Join the Foreign Legion! (Open, MT RP)

[Andouillistan]

A full-page advertisement displayed in various firearms-themed periodicals in the capitals of the world:

Adventure! Glory! Wealth!

The Republic of Andouillistan seeks adventurous young men to fill the ranks of the 1st Special Reserve Colonial Police Battalion (Foreign).

Cheat death, win glory, and earn impressive battle scars!

Join hundreds of other brave souls of limited wealth and prospects now protecting the vast, beautiful hinterland of Andouillistan. Learn valuable skills and face fierce enemies.

Claim your share of the wealth of Andouillistan!

An enlistment bounty of $2,500 will be paid to all who successfully complete the SRCPB(F) training program, and an additional $1,000 to those who sign a three year contract. Earn a competitive salary, fair benefits, and even land in the Territories after ten years of service.

Interested parties should apply in person at Fort Gueydan, 12 McLellan Harbor, Cayenne, Andouillistan.

*

Fort Gueydan, the Port of Cayenne, Present Day

Major Rusty Kershaw grimaced as he closed the cover of the magazine.

“Don’t you think they overdid it?”

General Chachere shrugged. “Can’t fault the ol boys over at the printing office for a bit of extra enthusiasm. Ain’t one of them probably ever served in a uniform before anyway,” he grunted.

Kershaw took a sip of tea. It was barely 9 o’clock and he was already sweating in the July humidity. The ancient desk fan barely moved the wet air around the dingy office, and the wilting palm trees outside of the window hadn’t stirred in a breeze in days.

“I sure hope they can take the heat,” he said.

“It’ll be worse out there in the boonies,” muttered the general.

Kershaw folded the magazine and deposited it in the trash bin. He picked up a thick folder labeled ‘Secret’ and opened it. He winced at the title: Operation Cannon Fodder.

“Did we really have to call it that?”

The General laughed. “Truth in advertising, son. None of them are gonna see the damn thing anyway, and damned if that ain’t our plan: drown those hillbilly rebel scum in a wave of foreign humanity!”

Kershaw shuddered. Not for the first time was he regretting returning to the service, and particularly taking this job.

Outside the barbed wire fence that surrounded the fort, dust hung low over the long highway that led from the fort all the way down to the Gulf of Andouille. The reddish waters still sparkled in the relentless sunlight, the horizon marred here and there by the dark blotches that marked the offshore platforms and the tankers that moved lazily to and from the terminals onshore.

An observer standing on the shore might have seen a commercial jetliner coming in for a landing at the Chachere International Airport, just a mile down the road from Fort Gueydan.

Hopefully, it carried the first of Andouillistan’s brave foreign volunteers.

[Atlantian Dominions]

One man who intended to make Fort Gueydan his destination arrived not by plane, but by ship. Frederick Hennigen had taken a circuitous route from the Confederation of Atlantian Dominions to Andouillistan, which included traveling by ship and overland between different ports. Yet he had not been deterred by the distance or the difficulty of the journey, because he was after a thing that Atlantians valued more than almost anything in the world: a fortune. He'd seen the ad for the Foreign Legion in a Grand Harbor periodical, and he'd quickly developed an idea of how to turn it into a vehicle to propel him, and a few trusted partners, into the upper crust of Atlantian society.

While he was on his way to Andouillistan, those partners were gathering men from the lower classes who would never have seen the advertisement, but who would leap at the chance to earn a good salary and eventually land of their own. All they had to do was sign a contract that forfeited the majority of their signing and completion bonuses to Hennigen, and in return Hennigen would use the wealth he'd come into when he married to pay for their travel to Andouillistan. It was win-win: men who otherwise had no future beyond toiling on a farm or factory could become freeholders, and Frederick Hennigen would become that much wealthier.

Once he was off the ship, Hennigen made his way to the fort. He marveled at the jetliner coming in for a landing overhead, for such sights were very rare in the Dominions. But he didn't have time for gawking: he had to press on until he finally reached the barbed wire fence that surrounded Fort Gueydan. Hennigen approached the first entrance he saw, and replied with confidence to whomever the first person was to ask his business.

"I'm here to see the man who placed this advertisement," he explained, holding out the rather worn magazine with the Foreign Legion ad. "My name is Frederick Hennigen, and I it is very important that I meet with him at once."

[Andouillistan]

“What is this? I ordered gumbo, didn’t I?”

Kershaw frowned down at the brownish slop in the Styrofoam container on his desk. His adjutant shrugged. “That’s what they gave me, sir.”

“Jesus Chris, this is Tony’s?”

“No, Emmanuel’s.”

“Emmanuel’s? Go figure.”

He stirred it absently with the plastic fork.

The phone rang and he picked it up, glad to be distracted from the slop on his desk.

“Yeah?”

“Sir, a gentleman here to see you. He says he’s here to sign up. You know, the foreign legion thing. Cannon fodder.”

“Jesus Christ, don’t call it that!”

“Sorry sir. Should I send him in?”

“Christ. Alright, yes, of course.”

He pushed the Styrofoam container aside and sat up straight as the door opened and the foreign stranger was ushered into the room.

[Atlantian Dominions]

By the time Frederick Hennigen entered the room and came face-to-face with Major Kershaw, he was sweating profusely. He had put on his best clothes before stepping off the boat at Cayenne, determined to make a good impression in front of whoever was in charge of this recruitment campaign. He'd walked off the boat in a nice three piece grey wool suit, with a collarless vest and a trilby hat. Unfortunately, he'd failed to account for the terrible heat. By the time he'd reached the fort, he'd removed his jacket and the armpits of his light blue shirt were stained through with sweat. He cursed the damned heat, and the damned advertisement for not mentioning it.

Yet he tried his best to look composed and unaffected as he was ushered in to see Major Kershaw. Of course, he didn't know one rank badge from another. He was a businessman, and not a very successful one so far, who'd married into a wealthy family. He'd seen Army and Navy men in their dress uniforms at various functions in Grand Harbor and elsewhere, but he couldn't tell a colonel from a coronet. He assumed this man was some sort of General. That seemed to be an appropriate rank to give a man responsible for such a project.

"Frederick Hennigen," he introduced himself. "From the Confederation of Atlantian Dominions. General, I'm here with a very good offer. I saw your advertisement, you're looking for foreign men to fill out some sort of regiment. Now, I'm not here to enlist - I'm not exactly the soldierly type. But what if I could bring you five hundred stout Atlantian men, ready and willing to sign on fight for your country?"