This is an Anterra roleplay thread. If you are interested in Anterra, join our Discord.THE GOIDELIC INSURRECTION — A secessionist, ethno-nationalist conflict that has been continuously waged in Tiperyn's Goidelic-dominant western duchies since it lost its hold over the archipelago of Airgialla during the Grand Campaigns (1915-1925). The conflict has been fought primarily between the Soliders of Goidelia—a pan-Goidelic independence group and transnational terrorist organization with ties to the Goidelic Republic of Airgialla and the League of Free Nations—and the government of the Holy Tiperyn Realm.
Over the course of nearly a century, Tiperyn's rule over its Goidelic areas has tightened. Goidelic citizens have been branded as second-class citizens, Goidelic duchies see a major reduction in autonomy, and the duchies of Darimh and Rosraig are the poorest and most unequal provinces in Tiperyn. As of 2018, the conflict has renewed, with bombings and shootings becoming ever more common in western Tiperyn as calls for independence continue. The government response has been swift and brutal.— ENCYCLOPEDIA HISTORIA
PART I
THE FLASH
THE FLASH
20 November 2019 - 0730 Hours - Near Darimh, Tiperyn
Idwerd Aukema, Guard (OR-1) | № 11 "The Duchess of Idlerein's Riflists", Realm Guard
A handful of men clamored out of a towering armored vehicle. Clad in dark olive fatigues, masked by balaclavas, and weighed down by several stones of tactical essentials, the Tiperyn tri-tail banner was sloppily stitched into their left sleeves. These men were Realm Guard soldiers—"Mounted Rifleers" technically speaking—and they were on an hours-long armed road march, ready to take on any foe (or so they liked to think) within their own borders.
Their legs prickled back to life, having been strangled for seven hours by the cramped confines of their 30-year-old welded steel box on wheels. The company was on a road march. Normally, the No. 11 Mounted Riflists would have moved their vehicles by rail and shunted their men on cargo trucks, but this time they were making the long drive from Ambrosia to eastern Goidelic city of Rostrenenn armed to the teeth. Caution was common in the Goidelic-dominant duchies of west Tiperyn; it had been since the 19th century. However, insurrectionists had become particularly aggressive in the past six months. By autumn 2019, it was no longer uncommon to see Tiperyn military convoys barrelling down the motorways, guns drawn, once every couple of days.
The convoy had stopped at a local farm. The gravelled clearing was darkened by a day’s worth of rainfall and a thin mist peppered their faces as they lumbered out. Three massive grain silos towered over the clearing which was then surrounded by lush evergreens on two sides—separated from the gravel by about 300 meters of grass—and endless wheat fields on the third. Just off the beaten path—about three minutes from the motorway—the regimental supply detachment had set up a refuelling point here. The wheeled APCs of the rifleers were perhaps more fuel efficient than the tankers, who were still transported by rail, but still required a line of fuel trucks to keep on the road.
There was bustle up ahead, as soldiers hooked the fuel lines from a handful of refuellers to the first echelon of armoured vehicles. The never-ending cacophony of the engines and their collective roar subsided, and it was replaced by the pitter-patter of rain, distant conversation, and light birdsong from the nearby forest. Idwerd walked away from his section, indulging in the reprieve of a solitary smoke break. He was new, having just arrived at the Idlerein Riflists a couple weeks in advance of their move from the capital to the heart of Goidelic unrest in west Tiperyn. The section commander, Corporal Gfaltsma, had not taken kindly to him, now being the only one in the section who hadn't been deployed to Naseristan—and perhaps the one with the most insecurity. The green private had yet to grow close to others in his section—he didn't even know a couple of their names—but he assumed he'd eventually meld in as his conscription papers yellowed, even if he were hammered into it.
Balaclava pulled to the neck and a newly lit cigarette wedged between his pursed lips, Idwerd meandered around the carrier. He carried his rifle in a low ready position. Their platoon commander had taken their slings away from them—they were to carry their weapons ready at all times—so Idwerd only brought his left hand up to periodically let out a drag. Fatigues grew darker and darker with rain as the minutes ticked by and, to his immense displeasure, his socks had indeed become wet.
“Fucks could have at least rallied us somewhere with an overhang, aye?” Idwerd chuckled around the cigarette.
“Shut up, Aukema,” his corporal retorted. “I don't have the energy to tell you why you're a shitarse right now.”
Idwerd ignored him. This was a game the corporal and he had been playing ever since he arrived at the unit. He continued to meander, shaking out the sleepiness from his legs and quickly blazing through his pack of cigarettes.
Every few minutes, the next few carriers would fire back up and roll into fuelling position. Idwerd and his section stayed vaguely within the influence of their carrier, but weren’t in any hurry to cut their break short. When it was their turn, their carrier was about in the middle of the fuelling column, flanked on the right the treeline and on the left by the rest of the company’s vehicles as they pooled awaiting the last platoon to top up.
Suddenly, two thumps in quick succession in the distance. Under normal circumstances, the sounds could have been things that may have been ignored, but these sent some privates’ heads into a rapid swivel. There was silence for a moment. Idwerd looked around, almost unconcerned. All there were were birds chirping and the rain. He began to slide another cigarette out of his pack just as the silence was broken. A high pitch whine shrieked over the company, as of a jet had buzzed them going Mach 2.
“Mortars!” Corporal Gjaltsma hollered.
The ground exploded and a portion of the wheat fields were uprooted about 200 meters to the west. Quickly after, a mortar pierced one of the grain silos within 100 meters and ejected grain and smoke skywards.
“Everyone down behind the Kraits!” Gjaltsma ordered, dashing for cover radio in hand.
“Kilda 3, this is Kilda 3-2, we are taking mortar fire from the north. Unknown distance and heading. It sounds like 3-inch, over.”
Just as he finished, automatic gunfire rang out. It sounded as if dozens of power tools switched on all at once in the surrounding trees. Idwerd, hiding behind the waist high wheels of the section’s APC, could not see any gunmen, but he could hear the bullets pepper the carriers and force their blood curdling snap overhead. Idwerd had never been shot at. Orders may have been directed towards him, but he wasn’t receiving them. He hid his face in the ground, unable to react.
“RPG!”
The lead fuel truck erupted in a fireball almost as tall as the grain silos. The cabin was ejected at least 30 meters in the air and ignited petrol rained down over the clearing. Ahead, some men were splashed with the blaze, and the forward most carriers were completely shrouded in smoke. The shrieks of the mortars continued to come in every few seconds. It was random enough to keep Idwerd pinned. Sometimes they landed long across the way in the trees backing them, sometimes on the silos and sometimes square in the clearing. There was no chance to escape it, and the shriek was so loud that it sounded like the shells were landing right on top of them even when they landed several hundred meters away.
Corporal Gjaltsma slid down to Idwerd, his machine gunner in tow. “Fucking get up Aukema! We are going!”
The corporal yanked on Idwerd by the neck of his body armour, almost dragging him out from behind the carrier. It was the first time Idwerd had raised his head to see the clearing since they took contact. The company’s idle carriers were scrambling to get into a defensive position. Several men laid dead on the clearing—either torn up by gunfire or mangled by a mortar blast—and thick black smoke billowed from a husk of a fuel truck. They didn’t know what they were up against, but it was coming from the treeline. The APCs opened up with their 15mm machine guns, raking the trees. The cracks of Tiperyn and insurrectionist gunfire crossing created a blanket overhead as Idwerd stumbled to his feet.
It was surreal, as if Idwerd was controlling someone else’s body. One foot in front of the other, Idwerd followed behind his section, rifle in hand and head down. They crossed the threshold where the gravel met the grass and charged headlong towards the trees about 300 meters away. There was no cover between them and the enemy. The machine gunner, the biggest lad in the section, was upright and spraying his belt-fed machine gun from the hip as he sprinted. Idwerd could see the muzzle flashes dotted across the shadowy treeline, but no men. He wasn’t thinking. He was just going through the motions because there was nothing else that could be done. Apparently their section was the only section that had taken this initiative, because to their left and their right Idwerd saw no one else from the platoon or company dashing with them across the grass.
A blast kicked up dirt and debris in the treeline—another RPG. The flame of the back blast briefly silhouetted the grenadier—too far for Idwerd to make out any notable detail of the man—only for him to quickly disappear back into the shadows. The warhead shot by their shoulders, leaving a trail of smoke in its wake. Still sprinting, Idwerd turned his head to see where it’d end up, but quickly went down. Two rounds had connected with his gut and his right leg, sending him into a face plant and slide across the wet grass.
No one stopped for him. The dash across the grass seemed to take an hour, but was likely done in less than two minutes. Only three men actually made it to the trees. However, with the APCs fully raking the treeline, the company’s riflemen finally pulled themselves together to reach the trees. They swept the area, but the rebels were mostly gone by the time the company had fully committed to the attack; gone off to fight another day. A small number laid dead on the edge of the trees;
maybe 12. They were armed with an assortment of outdated League small arms. The Tiperyn soldiers never found the main body of the force, but it was assumed they came from Darimh or an outlying village.
Idwerd laid in the stretch of grass watching, paralyzed by his wounds. Perhaps he was left for dead, or perhaps the company’s medics were too consumed with the dead and wounded back at the clearing. Two new blazes had begun as the second RPG had hit another fuel truck and an APC's fuel tanks had been penetrated by machine gun fire. A handful of dead Tiperyn soldiers lay dead or dying in the grass. Idwerd would not know what happened to his comrades of happenstance, as he died there in the grass before being attended to.
Their legs prickled back to life, having been strangled for seven hours by the cramped confines of their 30-year-old welded steel box on wheels. The company was on a road march. Normally, the No. 11 Mounted Riflists would have moved their vehicles by rail and shunted their men on cargo trucks, but this time they were making the long drive from Ambrosia to eastern Goidelic city of Rostrenenn armed to the teeth. Caution was common in the Goidelic-dominant duchies of west Tiperyn; it had been since the 19th century. However, insurrectionists had become particularly aggressive in the past six months. By autumn 2019, it was no longer uncommon to see Tiperyn military convoys barrelling down the motorways, guns drawn, once every couple of days.
The convoy had stopped at a local farm. The gravelled clearing was darkened by a day’s worth of rainfall and a thin mist peppered their faces as they lumbered out. Three massive grain silos towered over the clearing which was then surrounded by lush evergreens on two sides—separated from the gravel by about 300 meters of grass—and endless wheat fields on the third. Just off the beaten path—about three minutes from the motorway—the regimental supply detachment had set up a refuelling point here. The wheeled APCs of the rifleers were perhaps more fuel efficient than the tankers, who were still transported by rail, but still required a line of fuel trucks to keep on the road.
There was bustle up ahead, as soldiers hooked the fuel lines from a handful of refuellers to the first echelon of armoured vehicles. The never-ending cacophony of the engines and their collective roar subsided, and it was replaced by the pitter-patter of rain, distant conversation, and light birdsong from the nearby forest. Idwerd walked away from his section, indulging in the reprieve of a solitary smoke break. He was new, having just arrived at the Idlerein Riflists a couple weeks in advance of their move from the capital to the heart of Goidelic unrest in west Tiperyn. The section commander, Corporal Gfaltsma, had not taken kindly to him, now being the only one in the section who hadn't been deployed to Naseristan—and perhaps the one with the most insecurity. The green private had yet to grow close to others in his section—he didn't even know a couple of their names—but he assumed he'd eventually meld in as his conscription papers yellowed, even if he were hammered into it.
Balaclava pulled to the neck and a newly lit cigarette wedged between his pursed lips, Idwerd meandered around the carrier. He carried his rifle in a low ready position. Their platoon commander had taken their slings away from them—they were to carry their weapons ready at all times—so Idwerd only brought his left hand up to periodically let out a drag. Fatigues grew darker and darker with rain as the minutes ticked by and, to his immense displeasure, his socks had indeed become wet.
“Fucks could have at least rallied us somewhere with an overhang, aye?” Idwerd chuckled around the cigarette.
“Shut up, Aukema,” his corporal retorted. “I don't have the energy to tell you why you're a shitarse right now.”
Idwerd ignored him. This was a game the corporal and he had been playing ever since he arrived at the unit. He continued to meander, shaking out the sleepiness from his legs and quickly blazing through his pack of cigarettes.
Every few minutes, the next few carriers would fire back up and roll into fuelling position. Idwerd and his section stayed vaguely within the influence of their carrier, but weren’t in any hurry to cut their break short. When it was their turn, their carrier was about in the middle of the fuelling column, flanked on the right the treeline and on the left by the rest of the company’s vehicles as they pooled awaiting the last platoon to top up.
Suddenly, two thumps in quick succession in the distance. Under normal circumstances, the sounds could have been things that may have been ignored, but these sent some privates’ heads into a rapid swivel. There was silence for a moment. Idwerd looked around, almost unconcerned. All there were were birds chirping and the rain. He began to slide another cigarette out of his pack just as the silence was broken. A high pitch whine shrieked over the company, as of a jet had buzzed them going Mach 2.
“Mortars!” Corporal Gjaltsma hollered.
The ground exploded and a portion of the wheat fields were uprooted about 200 meters to the west. Quickly after, a mortar pierced one of the grain silos within 100 meters and ejected grain and smoke skywards.
“Everyone down behind the Kraits!” Gjaltsma ordered, dashing for cover radio in hand.
“Kilda 3, this is Kilda 3-2, we are taking mortar fire from the north. Unknown distance and heading. It sounds like 3-inch, over.”
Just as he finished, automatic gunfire rang out. It sounded as if dozens of power tools switched on all at once in the surrounding trees. Idwerd, hiding behind the waist high wheels of the section’s APC, could not see any gunmen, but he could hear the bullets pepper the carriers and force their blood curdling snap overhead. Idwerd had never been shot at. Orders may have been directed towards him, but he wasn’t receiving them. He hid his face in the ground, unable to react.
“RPG!”
The lead fuel truck erupted in a fireball almost as tall as the grain silos. The cabin was ejected at least 30 meters in the air and ignited petrol rained down over the clearing. Ahead, some men were splashed with the blaze, and the forward most carriers were completely shrouded in smoke. The shrieks of the mortars continued to come in every few seconds. It was random enough to keep Idwerd pinned. Sometimes they landed long across the way in the trees backing them, sometimes on the silos and sometimes square in the clearing. There was no chance to escape it, and the shriek was so loud that it sounded like the shells were landing right on top of them even when they landed several hundred meters away.
Corporal Gjaltsma slid down to Idwerd, his machine gunner in tow. “Fucking get up Aukema! We are going!”
The corporal yanked on Idwerd by the neck of his body armour, almost dragging him out from behind the carrier. It was the first time Idwerd had raised his head to see the clearing since they took contact. The company’s idle carriers were scrambling to get into a defensive position. Several men laid dead on the clearing—either torn up by gunfire or mangled by a mortar blast—and thick black smoke billowed from a husk of a fuel truck. They didn’t know what they were up against, but it was coming from the treeline. The APCs opened up with their 15mm machine guns, raking the trees. The cracks of Tiperyn and insurrectionist gunfire crossing created a blanket overhead as Idwerd stumbled to his feet.
It was surreal, as if Idwerd was controlling someone else’s body. One foot in front of the other, Idwerd followed behind his section, rifle in hand and head down. They crossed the threshold where the gravel met the grass and charged headlong towards the trees about 300 meters away. There was no cover between them and the enemy. The machine gunner, the biggest lad in the section, was upright and spraying his belt-fed machine gun from the hip as he sprinted. Idwerd could see the muzzle flashes dotted across the shadowy treeline, but no men. He wasn’t thinking. He was just going through the motions because there was nothing else that could be done. Apparently their section was the only section that had taken this initiative, because to their left and their right Idwerd saw no one else from the platoon or company dashing with them across the grass.
A blast kicked up dirt and debris in the treeline—another RPG. The flame of the back blast briefly silhouetted the grenadier—too far for Idwerd to make out any notable detail of the man—only for him to quickly disappear back into the shadows. The warhead shot by their shoulders, leaving a trail of smoke in its wake. Still sprinting, Idwerd turned his head to see where it’d end up, but quickly went down. Two rounds had connected with his gut and his right leg, sending him into a face plant and slide across the wet grass.
No one stopped for him. The dash across the grass seemed to take an hour, but was likely done in less than two minutes. Only three men actually made it to the trees. However, with the APCs fully raking the treeline, the company’s riflemen finally pulled themselves together to reach the trees. They swept the area, but the rebels were mostly gone by the time the company had fully committed to the attack; gone off to fight another day. A small number laid dead on the edge of the trees;
maybe 12. They were armed with an assortment of outdated League small arms. The Tiperyn soldiers never found the main body of the force, but it was assumed they came from Darimh or an outlying village.
Idwerd laid in the stretch of grass watching, paralyzed by his wounds. Perhaps he was left for dead, or perhaps the company’s medics were too consumed with the dead and wounded back at the clearing. Two new blazes had begun as the second RPG had hit another fuel truck and an APC's fuel tanks had been penetrated by machine gun fire. A handful of dead Tiperyn soldiers lay dead or dying in the grass. Idwerd would not know what happened to his comrades of happenstance, as he died there in the grass before being attended to.
· · · · † · · · ·
1706
