WELCOME TO 4TH ARMORED!
A Beginner's Guide
Welcome to the front, soldier!
Whether by the guidance of Fate's gentle hand, or by choosing of your own, you're here: the Fourth Armored Division of the Royal Antediluvian Army. In either case, congratulations are in order. You've probably read all the official documents that the postman tried to drown you in. Confusing, weren't they? That's why we, actual soldiers of the 4th, have lovingly prepared this small primer for you. We hope it will answer any and all questions you have. If not, don't be afraid to ask your new brothers in arms. We don't bite. Just steer clear of Major Edrich, he's a jackass.
Let's start by telling you that this introduction will be honest. We won't try to make ourselves look better than we are (you'd find out the truth for yourself anyway, then be angry at us for lying). We're grunts. That's our job. If you joined us for fame or glory, you'd better look elsewhere, and turn back now.
Just kidding! Once you sign up, there's no escape. If you're fond of having a head on your shoulders, that is. And if you want to die, be a sport and do so while catching a bullet for another Fourther, will you?
There, we said it. We're not 1st Para, nor Air Cavalry, nor UNMETA commandos. We're 4th Armored. The Fucking Fourth, they call us, and it's a name we carry with pride. The story behind it has nothing to do with fornication, sadly: legend has it that when our division was first formed as the Royal 4th Infantry, it was thrown into combat without proper training or supplies in an attempt to slow down a major Precambrian assault. When they against all odds not only succeeded, but actually beat the aggressors back, word was sent to HQ, where General Sensus belched out his now-famous line:
"The fucking Fourth!? Those people couldn't hold off my grandma's rotting corpse, may she rest in peace."
Just so. We do have a reputation for doing shitjobs. If it's boring, dirty or just plain suicidal, our motto comes to life: Bring Forth The Fourth! And the Fourth bitches and moans, curses its superiors to nine hells and back, then gathers its crap and does it.
We do these things because that's who we are.
We might complain, but when the sky splits, when the Soil erupts in flames, and when mammoth shit hits the proverbial fan, it's the Fucking Fourth who stand and fight. We might whine about our officers, but we'd follow them to the end of the world and back. We do these things because we understand that glory isn't a title, or a rank, or a medal. Glory isn't prestige or perfect conduct or empty words. In the end, none of that matters. What matters is that one does their job and survives to reap the results. The optimal result would, of course, be victory for Antediluvia, but we'll make do with securing our country for the next generation or so. We're not that ambitious.
So without further ado... welcome to the front, soldier. Welcome home.
Lieutenant Vester Jacomo Rialto scoffed as he read the pamphlet he had confiscated from a Recruit. For an "honest" publication, it was actually surprisingly frank while managing to stay motivational. Writings about the Army were usually either or; he made a mental note to congratulate the assholes who had written it, if he ever caught them.
The leader of 1st Platoon checked his watch. Twenty past twelve. The chow truck from Supply Company should have been there thirty-five minutes ago. Not an unusual delay, but some of the troops under Vester's command were already growing restless. He had had to physically stop some fool from Cravis squad from opening one of his canned rations while delivering a lecture about nutrition discipline. Besides, he was hungry himself, which wasn't exactly doing wonders for his mood.
He thumped his feet idly on Werebear One Eleanor, Altaflor squad's IFV's top armor. He was perched on top of the turret, from where he had a pretty good view of the platoon and the village they occupied. First platoon. Werebear One. The unit had been deployed a couple days ago and everyone was a bit lost and shy. Small wonder. Some of the troops were on their first deployment, and only a few of them knew each other. Vester didn't, not yet. There had been a Rialto-Mensch and a Ricce on the personnel file, both probably related to him in one way or another, but he didn't even remember their first names. Then again, not everyone from Rialtum automatically knew each other, or felt some sort of instant camaraderie with each other... unlike people from Revaalsbandt or Altaflor.
He checked his watch. Twenty-one past. Why did time crawl when one was waiting for something?
I should learn their names, Vester mused. Calling someone by their actual birth-given callsign built a lot more trust than just hailing them as "Private" or "Sergeant." All great Rialto leaders knew their subordinates by name, and by the Eight Hundred, Lieutenant Vester Rialto intended to be one... if it was possible with this mixed bunch.
They should write a motivational text for Army officers, he thought wryly, not really meaning it. Being a third child of another third child, he was ready to show his worth. A measly Knight Elect, his position as a city councilor wasn't one worthy of the name Rialto. He didn't think much of it. "Glorified bureaucrat" was how he usually introduced himself. For someone like him, military prowess was the only realistic way to improve one's social status, which was why he had volunteered to lead a frontline platoon. The risks were greater, but so were the potential benefits, should he survive the deployment.
The now-beautiful wail of a stressed engine woke Vester up from his musings. Fucking finally. Twenty-two past. He looked to the west to see a Zeep sloshing its way through the muddy road. Grabbing his rifle, the Lieutenant dropped down from the IFV and approached the truck.
"You're late," he greeted the driver.
Private Decai killed the engine and climbed down from the truck's cockpit. "Apologies, sir," he mumbled through the foul-smelling cheaptastic cigarette he was smoking. Vester wrinkled his nose and tried to fan the smoke away with his hand. "Roads have gone to hell because of the rains. I came as fast as I could."
Decai was a fat, twenty-something man with the rather unflattering nickname "Bitch Tits." He was also a reliable driver, so if he said he had hurried, Vester knew it wasn't an excuse. "How bad?"
"Real damn bad, sir. I hear they're using Crawlers to transport chow and ammo further down south now."
"Huh. Do you have what I asked for?"
"Yup." The driver ducked into the cockpint, then emerged with a plastic bag. Vester took it and smiled. It was full of new and old newspapers. The troops would surely be happy to know what was going on at the home front.
"Thanks, Private. Hey, are you going anywhere near HQ in the next hour or so?"
Bitch Tits shook his head. "Negative, sir. I've got to get this load to Second and Third, and after that head back to Supply for refill."
"Shame. Hey! You two!" The Lieutenant had sighted two soldiers just kind of wandering around and hollered to them. "Get some people to help Decai unload our chow from this truck, then get me the Staff Sergeant. Oh, and Private Dalca. I know he's slacking around somewhere."