able to laugh at himself.

“You must forgive me, sir,” he said in answer to Wilhelm’s question, “for I am by nature beholden to impulse. I must admit that elopement seemed a valid option, just then.” He laughed, and then smiled more sincerely and looked his soon-to-be-relative in the eyes. “I am honored that you consider me worthy to marry your great-niece.”

The emotions and realizations running through Karl’s mind were now quite alien to those he had experienced but a few moments earlier. Wilhelm’s blessing could mean that a date for his marriage to Elizabeth might finally be set.

Perhaps they would already be wed, if not for the damnable war.

ROAPPE
FREE FRENCH STATE

A caravan of refugees snaked wearily across the dun-colored French countryside, making its way to the bastion of Roappe.

The Reich had mostly left these emigrants alone, although its military police had, on occasion, stripped them of their valuable belongings and, more often, their men of working age.

Captain Pierre Crommelin watched the procession grimly. He had defended his airfield against the Fascist advance for as long as it was tenable, but chose not to forfeit the lives of his men in a vain sacrifice, instead evacuating when it became apparent that Gravines was hopeless. Now there were no airfields to defend– although he had heard stirrings of a Bavarian project to refit a small civilian landing strip into a military airdrome– and so Crommelin had been assigned to the border patrol.

His chief function now was to oversee the processing of refugees, seeing as the Reich had made no attempt at an offensive against Roappe. Although high command had ordered the border patrol to be extra judicious, seeing as some intercepted intelligence had indicated possible enemy subterfuge, the number of refugees was so high and their plight so dire as to preclude any draconian immigration measures.

Instead, the guards administered a short, verbal French literacy test alongside a check of whatever identification the applicant might have in order to determine their eligibility to enter the Free French State. In theory, one must have a valid Free French passport– of which only a few had been printed during the limited existence of the Gravines government– in order to pass through the border; but, in practice, none of the young men manning the checkpoint were immune to the sobs of an undocumented mother and her children– their countrymen.

This latest caravan was funneled down by barbed wire into the concerte maw of the border checkpoint. A great crush of people, some bleeding, all dirty, pressed forward, climbing over one another in their rush to gain entry. Crommelin observed a filthy old beggar hobbling forward, nearly trampled by the stampede all about him, clutching the tatters of a passport, his last and most precious possession. The man looked to have been horribly disfigured by the fighting, and looked to be just barely above conscription age; the war had made middle-aged men into old codgers.

Captain Crommelin turned away from the sight in disgust; this assignment had to be the most effective form of Reich propaganda.

After passing seamlessly through the busy border checkpoint, Oswald Drach hobbled a little while down the road, taking a memorized route through side trails and old country roads until he was well out of sight of any human eye. There he straightened his back, which ached from a forced hunch, and strode along as briskly as a schoolboy.

Just before sunset, the man reached a crumbling cottage which had clearly been abandoned for many years. Slashing through moss and vines with blade he had concealed in his robe and squeezing in through the slanted doorway, the Colonel looked around the one-room shack.

It was squalid. At one point it had evidently been a person’s home; that person was long since deceased, and the cottage had passed through the hands of homeless wretches, teen vandals, and, of course, Mother Nature, the most ruthless of the three.
But that was of no concern to Drach; he did not intend to stay long.

The first order of business was discarding the rags with which he had so convincingly masqueraded as a poor beggar, and instead searching for the garments an agent had hidden months before. He found them, after a rather exhaustive search, hidden beneath a loose floorboard and a foot of dirt, sealed within a metal case. The Stoßwehr’s intelligence arm was not an organization to take careless chances, no matter how well-hidden the drop location was.

Also within the case were several loaded firearms; a billfold of Bavarian notes– the French currency had been debased beyond use–; various other, necessary items, such as a grooming kit and rations; and, perhaps most importantly, a complete set of credentials identifying him as Major Gilles Drelincourt, with the Free French Intelligence Service.

Agents, planted within the French resistance years before the war even began, when the Stoßwehr was still in the service of the Crown, had arranged this– the pièce de résistance, to use the local parlance. It was superb, particularly because it allowed Drach to rather seamlessly attach himself to the enemy without a prior connection. An intelligence officer would be unknown to the French; and yet, they would have no reason not to trust him. Perhaps the only drawback was that, owing to the small size and dubious organization of the Free French Intelligence, the rank of major was the highest the Stoßwehr had been willing to risk.

Up well before the sun rose the following day, Drach used his good eyesight and the help of a flashlight to dress himself in the impeccable uniform of a French Intelligence major, triple-checking to ensure that no detail was overlooked. Next, he opened his grooming kit and carefully combed his hair, washing out the dirt and returning it to its natural color. Finally, he disguised himself minutely by covering up several of his scars and slipping in color contacts that transmuted his eyes from sapphire to glowing amber.

Satisfied, the man was ready to begin his mission. He had heard that the French might have been tipped off by a careless radio blunder– how the radioman had gotten wind of this top-secret operation, the Colonel knew not. What he did know was that that unfortunate son-of-a-bitch was going to be drawn and quartered upon the operative’s triumphant return.

But he remained unfazed; he had operated successfully in worse conditions before, not to mention that the French State’s counterintelligence was laughable. This mission had been in the works for months, long before General Worgen had approved it. No trick of fate would reverse its momentum now.

The newly-christened Major Drelincourt began his journey to Roappe, a bloody sun rising ahead of him.

by **Ontorisa** » Mon Nov 18, 2019 10:59 am

Quassdorf
Capilean Royalists Territory, the Grand Duchy of Nova Capile
August 2018

The bloody battle of Quassdorf between the Royalists and the Reich forces had taken its toll, both on each side, and on the local civilian population. The once, proud city, had seen its city blocks, its streets, and each one of its citizens, bleed for every step. Whilst the focus of either side was on each other, the unintended consequence of such a heated conflict, coupled with the house-to-house fighting, was that civilians, both Capilean nationals, and foreigners had been caught in the crossfire. It was also the civilians' responsibility to shoulder most of the burden to clean up the city after the Reich's conquest of it.

Heja Topinaand, a 44-year old from the small town of Nrait in the Loggroves Province, had been an unfortunate casualty of war. The middle school social studies teacher had been caught in the conflict during a vacation in Nova Capile alongside of friends and family. He had been struck by the shrapnel of an oncoming hand grenade during the close quarters combat whilst he had been scrambling for cover. It had been witnessed by his onlooking family in horror as his body was flung backwards, and eventually had been mistaken for a Royalist combat asset. Topinaand was only a few of the Ontorisan nationals who had been caught and killed in the devastating crossfire that has torn apart Nova Capile.

And the proud nation of Ontorisa could only stand by and watch its children die for so long.

Following the fall of Quassdorf, Topinaand's widow, Maya Topinaand, his two surviving children, and his remaining friend Alesander Kittorick, had left the city. Their hopes were to come back home to Ontorisa, to share the story of the horrors of war, and to create action. The bloodshed, if had to continue, could not affect anymore of the civilians who had no say in the war. The lowly bakers, shopkeepers, bartenders, and students who all had to suffer over a huge political dispute, it had to stop.

The group had stopped at a small town a fair distance south of Quassdorf, in an attempt to escape the violence and potential prosecution of any foreign nationals in the city. They had no idea what would have happened to them, but with the limited amount of English, French and the non-existent knowledge of any other language aside from their mother tongues of Estonian and native Ontorisan languages, they were fearful for their lives. Edging along in a dirty hatchback, they made their way to a general store, where Topinaand spotted a phone parked outside of the store. Curious, they got out of the car, Topinaand ordering Kittorick and her kids to stay outdoors while she made her way inside. As she pushed open the doors, the shopkeeper greeted her, acknowledging her exhausted presence.

"Hi," Topinaand weakly smiled at the shopkeeper. "Telephone?"

"Telephone," The shopkeeper responded, glancing outside of the window. "Um, yeah, that'll be ... a bunch."

"Bunch?" Topinaand looked at the shopkeeper, confused. She did not understand. "How ... much? Sorry. Bad English."

"Fifty marks." The shopkeeper sighed after a while, pointing at the counter in front of him. "Put 'em."

As she gave what little currency she had left to the general store shopkeeper, Topinaand nodded in appreciation and thanked the shopkeeper in the little English that she knew. Returning outside to Kittorick and her two children, Topinaand looked over at the somewhat outdated-looking phone attached to the outside of the store. From what she understood, whilst it was expensive for the shop to allow, thanks to her "advanced payment", she was able to dial anywhere internationally. It came as the best news the widow had heard in over a week.

Her dirty and cracked fingers pushed in the rusty metal buttons on the phone, dialing in one of the only numbers she could remember by heart. A soft dial tone could be heard as she waited for the call to connect.

"'Allo?" A crackly voice could be heard over from the other end.

"Sebastian, it's Maya." The frazzled hair brunette, her face covered in soot, and her light blue washed jeans dirty, sorrowfully spoke in Estonian in reply. "We're in Nova Capile."

"Maya, always good to hear from you." Was her brother's reply, a warm, and frankly ignorant to the situation. "How is it? I heard the weather is much nicer there than it is back here in Horthrasburg."

Silence was Maya's answer as she tried not to sob. Her eyes watered as she turned around to look back Alesander, his bruised and cut face staring back at her as he tried to comfort the two children. Their gazes met, as Maya breathed in to reply.

"Heja's dead." Maya responded, her voice breaking as she spoke swiftly and in painful detail to her sibling. "The city we were staying in was attacked, and we ... we tried to keep everyone together. Heja just believed that we would not be affected but, but he was wrong Sebastian."

Now it was her brother's turn. His only response was silence as what Maya said sank in.

"Oh my." Were the first words he said. "How are you getting home then?"

"We can't." Maya began to cry, a few tears rolling down her grime-covered face. Her once attractive, and youthful features, had been chipped away by the sounds of constant fighting in the city's outskirts that had eventually poured into the city itself. "We don't know where to go. There is no embassy we could get to. We need help, desperately. I can't lose another child."

"Another child?" Sebastian panicked, his voice raising in concern. "What happened?"

"Valko, he was already sick, and we couldn't afford to get him medicine." Maya banged her fist against the wall near the landline as more tears began to flow from her eyes. "A-a-and Heja's friend Jakub went to try and find some, or ask some from the soldiers, and he never came back."

"I don't know what I can do." Was Sebastian's only reply.

"You're a fucking politician Sebastian. You're a representative in the House of High Honors, you definitely can do something." Maya's voice cracked as she reeled in her anger. "Please. I don't know how many of us are here. There could be more you know. Please, make an effort, talk to someone, anyone, and see what can happen."

"If I do, there's no guarantee anything will happen Maya." Sebastian softly spoke after a short silence, his voice shaky as he sighed. "But, I'll do what I can for you sister. Honestly, both for you, for Valko, and for Heja. I want you back here in Ontorisa, and to be safe with Laris and I."

"Please, mantos*, do so. I want to come home." Maya fully sobbed as she almost collapsed, fiddling with the phone in her ear as she looked back at her two children. "I don't know what to do anymore."

"Stay tight, find somewhere safe to stay mantos." This was now the politician in Sebastian speaking as her firmly responded. "I don't care where, just as long as you're safe and far away from the fighting."

*Mantos (Noun; /'Mahn-Ho-ZE/) - The endearing and informal, unisex word of "sibling" in the native language of Southern Ontorisa, Chatalur. Used by both actual siblings, stepsiblings, or traditional members of "blood-families" to address one another.

Calvisburg
Ventas Province, Ontorisa
August 2018

Head Minister Xeja Hallirius had been busy reading a new self-help book in his office when a firm rap at the door had startled him. He checked the time on his wrist-watch. 2:07 PM, he had no immediate appointments and had instead a meeting with the Minister of Education, Minister of Technology, and the Minister of Finance at 2:30 to discuss the potential of additional public school technological implants such as laptops and tablets to enhance students' learning abilities. Whatever or rather, whoever, was knocking at his door, better have had a good excuse on why they were deciding to contact him right now. Standing up, Hallirius sighed and brushed his hair with his hand before reaching for the door.

"Ealin, I said no visito-" Hallirius came face-to-face with Representative Sebastian Pattilux, how he managed to get into the Head Ministry Building was past Hallirius. "Oh, Sebastian."

"Head Senat- Head Minister." Pattilux greeted Hallirius dutifully as the Head Minister welcomed the representative into the expansive office.

"What brings you here on this, unexpected occasion?" Hallirius closed the door behind Pattilux as the two sat across from each other at the Head Minister's desk. "You know I usually don't do this except for high ranking UPO members like yourself."

"It's about my sister, and to a greater extent, the Ontorisan nationals trapped abroad." Pattilux leaned forward, and lowered his voice. "What I'm about to say, I doubt the House of High Honors will approve of, given the already retraining and implementation of brand new equipment in the military."

"Ah, yes, don't remind me." Hallirius sighed, remembering the expensive eight-year plan Ontorisa had set into motion at the beginning of the decade, seeing the phasing out of NATO weapons and the creation of new Ontorisan-designed and built equipment to be used by the ORSV. "That's been a headache since the coup."

Pattilux nodded his head in agreement. It was no secret that the majority of the, still popular yet banned, JPFM Party members had renounced their allegiance to the once mighty political party and joined other parties instead, bringing alongside their already established ideas and popularity with them. Pattilux was one of the few elected UPO officials in the House of High Honors who had no ties to the JPFM, and was part of a broader youth movement within the party. It had not been easy for Ontorisa to completely cleanse the JPFM's influence over the nation, even after the short, but bloody civil war a decade before.

"I'm not here to talk about the coup, the military spending, or any of that." Pattilux sighed, looking out of the window past Hallirius. "I'm talking about a potential peacekeeping operation in a foreign nation."

"What?" Hallirius was shocked at the words that Pattilux had said. "What makes you think I'll listen to this? We have a number of troops already deployed overseas in various operations, both combat and peacekeeping wise. It's expensive enough, why do you think I'll even push this to the Ministry?"

"My sister called me a few days ago, from said nation." Pattilux's gaze switched from the window down to his hands. "I won't name it, until you agree to deploy help, but essentially we've lost some of our own there. The fighting there, it's escalated into almost a total war between separatist and political factions alike, and it's the common people who are shouldering the burden."

"Okay, and?" Hallirius shrugged, showing little empathy to Pattilux's words. "We should send our children to bleed for another country? For what reason exactly? To protect foreigners from each other? I don't see a reason why we should when we have threats to our own in closer countries."

"I don't think you understand." Pattilux now made eye contact with Hallirius. "You promised, during your election as leader of the UPO, that we would do everything we could to prevent another Fernitris or Rkealo. You, and your promises, said that we would try to stop any innocent casualties from happening, either here in the Isles, or overseas. You, made those promises, and right now you're failing to uphold them."

Hallirius leaned back in his leather chair, chuckling at the words Pattilux was using. Yes, he saw the youthful energy Pattilux brought to the party, but he also saw the naivety in the youth.

"You can't be serious," He sighed after a brief moment. "I'm not sending our children to die just because your sister gave you a phone call about a country we have zero diplomatic ties with. Be pragmatic, do you think I want to see another bloody peacekeeping operation just because we need to save a couple of our own and thousands of foreigners?"

"Yes." Pattilux shrugged, becoming more and more annoyed with Hallirius' reluctance and apathy. "God damn it Xeja, if I have to I'll push this issue in the House of High Honors until I lose my voice and I collapse from exhaustion. I'll make headlines about this from here to Heratoi, and I'll tell everyone about how our glorious Head Minister refused to protect our own in a war that thousands are trying to escape from."

"We're a country, not a charity." Hallirius snapped back, bringing himself back up in his chair. "I will not tolerate having our troops die for nothing and us shilling out millions of Eckels like no tomorrow."

"They won't." Pattilux responded softly. "They'll be helping the helpless, and to bring aid to those who can't defend themselves. I'm not propositioning a war, I'm propositioning to bring our home, and to help those in need. Please. Listen to your heart."

The two men sat in the Head Minister's office before Hallirius sighed after minutes of silence.

"I'll think about it. Honestly, I will." Was the Head Minister's reply. "And if I decide we'll send something, I'll consult the Ministry, and ... I'll propose something to the House of High Honors. We would have to establish diplomatic contact with this country, and the factions involved. If I do decide we will, we'll have to speak before I do anything however, as I'll need to know what I'll be talking and writing about."

"Thank you." Pattilux stood up and nodded to the Head Minister. "Good day Xeja."

You fucking heartless bastard. Pattilux thought as he left the office.

by **New Decius** » Tue Nov 19, 2019 6:02 pm

Carrbeck
Temporary Headquarters of GFM Rommel
Royalist Capile

By the time that Reudel and Wetter had finally given up the ghost following Operation Ludwig, Heeresgruppe Beowulf had made significant gains prior to the Stoßwehr’s general surrender in the Stammburh area. In fact, said gains were significant enough that the strategic AI in Rommel’s Vulcan had estimated he could finalize Operation Faust within four days maximum.

After General Witold’s 16. Armee had smashed the bulk of Reudel’s 3. Panzerarmee, depriving the Stoßwehr of the majority of its heavy mechanized and armored forces, it removed the threat to General Ulräch’s flanks. This allowed the 22. Armee to surge forward and seize Kortelein and, more importantly, the port city of Carrbeck, while repelling Stoßwehr attempts to cut through the German lines at Orburg and Bischofsfort. This had the added bonus of finally sealing the Sumpfwald Pocket allowing General von Schneider to begin squeezing the encircled fascist troops there in a deadly vice with air strikes and artillery bombardment. With Carrbeck secured, the fascists had no real hope left of a withdrawal Northwards by sea and the Luftwaffe’s air umbrella made an airlift suicidal to say the least. If Rommel had desired to continue Operation Faust, he could had obliterated Reudel’s forces in short decisive order, after all his opponent no longer had sufficient forces to hold Stammburg for very long even if he did make the German’s fight for every house.

However, the situation was not to Rommel’s present satisfaction.

Based just on the initial Abwehr reports he had received in the past week, now supported by instant assessments in the days following the surrender, this territory was likely to be a hotbed of fascist resistance for some time. Even if the vast majority of Stoßwehr forces in the area not already dead or in German custody had laid down their arms or, disturbingly, committed suicide, a fair amount were still reportedly unaccounted for; not to mention the reports of active partisans still roaming the Sumpfwald despite the teams of bushwhackers combing the dense woods for them. Such a situation would require at least a modest force of troops to occupy and police the area at least until the Royalists could once again resume proper control and administration of the former fascist enclave, which could be anywhere from a few weeks to several months depending on circumstances. Rommel had seen guerrilla movements spring into being overnight before in Syria, Indochina, Venezuela, Russia, and so many other battlefields, none of them had ended quickly.

At the very least reports were indicating the Royalists were whipping their military back into proper shape, a good sign if ever there was one. Großmarschall Winser had wielded a scythe and dismissed dozens of officers too old, incompetent, or just plain foppish to do their job even senior staff officers, all with a stroke of a pen. He even had a proper offensive ready to begin...

“Well Hauptmann Dernen, what is the Abwehr’s assessment of the likely success of Großmarschall Winser’s offensive?”

The said Abwehr operative adjusted his eye-patch while sliding a manilla folder over to his commanding officer. “To put it simply we like the odds. Großmarschall Winser is a good officer with a sound mind, as you well know Herr Generalfeldmarschall. Our reports indicate the offensive takes into account potential contingency sub-operations to counter everything from a surprise offensive by the BSU to an attempted Reich airborne offensive. Preparations are in place to provide appropriate air and recon support against all targets and our estimates put the odds of success at seventy-six percent. The amphibious operations seem to be the only tricky stage of the plan.”

“Well Horst’s Kampfgeschwader should ease those tricks quite a bit, his battleships will have something to do besides sit there glittering in the sunlight.” At that General von Schneider scowled from her seat next to Rommel, just at the mere mention of those damned battleships.

“Damn the Kaiserliche Marine wasting money on those behemoths! Sure their armed to the nines and very well armored but what’s the point of building a ship that has no proper opponent in their fleet. The only ones who come close are the Russian’s with their Kirov-II Battlecruisers and their on our side.” She slammed her hand on the table. “With the funds from those battleships the Kaiserliche Armee could’ve had the Panther MBT’s in full service by now instead of just prototype stage just now ready for war games.” When the Kaiserliche Marine had used its own not inconsiderate power within the Reichstag to get the Battleship Program approved in the early 2000’s it had diverted funds from several innovative Kaiserliche Armee projects. Now while this had given developers and manufacturers time to cram even more emergent technology into these new weapons it had delayed their entry into service considerably.

“Now General we must let those boys in blue have their fun like us. They get their battleships, the Luftwaffe has its supersonic bombers, and we have our Panthers. The only difference is that ours aren’t in the field yet.” He turned back to Dernen. “Make sure Horst is aware to send out the squadron and relay to Winser that he has but to transmit the necessary details to Vizeadmiral Hurtig.”

Before Dernen could leave, Rommel called him back just once more.

“Oh and Hauptmann, a solution has been provided for your little legal limbo. As you recall certain parties in the Capilean government and our own want to hold you responsible for the Reichsrat incident, seeing as Vizeadmiral Kreutz and Major General Ulex are both either too well connected or too senior to blame. Anyway, you may have heard through channels that His Former Majesty, Kaiser Wilhelm Augustus III is presently in country as a guest of the Grand Duke. Their old friends but really His Majesty is here to give his blessing to the marriage between Prince Karl and Princess Elizabeth.” Willi nodded along he already knew all this from the Abwehr security briefing. If any serious threat arose to the former Emperor, all Abwehr agents in the region including those still in deep cover across Capile would be immediately ordered to end such a threat. “With him is His Royal Highness, Claude von Aachen, Prince of Prussia, son of Her Royal Highness Princess Isabelle. I’ve only met the boy once before at a gala in Amsterdam for some charitable cause or another. He is to be assigned to my staff to be tutored in the art of military command, and you will be his Abwehr Security Chief.” Now Willi was surprised.

“The job comes with an immediate promotion to Major and the added bonus of the patronage of a Prince of Prussia so you are untouchable by those who would see you charged for advising the bombing of the Reichsrat to deny the VF the propaganda coup that would come with capturing it intact. However you would no longer be a field asset...”

For a moment Willi was struck dumb. “What. You want me to stay out of the field and be a bodyguard to a Prince of Prussia?”

“I know its far beneath a man of your talents and your usefulness but thats the only way it’ll work out Dernen. The only agreement that could be reached by these certain German and Capilean politicians to avoid charging you is that you are no longer a field asset. Unless you want to rant to the Grand Duke himself why you advised the bombing of his parliament building? As Prince Claude’s security advisor you would come into contact with the Grand Duke on several occasions.”

Without so much as a word and in a very unmilitary manner, Dernen swept from the room with a huff, resigned to his fate.

Rommel brushed it off. “He’ll get over it.”

Rochefort City Hall
Visit of Kaiser Wilhelm Augustus III
Royalist Capile

Once Wilhelm had played his little joke and conveyed his blessing upon the young couple he realized just how tired he was after his journey. Luckily the former Emperor, Klaus, and Reichskanzler Knott all found their way into a drawing room and into very comfortable chairs allowing the old Kaiser to relax a little in good company. However the pleasant atmosphere was not to last.

“As much as I would like to only speak of pleasant matters gentlemen, I must talk shop.” Wilhelm steepled his fingers in front of his face.

“The state of the war here has caused quite the chaotic situation back in Berlin, which is putting enormous pressure on my grandson to appear a strong leader when is still getting used to the throne even after four years. No thanks to Reichskanzler von Richthofen and his counterpart here in Capile, the notable gentleman across from me...” he threw a knowing look Knott’s way. “...and it has sown chaos in the upcoming elections for the Reichstag. The Authoritarian Democrats have turned against their usual militarist position as old veterans don’t want their children and grandchildren dying in foreign wars. Meanwhile the Social Democrats see fascism as the greatest evil in this world and are willing to commit everything to its destruction, hence that massive loan you were given.”

That was certainly true. Usual circumstances would never see a three hundred billion Euromark loan at two percent interest to be paid back in thirty years. The deal massively favored Capile and depending on the post-war economy could be a huge loss of German capital that couldn’t be paid back even in thirty years time.

“As you already know the European Federation will be able to ship approximately six million metric tons of food a month until the 1st of December, by which time we are expecting to need extensive winter grain reserves to supply Russian resettlement projects beyond the Urals. Their trying to make Siberia habitable and for that they need food. So you have approximately two and a half months to reclaim your own major grain production regions before Europa is forced to turn off the spigot.”

He gave them both a very serious look now.

“Gentlemen I need to know in all honesty how likely a Royalist victory still is, and if it is grim what can Germany do to help reverse the fortunes.”

by **The Grand Duchy Of Nova Capile** » Tue Nov 19, 2019 9:23 pm

ROCHEFURT
NOVA CAPILE

The room’s aura suddenly transformed from happy reunion to grim convocation, as Wilhelm cut directly to the point of his visit.

There was an uncomfortable pause after the former monarch’s question, as each of the Capileans carefully considered his answer. At last, Klaus spoke up.

“I will admit that the war is no longer a foregone conclusion,” the Grand Duke began tremulously, “but I contend that the odds remain significantly in our favor. We have suffered terrible reversals, but we retain overwhelming manpower, industrial, and agricultural resources, as well as the people’s faith.

“There are three major crises which haunt us, and your personal wisdom, if not your nation, may indeed help alleviate them. The first is the much-discussed food shortage. Times will be hard this winter, as we have indeed lost a great deal of food-producing land. I have no doubt that many of my subjects will go hungry, and that some will starve– and trust me, that is no light weight on my conscience.” Klaus gathered his strength for a moment before pressing on. “But, with the aid you have pledged to us and what foodstuffs we can produce ourselves, whether in Capile or in our client states, I estimate that conditions should not warrant any significant breakdown of public order.

“The second,” Klaus continued after a pause, “is the prosecution of the war itself. As it stands, my generals consider any offensive against the Reich untenable. They have instead advocated eliminating the smaller factions from our backdoor before turning to face the most powerful. Großmarschall Winser will soon launch a wide-scale operation to knock out the secessionists and potentially the Communists, of which our military is more than capable. In the meantime, our government has begun mobilizing the full resources of the nation, which will be mustered against the Reich, hopefully by next spring.”

There was another heavy pause. “The third lies under the jurisdiction of Reichskanzler Knott,” Klaus said, eyeing his chancellor, “and is an interesting dilemma.”

“Yes,” Wilhelm Knott broached, stroking his impressive mustache thoughtfully. “As you know, immediately following Nemetz’s attempted coup, martial law was declared and the Reichsrat suspended. Now that the war is several months underway with no end in sight, many have begun petitioning us to reconvene the parliament.

“It is completely constitutional for the Grand Duke to suspend the Reichsrat during wartime,” Knott explained, “but even so, many citizens and politicians are upset, especially since we have taken the opportunity to force through much legislation, necessary though it was. If we were to reconvene it, it would become much harder to prosecute the war; even though most of the radicals, the Fascists and Communists, no longer taint the Reichsrat with their presence, there are still many electors who favor a peaceful settlement, or at least oppose increased military spending and conscription. On the other hand, it is also necessary to court the public’s opinion. Those in favor of absolute monarchy have dwindled since our first election, it seems, and many Royalists are now in favor of a reconvened parliament, perhaps fearing that Klaus may curb their new freedoms or reinstitute absolutism, though of course he would not.”

“Perhaps,” Klaus asked, placing his fingertips together, “you, Wilhelm, have some sage advice for us?”

COUNTRYSIDE
CAPILEAN REICH

Colonel Paul Korver watched the flurry of snow descend outside the car window. This far North, snow was common as early as October. And snow would be hell for the prisoners of the camps Korver was inspecting.

Paul’s tour had taken him from a newly-established camp outside of Reiburg all the way to the first prisoner-of-war camps near Colditz. As per the Reich’s regulations, all were governed by the exact same rules.

Suppose, hypothetically, that you were captured by the brave boys in black. If you were an officer, you would be sent directly to an interrogation center operated by the Stoßwehr’s intelligence arm, where you would be treated well– at first. You would be prodded for information, and should you comply, would even be offered a commision in the Stoßwehr. Should you resist, you would face the cruelest of tortures. Should you survive these, you would be sent, stripped of rank, among the enlisted.

And suppose you had been one of these lowly enlisted from the onset. After your capture, you would be sent to the nearest prisoner-of-war camp. One side of the camp was for captured soldiers, the other for political prisoners. Kept in concrete bunkhouses, which were sanitary, if cramped, you would be closely monitored by the staff. Should you cause no trouble, you would eventually be offered a job working for the Reich– a step up the penal ladder. You might find yourself policing your former comrades in the camp, or, more often, laboring in a factory, or even toiling in a farmfield, where at least you would be well-fed. More promotions might come, until eventually you might find yourself offered a place in the Stoßwehr.

And, if you were a trouble-maker? You got food, clothes, and a bed, same as the well-behaved prisoners, but you were also subjected to the camps’ final and most impressive feature: beatings. The guards of these camps, mostly recovering wounded soldiers and those unfit, for varying reasons, for front-line duty, were a vindictive bunch, and knew well how to ply the torturer’s craft. Before long, you would find yourself lusting after a forced farmer’s life.

The driver announced that they had arrived at the last destination on Korver’s list. Drawing his greatcoat around him, the Colonel stepped out into the cold. The flurry had dwindled to a chilling mist.
Before the man stood Zhytlo, the only prisoner-of-war camp, thus far, which was not operated by the Reich. Striding up to the gates, Korver awaited the commandant; he had, after all, been informed of the imminent inspection.

It was time to see how Akordania’s prison shaped up.

by **Akordania** » Wed Nov 20, 2019 2:37 pm

ZHYTLO
CAPILEAN REICH

Freezing wind and mist whipping at their backs, a detail of inmates toiled over the foundations of new barracks on the officer's side of the camp; watched closely by Berkut militants. The body of the captive from days prior still swung hauntingly above the main entrance-- picked over by the occasional passing cluster of crows. Though the atmosphere remained dreadful, Zhytlo's new commandant had indeed delivered on his promises, in the order in which they were requested. So far, he had ordered the construction of officers' "billets" for the winter, and was putting together yet another detail for enlisted barracks as well as a latrine system. Currently, there was one outhouse for each side of the camp, which was simply unbearable for the population since its tremendous growth following the siege of Quassdorf. Though some members of Berkut felt the lack of sanitary latrines was a worthy punishment for the inmates, Ruslan dismissed the thought, citing the fact that one "cannot sleep, eat, or concentrate without being overwhelmed by the smell of Capilean shit."

Renovation work aside, Ruslan spent most of his days terrorizing his "minions"; a group of imprisoned officers consisting of two Royalists, two Frenchmen, and one Bavarian. In the event of any prisoner misconduct, an officer of the prisoner's nationality would be forced to appear alongside the offender before Zhytlo's "Supervisory Board". Both of them were to utilize proper facing movements to enter the Board's chambers, as well as snapping to attention and rendering the Akordanian military salute. They were then prompted to issue a reporting statement: "Honorable members of the Zhytlo Supervisory Board. [Rank and name] reports as requested." Additionally, all of the "minions" were forced to report to the board if a proposition for camp improvement was to be made. So far, all of the summonings had ended in favor of the inmates, but not without extensive verbal abuse from Ruslan and his fellow board members.

At dawn and dusk, the Akordanian anthem, "Song of the National Martyrs" was played over the loudspeaker. While the inmates were not required to salute, they were ordered to stand at attention and face the Akordanian flag at the center of the camp until its conclusion. In a similarly rigid fashion, prisoners utilized facing movements and other Akordanian military customs to receive their chow at breakfast and dinner. Ruslan knew full well that, while no man dared express it, the population was agonized to have to feign such reverence. He was quite interested to see who would be stupid enough to challenge his rules in the coming days. Out of all of his minions, he placed his bet on the two Royalist Capileans. Both of them claimed to have originated from the 2. Battlegroup, which was alleged by the army to have been the most formidable unit in the fighting at Quassdorf.

By the time Colonel Korver arrived to Zhytlo, the corpse dangling over the entrance had long been disposed of. Work on the officers' billets continued; with a small squad of Berkut members assigned to supervise. Post manning was brought to a minimum as the majority of the Zhytlo garrison stood in formation beneath the flag at the center of camp. Just as Colonel Korver arrived, Ruslan and two other militants were making their way across the courtyard. Ruslan stopped just short of the entryway, snapping to attention and saluting. His underlings, armed and adorned in mottled green camouflage and heavy black assault vests, followed suit.

"Colonel Korver. Ruslan Bidyovka, at your service." He stood at ease before firmly shaking the Colonel's hand. He turned and gestured toward the interior of the camp before continuing. "Welcome to Zhytlo. If you'll follow me, sir."

As the group made their way toward the center of the camp, Ruslan commented on several features of its layout. The entryway was a long funnel created by two high barbed wire fences, which split Zhytlo between the officer's side on the left, and the enlisted to the right. The funnel then spilled out into the center of the camp, which was also fenced off from the population. The center housed little more than a flagpole, mess hall, and of course the Supervisory Boardroom. There were separate entryways from both sides of the camp that opened up to the rear of the mess hall, where the inmates stood prior to chow. Naturally there were two different chow times at breakfast and dinner to keep fraternization to a minimum. Berkut members ate and lived in what was formerly the headquarters for Army Corps East, just a few miles down the road. On and off-going guard shifts were shuttled in troop trucks. Though it was clear Ruslan had instituted a highly efficient system for Zhytlo, conditions were still visibly abysmal for most of the population. Most inmates were unwashed, unshaven and wearing the same clothes they were captured in-- which were ruined beyond recognition. Ruslan chose to wait on the topic of latrines. The tour was concluded inside Ruslan's office, tucked behind the main chamber for the Board.

"As you can see, Colonel, Zhytlo is still very much a work in progress. Security remains our number one priority, but I've now taken to establishing a dialogue with hand-picked members of the commissioned population. As you've seen, it was first requested of us to build housing for the officers. Our next two projects will involve producing housing for the enlisted, as well as a more efficient bathing and waste system. The prisoners are also in dire need of new garments and toiletries. In conclusion, I can assure you all of these things will be addressed."

Ruslan then reached into his coat pocket to withdraw a cigarette case.

"Care for a smoke, sir?"

by **Atkemri** » Wed Nov 20, 2019 8:21 pm

Atantic Ocean
International Waters
"Who the hell vomited on the stairs?" Bellowed an irate captain having found the vomit in question on his boots as he slipped on it and now yelled before leaving the metal floor of the ground. Everyone on board already knew the answer to that question, it was Hubert, the logistics officers accompanying them on their maiden voyage onboard ships full of munitions and fuel. Hubert Morin was fairly new to the seas having just been promoted to a logistics manager a few, short months ago. He had expected to stay in-country and manage the distribution of food and fuel to the seemingly dormant Atkemrian war machine and then retire after a long and respectable career. However, as he found himself on one of five supply ships and in charge of managing the Capile supply chain being sent over he realized that maybe leaving the armed forces before Wells had a chance to get back to being an interventionist would have been a wise investment. Nevertheless, he was here and whenever the ships arrived at Nova Capile (and whenever his stomach stopped turning) he would be in charge of seeing if the Dutchy's material needs had changed on the months of debate that delayed this shipment. He wondered why he had to do it and why the government didn't just send a message, but in all honesty, there was probably a loophole in an agreement being used here and he didn't want to start pondering politics. He was already in enough anguish as it was.

"Well? Which one of you bastards did it?" The captain had finally risen to his feet and still was burning with anger at whoever had dared vomit on the stairs. Captain Udo Uzoma had suspected the Frenchman, but couldn't verify his suspicions and there was sure to be hell if he had been accused of cussing out members of his crew randomly even though it was obviously Hubert.

"Well then?! Am I going to have to check the upstairs?" Hubert knew as being on of the few people with an upstairs bunk that they knew it was him, sure he had done it before, but he still couldn't help but feel a little insulted that they automatically assumed it was him. He didn't know it was Udo that he had tripped, but given the anger and dedication that Udo was yelling with he quickly inferred and was pleased in a special way. Sure Udo had been a bastard to the only non-navy member on his ship, being him and it didn't help that Udo never stopped calling Hubert 'pasty' in regards to him being one of the only French members on the ship, but Hubert still didn't want him to be particularly hurt as he had seen what a nasty trip down the stairs can do to someone's arms, but then again maybe he deserved it. Hubert walked out of his bunk ready to face some berating and also ready to suppress his laughter like a schoolboy being told off by his teacher for drawing genitals on the blackboard. However, when he walked out he quickly remembered why he had stayed in. It was almost as if every time he thought his seasickness had gone for a time it came back when he began to move and that routine for a week is very tiring especially when food is rationed the way it is on a military mission. Quickly dragging his feet to a guard rail he hurled yet another pack of canned sausage into the ocean where it would undoubtedly be met with one of its brethren in a few hours when he got his next 'meal' if they could be called one. As soon as he finished he saw the shadow of Captain Udo.

"Well, what do we have here?" Udo said looking upon the shaky body of Hubert still wiping the vomit off his mouth and looking disappointed at the situation he found himself in.

"I don't know what you've found Udo, maybe you should go check in your cabin?" Udo shook his head

"It's Captain Udo, pasty. How many times do I need you to remind you of this?"

"As many times as you call me pasty, Udo." Udo obviously displeased about the interaction left walking down the stairs and returning to his post dissatisfied. Hubert once again returned to his cabin looking at the calendar hanging above his bed. Just one week left before he could get off this accursed boat.

Rochefurt docks
Nova Capile
The ships stopped a few hundred miles outside the city waving the Atkemrian flag so to not disturb the likely paranoid citizens of Rochefurt. A transmission was sent to the port asking for permission for the supply ships to dock and furthermore permission to hand over their goods. Hubert leaned on the side of the ship's railing smoking a cigarette as the cold wind slightly ruffled his light brown hair. He stood waiting to get off this damned ship and finally end his career.

Klaus' War {IC|MT|CLOSED}

Klaus' War {IC|MT|CLOSED}

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