The three-ton truck was not a particularly enjoyable ride over the typical Augstberg countryside; the roads were well paved, but there was a degree of swaying and jostling as the diesels struggled with the inclines and then the trucks themselves, somewhat sluggish, sped up when coming down a hill. The people ridding in the back of the truck, with the canvas covers to keep the inclement weather, a misty sort of rain on a gray morning, out, suffered through that on benches that they inevitably padded as best they could so as to make an hours long drive more palatable.

Some of the people in the truck were smokers, it was inevitable, and others were drinkers. Somehow, impending war with the hardened, victorious legions of the Holtish Emperor, Georg August Ludoff Holtzer, or Goosestep Georgie, as the Principality's press liked to label him. Somewhere down the line, the comical militarism of their neighbor, with whom the Augstbergers shared much of a language, became deadly serious; Alverre was invaded and brought low and there seemed to be a war on the horizon with the Vaydan reds. All three of these places shared a border with the Principality, and suddenly, the vaunted neutrality of the Principality seemed for naught -- Georgie made noises about uniting the peoples of one culture together under a strong rule, which was how Holtland went from many small feuding kingdoms to one large modern state in the time of Georgie's great-grandfather. Then the economy became unstable and Goosestep Georgie's father undertook reforms to hold off the communist problem in his nation. One brutal civil war later, Holtland spent a generation rebuilding. Then old Paulus, Georgie's father, died of a massive stroke in his sleep. Georgie roared to power vowing vengeance against the Alverais.

The invasion was swift, brutal, using new technologies in the hands of young generals that Georgie picked to fight the war, and the defeat was stunning.

The Principality, particularly Prince David, watched the whole thing unfold grimly, while Augstberg prospered in peace; a nation of bankers, hoteliers, patisserers and clockmakers, with their funny sort of free-for-all politics and cultural conservatism -- they'd figured out how they wanted to run their nation and had done it that way for centuries, and yet when Goosestepping Georgie started to complain about the price of petroleum and how it was impoverishing Holtland, the Principality Armed Forces paid attention.

Grumbling, groaning and moaning, the called up reservists piled into mobilization centers for refresher training, then were sent home after these emergency manuevers to recuperate...knowing that another callup would come, but not dreaming it would happen so fast.

Fast was seven men and women out of a squad that should have been twelve, packed into a truck and carted off as fast as the trucks would go to the Battalion's staging area. They were deposited, directed and then issued their ammunition; that was how they knew how serious it was. The Principality wasn't even making anyone sign for it -- there was a Leutnant there practically throwing wax-sealed boxes of 7.5mm ammo at the soldiers passing by, as well as grenades, going, "Here-- move along!"

That's when Hasso knew it was for real -- never, ever, ever in his time in the PAF as an active duty Jäger or a reservist, did they ever just casually hand over state-owned ammunition blocks, sealed in wax paper with "GEWEHR PATRONE 7.5x55MM" and the Principality's seal on it to let you know that it was government property, complete with a blocky-font serial number.

He, like the others, quickly started to rip open those packs and organize them into charger clips which were then slipped into cartridge belts. Some were smoking, others took a nip out of a flask of schnapps for warmth, and everyone was huddling under their ponchos in the gray mist-rain. A quick look around confirmed what he already knew in his bones.

"Scheisse, we're on the fucking Holtish border."

---

Hours later, the squad was settled down, a hodge-podge affair of people that barely knew each other from the occasional weekend drill that was generally treated as some sort of burden. They were all living in the same part of the Principality, and that was what they had in common. The Colonel had come along to inspect them, a recent retiree from the regular army that didn't seem to like what he saw -- some with facial hair and long hair, non-regulation attire along with the uniforms and...well, reservists. A war had come and he was leading reservists. Hasso thought the man reserved an especially cold glance for him, one that was returned with a lofted eyebrow that bordered on the insubordinate, but was brusquely overlooked as the man jostled off with his aide and sergeant major in tow to look into other squads and platoons. Perhaps he was going to find Leutnant Pfaffer to give him a piece of his mind about the state of 'the men.'

In any case, second squad had a piece of real estate all to themselves, a barn that a local farmer gave up for the good of the Principality with a bit of grumbling about his milk cows, and a warning about pilfering the cheese he was aging in a cellar, with a clear view of some treeline some six hundred meters ahead, along with grazing meadows for the cows, which were all, by now, brought in by the farmer, who seemed to fear for the welfare of his animals more than he did the welfare of his teenaged daughter around the troops; Alina was her name. She at least showed them where some real shovels were, which made the job of entrenching easier -- farm tools were better for digging in than short entrenching shovels any day.

Hasso would have taken a fancy to a lively, intelligent and, most charmingly, bored farmgirl in almost any situation except that he was as jittery as the others were and focused on what was coming, morbid thoughts of youth cut down at the direction of a bunch of squabbling politicians. He knew that some of the others, at least were open in their worries, while others...well, his cynicism convinced him that the others were either scared or lying fuckers about not being scared, perhaps with the exception of that old martinet colonel who was wishing he had 'real' troops under his command.

The hours were spent waiting for the Holtish, but not seeing anything...until they heard the rumble of diesel nearby, the sound muffled somewhat by the rain.

"Engines, and not from our side!" he hissed out at the next man over, even as he reached for his rifle -- it was never far away lately -- and waited, tense and nervous, the chill forgotten as the sweat broke out.

Manfred Krebs received word by telephone at the farm near the Grünwald. He told his father and began to pack his things. "Where you off to, sport?" Lukas quipped when he walked into his room.

"War," Manfred muttered as he continued to gather his things. He didn't bother looking up at his brother.

"What?!"

Manny looked up at him, face intentionally left in a neutral unemotional way, "yes Lukas. There is a war on. Apparently Goosestep Georgie seems to enjoy his summers in the Augstberg countryside. Maybe he likes to ski? Anyway, I'm heading off to war." Manny returned to pulling his things together. "Caleb is coming too." Their youngest brother was serving in the third battalion's number three kompanie. "I will look in on him when I can. Who knows where we'll end up."

"Does dad know?" Lukas was slightly disturbed by the news, not only because he was fearful for his brothers, but because he drew the exemption. As the eldest son, he was expected to run the farm. Since the wool, lamb, corn, barley and wheat grown at the farm, went to supply the nation as well as its army, he was needed at home to continue what he does best. As for, Tomas, he had a new life in Luzern and would undoubtedly remain as a Polizei im the capital city.

"Sure he does," Manfred quipped. "He was here when the phone rang. He's taking me to town."

Manfred picked up his pack and scrambled down the stairs. He hefted the submachine gun over his right shoulder and reached for his cap. The helmet remained attached to the belt of his webbing. When he stepped outside, Jakob, his father stood by the Würms Türingauto, the family's motor car. The elder Krebs held the door open for his son.

Once inside the car, Jakob looked at Lukas, "see to the farm, son. I'm taking your brother into town. I'll be back in a few hours." The car scuttled down the road leaving a trail of dust behind until it hit the pavement.

At the assembly station, father parted ways with his sons. Both got a handshake and Caleb went off in search of his kompanie. Manfred found the other members of second squad, PFC Rudolph Halliger, PFC Leon Dupont, PFC Heinrich Strauss, Gefreiter Hasso Aldo, PFC Balalika Franz, and Gefreiter Hans Dietrich Amsel. The squad was going to war with five vacancies. Gerd, his Assistant did not show up. After they received their ammunition and loaded onto the back of the three-ton truck, Manfred started speaking to the squad.

"Heinrich," Manny addressed PFC Strauss. "Gerd didn't show up. You're the most experienced. I want you to be assistant squad leader. Can you handle that?" He looked at the man, who happened to be the largest in the squad also; a trait that should help him in a leadership role. When we go into the attack, you control the pigs." Pig is the nickname given to the squad machine guns carried by Franz and Dupont.

"Is anyone missing anything?" Korporal Krebs looked at each of the soldiers in the truck. The back flap was up to allow light into the cargo space. "You should all have water in your canteen. We'll be on the road for the next hour. I suggest you get some sleep because you don't know when you'll be able to sleep again." An infantryman can sleep anywhere at any time. Korporal Krebs answered their questions and nodded off himself until he heard the squeal of the breaks when the three-ton arrived at its destination.

The squad unloaded from the truck. Leutnant Pfeffer assigned the 2nd squad the center sector in the platoon defense. It was a one hundred and fifty meter long stretch including a barn which they could use to sleep in if convenient. First squad would be on their right and the third squad on their left. The platoon machine guns were located one in the first squad sector and one in the 3rd squad sector. The Platoon Command Post (CP) was located in the farmhouse, where the platoon leader, Leutnant Pfeffer was located with the platoon sergeant and five runners.

"PFC Franz, I want you to take this spool of wire and run it to the platoon CP," Korporal Krebs instructed the 20-year old rifleman. The wire would be staked off at the squad CP and then strung out to the platoon CP. Each of the squad leaders had a small field phone connected to the platoon leader's phone at the CP. Korporal Krebs knew he couldn't cover a hundred fifty meters of terrain with seven men. He had argued with the Leutnant about this point, but it got him nowhere. He had to make do with what he had.

PFC Dupont and Heinrich Strauss were assigned the left side of the line. They would need to prepare a defensive fighting position (DFP or foxhole) that the two of them would share. Gefreiter Amsel and PFC Franz would have the right side of the sector and construct a similar position there. PFC Halliger and Gefreiter Aldo would share the squad Command Post with Korporal Krebs in the center. They would build a three-man position. Once the positions were complete, there would be approximately 50 - 70 meters between fighting positions. The three foxholes would be built about a hundred meters from the barn and someone would be on the line 24 hours a day, awake to watch what was going on to the front.

"Korporal Krebs," Leutnant Pfeffer spoke sternly to the 30-year old Korporal. "Take your squad out tonight to patrol the wood line to our front at zero one hundred hours. Leave the line at the right end of first squad and re-enter at the left end of second squad. I want you to follow this route," the leutnant indicated their route of travel on a topographical map he held in his hand. "You will cover the Kompanie frontage out about a kilometer to the front. If you see the enemy, avoid contact and report what you see when you return to the Kompanie. If you make contact with the enemy, break contact and return ASAP (as soon as possible). I expect you to report to me as soon as you get back. This is a twenty five hundred meter move. It should take you no more than three hours to complete. I will be at the Platoon CP at zero four hundred when you return. Any questions?"

"Sir, should we take any special equipment?" The korporal asked the Leutnant. Manfred understood why they were doing the patrol. They need to know if the Holtish were out in the woods. The leutnant answered his questions and returned to second squad who were already constructing foxholes.

"Engines, and not from our side!" Gefreiter Aldo hissed. Manfred was digging when the young private spoke.

"Put your uniforms back on! Get into your positions! Get ready and keep your heads down!" Korporal Krebs barked out several orders. 'Looks like the nighttime patrol is off the table tonight.' Korporal Krebs hunched down inside the depression between Hasso Aldo and Rudy Halliger flanked him in their dugout waiting to see what would show. The soldiers had removed their uniform blouses while digging their holes. Some of the soldiers referred to those holes as shallow graves.

Manfred reached for the field phone and rang up the platoon CP. "Leutnant, we have what sounds like vehicle movement to our front, in the treeline." He informed his leader what they heard. As he listened to his Leutenant, he saw a half-track burst out of the wood line. "Mein Herr, I have Holtish halftracks popping out of the trees at 600 meters, they are here! at least seven vehicles moving slowly on line towards the platoon." He got off the phone, hunkered down and watched the enemy vehicles.

"Nicht gut," muttered Hasso, as he rested his cheek against the stock of his rifle; it was up, but his finger wasn't on the trigger and he hadn't chambered a round yet. Instead, he was wrapping the sling, supple and soft leather, around his wrist to get a steadier sort of aim. 600 meters was a long way off and he was nowhere near about to waste precious ammo firing a harassing shot at that range. Had there been a scope on his rifle, that would have been a different story -- the G34 was hellishly accurate, as all Augstbergen rifles were -- they reflected a design for riflemen by riflemen who were also exacting craftsmen. Other armies did things to the triggers and actions, but the G34 was a simple matter of drilling, tapping and mounting off-set to the side.

Granted, he was one of the top marksmen in the platoon but he didn't have a scope on his rifle -- no one seemed to here, but the reality was that there was little a scoped rifle would do in the face of the roaring fury of a half-track; it was perhaps to their advantage that they hadn't been seen yet, but that half-track wasn't exactly running away either. Sooner or later, they'd have to engage...but that was going to have to be an order. The idea that they were at war kept him hesitant to even work the bolt on his rifle and chamber that first fateful round...

Leon climbed out of the truck with a great degree of internal dismay. The entire journey had been one long slow realization that there was no way he'd be back in time for his final exams, and that the marriage he'd planned for three months later was going to have to be postponed. He'd wanted to write about it, to put down his feelings on paper and lock them away for now, but that hadn't seemed appropriate amidst the nervous and disgruntled almost half-squad that showed up for deployment. When he saw the others missing, some of them the best shots in the platoon, Leon almost wished he'd decided to stay home as well. Of course, he didn't voice that feeling to his Korporal or his comrades, and neither did he mention the pain caused by the angry shouts that had followed him out the door as he left for the muster point.

He was thankful at least for his familiarity with Korporal Kreb's brisk and straightforward command style. It kept him from thinking too much. Still, as the men industriously set to digging emplacements around him, Leon couldn't help but wonder how in the world they could hold a thin line against a full-on attack without heavy support in their sector. He almost turned and voiced these concerns to Manny, but when he saw the Korporal already talking angrily on the phone Leon trudged over to his assigned position and began looking for a good spot to dig an emplacement.

He didn't know Heinrich very well, but given the man's recent experience and recent promotion he was happy that the man was with him. At the very least, he could be corrected if he was about to do something wrong... though Leon hoped that four years of on and off practice hadn't dulled his reflexes too much! The young PFC grimaced and hefted the shovel that had been offered to him by a cute young thing vaguely reminiscent of his Sophie. It didn't help his focus any, for sure, not that any one spot in this sector was better than the other; it was all mostly open terrain. Finally, Leon pointed to an overgrown indentation in the meadow, where at least the tall alpine grass would offer them a degree of initial concealment. From then on out, it was all back breaking work as the semi-vertical dugout was made. Leon had just finished adding a narrow slot at the bottom of the foxhole for grenades to be kicked, remembering a lesson from five years ago, when he too heard the sound of engines break the evening air.

Quickly, Leon pulled the equipment he and Heinrich hadn't stored in the barn into the dugout and laid his rifle to his left in case the damned MG24 jammed. He hoisted the LMG into position in the hastily built firing groove, and aimed it towards the treeline. Leon wanted to check the feed one more time, to check everything one more time, but he knew as he flicked the safety off that Heinrich had already organized the ammo to his right and was similarly peering out of the entrenchment towards the tree line. Sweat began to drop from Leon's brow, but his eyes never left the trees ahead of him, and when the leading halftrack emerged from the trees ahead and to the right of Leon's position he could feel the droplets rolling down his face.The halftrack continued its steady advance towards the barn and the squad CP, and Leon spared a short glance at Heinrich, his mouth dry as he rasped his question:

"Orders, sir?"

Balalika hopped out of the back of the truck having slept a bit while she was inside it,her BAR was slung over her left shoulder loaded but on safety she didn't want to shoot any of these guys or herself for that matter.She helped unloading the heavy boxes of ammunition from the truck,stacking them where they needed to be.She carried several hundred more rounds for her own weapon,which was despite her strength fairly burdening.Balalika looked at the Korpral and nodded at him taking the spool of wire spooling it across the area,until she reached the Platoon CP.Where she staked the wire into then ground,pulling at it a bit to inspect its tightness finding it to her satisfaction.She hurried back down the line her under staffed squad was assigned to,and set her LMG down trading it for a shovel.She began helping Amsel to dig the shallow hole they would be calling home for however long they were assigned as she dug she opened her mouth to speak to him figuring she may as well get to know her squad mates the men she would be trusting with her life and vice versa.

She spoke in a accent that would be known as Russian her voice was typical of women which was softer toned less deep but not girly or high pitched "My names Balalika,nice to share this hole in the ground with you." she said as she looked towards Amsel shoveling dirt from the ground chuckling a bit.She had also taken her uniform shirt off leaving her in a dark green tank top looking shirt,which she often used back home during work in the hotter seasons.

Balalika's mind went back to her new squad members,she noted that several of them didn't seem at all happy to be here.Not that she was particularly giddy about a war and death,but she was happy enough knowing she could defend her country and prove her town wrong.She was quickly thrown from her thoughts as the sound of engines filled her ears, heavy engines belonging to something large.She dropped the shovel and pulled her uniform shirt on inside the shallow hole she was previously helping to dig she didn't bother with the buttons on the shirt.She snatched up her BAR setting the LMG out on its bipod digging it somewhat into the ground to keep it grounded in for added stability.Even though she could easily stand and fire the gun,the weapon was loaded and ready to fire.Her finger laying softly on the trigger but not enough to make it fire,she lined her sights up as the half track rumbled and continued on its path forwards.She would wait and hold her fire until orders were given otherwise,and a valid target would present itself.With the vehicles armor she knew her LMG wouldn't do much more then dent the lumbering vehicle and waste ammunition.

Heinrich was sitting on an empty overturned crate, taking a pleasant smoke break, he had just done several hours down at the mine face, and his body ached. A familiar feeling, but none the less unpleasant. He took a long drag of the cigarette when his shift leader walked in and broke the news to him. “Heinrich,” said Bernard, an older balding man with a squat rotund body, “their calling in the reserves, you need to go report in,” he said flatly, a thin frown betraying his feelings. He let out a long exhale, the smoke blowing out like an engine’s revving exhaust rather that thin wispy tendrils. “So this is it then, it’s really happening, I had hoped things would calm down and it could be avoided,” he said grunting as he stood, “then I’ll be off now, wish me the best,” he said with a week smile, trying to raise Bernard’s spirits. He walked out past the older gentleman, no more words spoken, no more needing to be said, he was off to war, and there was no guarantee of returning.

He arrived to the mustering which was already alive with activity, and quickly took his place in the issue line. He caught the boxes of rounds that were practically tossed to him before being handed a stuffed pack. His brow furrowed for a moment before his question was answered, “Engineer right? This is your additional kit.” He fumbled a moment to hold the boxed rounds while sliding it over his shoulders before hurrying off to allow the men behind them their supplies. He began the tedious task of loading his mags as others were loading onto trucks, before being directed to his squads truck. He clambered in and looked around. Only seven? Out of twelve? He hoped for their sakes the other weren’t trying to desert.

Shortly after settling in the Korporal addressed him, “Heinrich, Gerd didn't show up. You're the most experienced. I want you to be assistant squad leader. Can you handle that? When we go into the attack, you control the pigs." His eyes widened slightly, “Yes Korporal, I can, and you needn’t worry, they’ll be used to the best affect.” He closed his eyes, this was almost unbelievable, he really hadn’t heard the rest of what the Korporal said, he just breathed deeply before slipping into a light slumber for the duration of the ride.

Once at their destination, he was awoken by the sudden movement of the others. He groggily stood up before shuffling to the back and jumping out of the truck. They were on a farm, quaint little countryside without the most pleasant of weather. This brought a smile smile to his face, having shortly forgotten just why they were here, and then it hit him. “What will become of this farm?” He thought to himself, “What of the people who lived here?” He steeled himself; he would have to protect this quite countryside, he and the rest of them. He finally dropped out of his little world in time to catch what the Korporal had to say, directing himself and Dupont to the left side and get dug in. He nodded curtly and made his way over in that direction. Dupont had found a patch of tall grass, concealment, a place to start. They set about digging, Heinrich’s work in the mines paying off, making plenty more headway than his comrade. After a grueling while with their small trench shovels, a pretty young woman came out with proper shovels. Heinrich smiled, no way in hell he’d let anyone past now, not with her back there. An hour past, and they had the basic frame work of their cozy little home away from home dug out. Another hour had seen to a couple grenade sumps dug out, a small berm with firing cuts and a firing step constructed. “Well, this could still use some work, but given the conditions, this may be as good as it’ll get for today,” he said wiping the sweat from his brow with his sleeve.

Then it happened, the distinct sound of diesel engines. Heinrich dropped down into the hole as Dupont pulled in there ammo. “Damn, we didn’t get a dugout for the rounds!” He cursed himself as he realized the mistake. He took to ensuring Dupont’s first belt was free of debris and ready to go before sliding the other two in close. He fixed his bayonet and peeked over the berm, a trail of halftracks approaching. Dupont rasped out, “Orders, sir?” “Remember your training, sustained fire, 5-9 bursts, take a couple seconds and readjust as necessary, another burst. You can’t take out the vehicles, but you can suppress the gunners, wait for the big gun to take out their engines, when the infantry dismount, reap your harvest. Keep the guns talking, you burst, let the other take a burst, back and forth,” he said somewhat shakily, before remembering that he was a leader now. He gathered himself quickly, “And for god’s sake don’t call me sir,” he said bluntly before taking aim down his sights, hoping the grass would conceal his longer rifle as he tried to pick out a target he could do some good against.

Halliger stared at the man who was dispensing ammunition from the truck. The bulky wooden case for the The Gewehr 1939 was on the ground beside the truck, and in addition to the wax paper wrapped cartridges of 7.5mm, was a substantial wooden crate, bearing 20mm x 105 among the numerous other markings, noting it was armour piercing ammunition, and held a total one hundred twenty cartridges. It was a shocking alert that this was as real as it could get. War had officially been declared. Narrowing his eyes and rolling his shoulders, he took the waxed paper ammunition packages and stuffed them into pockets for the time being as he stooped to pick up the ammunition crate and lifted it as he turned towards the truck where the rest of the squad was already loading into. He passed the ammunition on to Balaika, and then returned to retrieve the rifle's crate. With a grunt of effort, the mass of the rifle, nine empty magazines, a single magazine pouch and a double pouch, complete cleaning, maintenance and armourer's kit, all rose with him as he turned back to the truck. His cheeks were turning red as he hefted the crate into the back of the truck, nearly two hundred pounds sliding over the grit to fit neatly under the left hand bench. With a hand of assistance, he climbed into the back and finally removed his pack, and G34 rifle, sliding them to the front of the truck, thanks to the empty space where the five missing squad mates should have been.

Rudolph spent the first moments of the trip removing the clipped ammunition from its paper wrappings, and sliding them into the pockets of the leather bandolier around his waist. His usual habit of flattening the wax paper sheets and stacking them presented itself again, before he gave it a twist, and dropped it between the slats of the bench. When they arrived, he helped unload the truck and as Krebs gave orders, he listened and sounded his understanding. His first task was opening the crate the G1939 came in, pulling out the barrel and the receiver to mate them back together, followed by opening the ammunition crate, and starting to load the magazines with the big, fat cartridges, the new brass lightly oiled to prevent corrosion, and the pointed bullets painted solid black with a white rim just before the case mouth. It was a slow, methodical process as he used the loading tool to shove the follower down, then jamming a round into the magazine. When he had four of the nine magazines loaded, he took to the shovel.

With haste, the spade dug chunks of the rich soil and tossed it aside in a methodical rhythm, using speed and strength that he had plenty of, he dug to try and catch up with the others in with his trench. At the hiss of Aldo of the trucks he looked up from his labour, and listened. "Eier!, a final flick of black soil, for the grenade trench, before he dropped the entrenching spade. Two expansive steps to the rear, and Rudy grab the cannon, even as the chill rolled down his spine as the sound of the diesels came closer, he returned to the trench and placed the weapon. The second trip netted the four magazines, in his haste, he slid into the trench, grunting as his knee rolled over a small rock that grated against his skin and bone through the uniform. Magazines stacked next to the rifle, he lifted the first and rocked it into the magazine well, he kept his hand on the pistol grip, but his finger off the trigger as he tripped the bolt release, sending the massive weight of steel to ram the first shell home into the chamber, causing the rifle to buck from the weight transfer. He quickly reached over, onto the grass beside his dropped shovel, and levered the G34 into his shallow trench. His hand snaked out again, fishing his cloak and helmet from the area, and pulling the cloak over himself, and slapping the helmet upon his scalp.

He looked over to Aldo as the half-tracks broke from the forest, and smiled though, even the pain of his knee forgotten but the sudden surge of adrenaline, "Must agree with you. Tanks would have been better," he slid behind the anti-armor rifle, levering his shoulder into the rest and lifting the back end of the weapon, he continued, "wouldn't you agree?" His left hand flicked to the elevation control of the rear sight, adjusting it, for five hundred meters. At that range, the weapon could still penetrate more than twenty mills of armor steel. Taking aim, and trying to steady his breathing from the recent exertion, he said softly, "Tell me when to engage." Looking at the wind on the field, and reached to adjust the windage a notch. He wanted that first shot to hit where he wanted it to. He scanned the vehicles that were rumbling out of the forest, recalling from memory the models, their armor, and weaponry.

They Holtish were deeper into Augstberg than the Principality's generals believed possible – the details of the Alverais invasion were not common knowledge, and the rapidity of the mechanized advance, such as actual distances covered within a certain amount of time, were not entirely predicted. These were not tanks attached to infantry, but rather infantry attached to tanks, and that was the pivotal difference between the Holtish mindset and that of their opponents.

These were confident men, as a result of their victories. They'd seen stiff fighting in the hottest part of the invasion, the initial thrust before the Alverais started to break. The enemy's best, despite the appearance of an overwhelming victory, fought hard and drew blood. They lost men and they learned from those crucial first experiences under fire. The men sitting on benches in the back of the green-brown painted half-tracks huddled under their camouflaged ponchos for warmth, some of them catching sleep, others unable to get there. There was a strong hint of winter in the air, a breeze off the Falkgarden, the largest mountain on the continent – the very sight of it reminded the commander of these men of all his worries as they drew ever closer, as he dismounted from his command vehicle on foot to reconnoiter the treeline up ahead.

Hauptmann Matthias Krause was a veteran of that invasion, and he was confident in his skills as a leader and a warrior, like his men were. But unlike the common soldiers, he wondered why they were attacking the Principality – it was true, they spoke practically the same language, derived from the ancient tongue of the Holzvolken, with a few changes here and there, though it was mutually intelligible. But he knew the Bergen – they were hospitable people, they enjoyed their skiing sports and their festivals. Like the Holtish, they tended to obsess over quality and detail, pursuing excellence as a matter of course and sparing themselves very little in such efforts. The Holtish perhaps were a little more interested in the arts and grandeur, whereas the Augstbergen were, in a sense, watchmakers and accountants, a people that set limits. Their system of government endured for centuries because it was good enough, and they didn't venture out, colonize or otherwise bother themselves with the upheavals of the world around them. They kept to themselves, though they were not xenophobic. They had a love of social order very much at odds with their sometimes-argumentative politics and unpredictable voting.

They also were damned good shots. Holtish propaganda painted a nation of pacifistic brethren that needed defending from the depredations of the Vaydan, particularly as they found natural resources that made them finally worth invading. In the past, the stiffness of the Augstbergen resistance to the attempted imposition of outside rule, its reticence in the face of unification attempts, along with the size of the militia and the inhospitable alpine terrain made invasion an unpleasant endeavor with little return on the investment.

Krause was a believer in putting eyes on the enemy if he could, and that was why he dismounted, along with a pair of machinegun teams; he crept forward ahead of his own radioman and wriggled down in the clods of dirt, roots, moss and golden-browning autumn leaves as he crawled into position. Once he had binoculars on the enemy position, he started to automatically do a fast count while noting that they were still just arriving and digging in, not nearly as prepared as they could be – the Bergen apparently expected to have more time to make the attack.

He also noticed another thing; green jackets.

Jägers...

Thankfully, understrength and not completely set up. He'd take it.

--

“Lastly, remember, these are Jägers, the Principality's best infantry. Do not give them time to counterattack, do not relent. We push and we push hard, verstehen?”

The chroused grunts and 'ja's' were the end of a short and simple briefing – relaying enemy numbers and state and assigning the jobs. Krause had good lieutenants and even better NCO's.

He had to trust his lieutenants to get the job done once he told them to set up and attack the designated positions, clearing what looked like the position of a machinegun platoon set up to support the Augstbergen position with artillery and tank support, and overrun a platoon position overlooking the road and well past the treeline.

The whole thing went off with an arm gesture and a surge of movement from the halftracks; the roar of diesels from within the bowels of the forest was what Hasso Aldo, on the other side, heard – there was no way to conceal the approach even with the muffling effect of the afternoon rain and mist, but there always was an element of risk associated with any combat operation. The weapons platoon was set up with heavy machineguns in the treeline, waiting patiently for the advance, and the company's mortars sighted in to support the attack.

The lead track under Feldwebel Hausner made the advance with the MG32 being carefully fired by the feldwebel himself, short bursts from a belt feed out of a canister, aimed to suppress the position of the enemy. Meanwhile, the mortars, on cue, began to bring down their barrage, though there wasn't time to adjust for fire – the artillery support was planned to hit the weapons platoon position, the expectation being that the Augstbergen anti-tank weaponry would be situated there if the Jägers had any.

Meanwhile, the dismounted machineguns in cover in the treeline, opened up and swept the position with more accurate fire on the enemy platoon than would have been possible from the back of a half-track as the half-tracks raced forward on their attack.

–

Hasso's first response was, when he had a bead on that gunner atop the halftrack, was to squeeze off a round that he was sure would have hit the bastard, but he was rewarded with a slackness of the trigger, not the tension of a chambered round and a cocked bolt. Instinct said to try to pull that bolt straight back, but it didn't budge.

“Scheisse!” he snapped, as the round snapped around him with a furious hiss and he was forced to drop down for his life behind the little bit of dirt he had; the fucking safety was still on. He was berrating himself for a dead man as he pulled and twisted the ring at the back of the bolt.

That's when Amsel got it – one of the MG's caught him trying to do the same thing Aldo attempted; but the machinegunner got Amsel as he got a round off that whanged against the turret's metal shield. Aldo saw the man's head explode with pink mist from a particularly lucky shot, and the body snap back from the impact of high velocity metal on flesh; he crumpled slackly, rolling as thoughtlessly as potatoes in a bag. Gone.

Aldo couldn't really pay attention to the wider situation, or even take more than a moment to process the horror that he just witnessed, one that'd stay with him to the end of his days, but he heard the rounds come down from the mortars and had the presence of mind to yell, “INCOMING!” while he tried to tuck into his dugout better, and hope that nothing made a direct hit...

Leutnant Hans Pfeffer ordered the family into the basement of their home when the shooting started. Mortar rounds landed outside the home. One round impacted with the barn, punching a hole in the roof. A second round, white phosphorus hit the barn and set it ablaze. The platoon sergent, Sergent Guy Demille headed out to walk the line. He avoided the barn, checking first squad and then making his way toward second squad. He caught a machine gun round in his shoulder which flipped him a few times in the air and dropping him on his face ten meters behind the position where Gefreiter Hans Dietrich Amsel lost his head. Sergent Demille groaned, regained his composure and crawled toward a ditch. The bullet struck him in the shoulder. He would survive, but was taken out of action for the next five minutes.

Herr Leutnant Pfeffer attempted to reach the Company Commander. A mortar round had severed the wire to the field expedient antenna. He tried to raise Kompanie on the field phone and found that either the line had never been completed or a mortar round severed that one as well. "Where the hell is Demille?" der Leutnant whispered to himself. He picked up his helmet, placed it on his head and headed outside. From the doorway he looked at the Radio Telephone Operator, "(Gefreiter) Lachance, monitor the phone and the radio. Let me know..." Before the Leutnant had a chance to finish his sentence, an eighty-one millimeter round landed in the courtyard ten meters from the front door. The resulting blast and shrapnel ripped through Hans Pfeffer's body turning it into Swiss cheese. The Gefreiter sat at the phone paralyzed staring at the bloody corpse.

Korporal Krebs looked down his line. Everyone was engaging the enemy when they could. He spotted Sergent Demille heading their way. 'That damn fool,' Manfred figured he was going to get killed. 'There are too many small pieces of hot lead flying around this place. Get your ass down,' he wanted to yell. In that split second, he witnessed Gefreiter Amsel's head turn into a reddish pink mist and another round from undoubtedly the same machine gun strike the platoon sergeant in the shoulder and sent him flying about thirty feet behind the line.

The Korporal crawled out of the hole and yelled at Halliger and Aldo, "KEEP SHOOTING! I'M GOING TO CHECK ON SERGEANT DEMILLE!" Manny sprinted about ten meters and then slid into the dirt. He rolled to his right, jumped up and sprinted a short distance again. He repeated this process of sprinting, diving, crawling briefly and sprinting again, until he reached the ditch the Platoon sergeant was in.

"GUY! Are you all right!?" He yelled at the platoon sergeant.

Surprised, the older NCO looked up, "What in the name of flaming fuckholes are you doing here?"

"I heard you had the best schnapps in town," Bullets pinged near them, kicking up dirt. Korporal Krebs noticed the Sergent's shoulder. He tore at the man's blouse exposing the wound. He then pulled out his first aid kit and applied a gauze to the wound. He took a roll of dressing and wrapped it around his shoulder. "Hold still, you grumpy old fart! It's just a flesh wound. I think you're going to live."

"Damn it!" the 34-year old NCO exclaimed. "Here I was just starting to enjoy your company."

"Wo ist Herr Leutnant?" Manny asked his friend. [Where is the Lieutenant?]

"At the CP. He's trying to raise Kompanie. The antenna was hit and most likely the wire also." The Sergent regained his senses and yelled above the din of the occasional explosions and gun fire around them, "why don't you get back to your squad. I'll find Herr Leutnant and tell him what its like up here. He may want us to withdraw."

"Jawohl, Herr Sergent!" Manny yelled before double timing and diving back to squad. He could see the half tracks slowly closing in on their position. Holtish infantry dismounted four hundred meters from them. Machine gun fire and mortar fire were coming from the woodline. They had no radio contact to call in artillery and the Holtish force both outmanned and outgunned them. Korporal Krebs raised his submachine gun, aimed and squeezed the trigger. A three-round burst scattered into nothingness, causing no damage. 'Well that's fucking useless, Manny,' he thought to himself.

"Manny!" He heard a yell and turned to look. It was the platoon sergeant. "Manny, Leutnant Pfeffer is dead! Get out of there! Pull back! I'll get third squad! First is already displacing."

As the Platoon sergent ran off to warn third squad, Manny Krebs yelled at the soldiers of second squad. "LET'S GO! WE'RE OUT OF HERE! FALL BACK! FALL BACK!" The squad began to run back past the burning barn avoiding that area where mortar rounds were landing. They followed the other soldiers of their platoon past the farm house and barn which were both on fire. Everyone of them could see the Leutnant's bloody corpse on the ground. No one considered checking on Gefreiter Lachance who remained motionless inside the house, gripped by fear and unable to control his legs. He may have wanted to leave, but the fear of dying held him with the inability to do anything but sit there and stare at the Leutnant's bloody corpse.

Another grouping of trees or small forest about seven hundred meters beyond the farm offered some protection. The survivors made it into the woodline, before the enemy were able to swarm over the house. Whether they killed Gefreiter Lachance or took him prisoners, his platoon mates would never know. They forgot about him. Sergent Demille would berate himself for allowing Lachance to be taken like that for the rest of his life. The Holtish halftracks were able to use the farm's lane to access the primary road. Nothing would stop them now.

Hasso Aldo finally fired his rifle. Krebs' jolted him out of his stupor and into action, as automatic as on the drill field; do this, do that, barked at you constantly all day long until you were automatic in your obedience to orders.

The bolt flowed smoothly out and smoothly in, chambering a round. The weapon functioned flawlessly, as it was designed to. He raised it, but kept his head down as much as possible, behind the sights, risking as little as he had to -- the helmets the Augstbergen used were big steel affairs with the ears and necks covered, wrapped in a camouflage cover similar to that of their shelter halves, but they were good protection. Then, that didn't help Amsel. And he didn't think about any of that -- he was doing what he was told.

Pressure on the trigger, a gentle squeeze was all it took, because the Augstbergen rifles were set up for a fairly light, easily pulled trigger.

He didn't stop to see if he hit anything at all, but instead fired off a string of shots; pressure, recoil, rack, pressure, recoil, rack. Six times and he was out, but the G34 was a faster firing weapon than the Holtish K96, with its turn-bolt, and the fire was more substantial in volume on the individual level.

He didn't know the Leutnant was hit or their flank was collapsing. He hardly even knew there was shelling in the distance, except he heard the basso crash of the artillery rounds hitting off thataway. He didn't notice their surroundings been churned into mud or the greenery being destroyed all around with the accompanying cacophony of hellish fire. Another clip of ammunition inserted into the top of the rifle, the rounds pushed in, and then the bolt slammed home and the weapon fired, cocked, emptied, reloaded, fired.

Someone got wise to the muzzle flashes coming from his position, and the rounds started snapping all around the second time, which is when he held tight, looking all around and seeing the damage to the farmhouse, smelling the smoke and hearing the screams.

There was no way to measure the time that passed as he got his weapon reloaded for the how many-th time? He just knew that when Krebs called out to fall back, he was just peeking up to see the gray-green Holtish uniforms dismounting from their vehicles, apparently as close as the vehicles were getting -- one was smoking and back a distance, and he had no idea it'd been killed. But there were men there, scrambling away from the rear of their vehicle, trying to find cover away from it. Why not take cover along the vehicle? his mind asked, suddenly.

And then he saw the answer, an eruption of flame to go with the smoke and the rattling sound of hell itself as the thing's fuel tank exploded.

Krebs' voice jolted him out of his reverie.

"Go!" he yelled to whomever was next to him, he forgot, as he raised his rifle up and started to fire at one of the enemy elements firing at them, rather than looking for an easy kill off a retreating enemy. He fired at some gray-green Holtish uniform, too rushed to see if he got his mark, too worried about getting back in cover before the machineguns started again -- the return fire was a fusillade.

Someone else yelled for him; as he got down the defile from his position, rolling down the reverse slope of the berm and away from the combat. He came up in a crouch, keeping his head well below, and was reloading his rifle, even as he moved -- he had to run, covering his movement was the other man's problem.

Balalika peeked from her own DFP to get eyes back on the advancing enemy troops,no sooner then she had peeked up Amsel took a bullet to the head.His blood spraying out in a mist as he crumbled down lifeless,blood pooling up around his head and dripping into the DFP.

Balalika had no time to worry about him nor feel shaken by his sudden death,the fact he was shot meant the machine gunner that took him out had sights uncomfortably close to Balalika as well.She released a burst of shots at the machine gunner in question she counted it at around three or four shots.The MG that took out Amsel meeting the same end,one of the bullets glanced off the mans helmet side.While before he could duck to safety the other two hit him with a dull thud and a spray and splattered crimson blood backwards,on his own comrades within the half track.One bullet hit him in the nose right between the eyes,the other one hitting him through the chin and the neck severing his spine.The man slouched backwards,blood running in many streams down his face.His bloody helmet clattering off into the half track most likely frightening or at the very least startle the men inside it.

Balalika heard the whistle of mortars and the several shouts of get down and incoming,as an MG position Balalika knew she was one of the first targets besides structures and quickly gathered her LMG around her shoulder again.The very moment she got the strap loosely upon her shoulder the barn bursted into flames from a explosion retreat being sounded.Balalika took off scrambling up out of her DFP,bolting for the tree line and the cover it would provide.As she looked back she saw a mortar hit not even three feet from her previous location,blasting Amsels body further brutalizing it.The dirt and muck of the ground flew upwards,mixed with blood and other gore.

Balalika jumped over a root and slid back behind a thick tree she lifted her LMG and swung the barrel around to face the advancing enemy swarming over the current line now the infantry was exposed and Balalika could put her gun to real use.She sat the barrel on a thick root stemming from the tree she was beside bullets hitting around her person and the trees whizzing past her head.She squeezed the trigger and put her gun to work the bullets leaving her muzzle with bright flashes, and devastating effects on those hit.Which was basically a wide sweep across the entirety of her line of sight, to help cover her allies retreat into the tree line.Balalika dropped the clip and reloaded quickly,keeping up her fire on the enemy hoping to keep them pinned down and drive them back from their advance.She was gripped by a mixture of both fright and adrenaline completely in the moment,her palms sweating she was frightened.But at the same time she was willing to lay her life down for anyone of her allies lives,her fight or flight kicked in and she was resolved towards fighting or dying trying.

Her rapid fire of course attracted high amounts of fire towards her in response,she cursed loudly to herself and kept firing at the positions and anyone who was bold enough to try to get in the open and move.While she was firing and taking fire a bullet raked across her shoulder and down through her boot heel,just missing her leaving a thin red line where it had scraped past her in the close call.She wouldn't notice it to busy on her own firing,and her heart pounding in her chest the fear and adrenaline causing this effect.

The snapping crackle of a swath of bullets flicking past overhead drove his cheek down to the cold, wet receiver of the anti-tank rifle. His heart lurching in his chest as black, ice talons tried to snatch his heart and leave him paralyzed in fear. It took effort. A force of will he wasn't sure he had, to blink, and focus. He had practiced this. Slow things down. Round is chambered. Safety is off. Acquire a target. Each step slowed his heart rate, each step helping him focus, push aside fear and terror, and do what needed to be done. The enemy had half-tracks, and he was the only one in immediate position to slow them down, to stop them.

The nose of one of the machines lined up with the front post of the rifle's sight, it was between six and five hundred yards. He exhaled his breath and squeezed the trigger. The rapid fire of the machine guns, the piercing crackle of rifles, and the staccato of the sub-machineguns died in the drowning roar of the G1939. The blast deflected by the muzzle brake rippled perpendicular to his position through the grass, as Halliger was shoved in the shoulder by a force few would ever experience. He reset, and fired again, driving another hardened steel projectile down range, through a second hole in the half track's radiator, punching through the cylinder bores and snapping connecting rods like twigs, before the steel projectile shoved its way through the firewall of the vehicle, scattering steel and cast iron shards before the projectile made itself home the spare ammunition storage.

The world was mute, except for the high pitched squealing hiss in his ears as acquired the lead half track. He could feel the snapping of rounds flashing past him like angry hornets, clods of dirt were being chewed up in front of him as machineguns and rifles refocused their aim on the cannon's report. One more squeeze of the trigger sent a round on its way as he ducked out of the hair of fire that threatened to find him. He pulled the G1939 back with him, out of harms way for the moment. He could see flashes of white down, and then the deep thumping rumbling of something very loud occurring. As wet black soil stopped spraying onto him, sound started to come back, and the first words he heard, "---LL BACK! FALL BACK!" muted and hardly intelligible if it weren't for the pattern to the command. He looked for the carrying straps to load a pair of ten round magazines for the anti-tank rifle, "Scheisse!" He had forgotten the carrying pouch, either of them. Rather than dwell, he ripped the magazine out of the rifle, and rocked in a second fresh magazine. That, with the already chambered cartridge, would give him eleven to work with. Crudely swinging the G34 over his right shoulder by its strap, waited for a moment, before gathering himself and the ATR, and leaving the death pit. Three magazines forced to be left behind as he ran, rushing past the barn which now belted out heat like a furnace.

Legs like pistons, driving him forwards to the treeline, and past Balalika as he slid down the embankment, away from the bullets that sought to destroy them, he then scrambled back to the ridge, shoving the barrel of the 1939 through the base of a bush as he flopped down behind it himself. He saw a half track, about to be concealed by the inferno that was a barn. The rifle barrel swung about, he held over for range, and then fired, another thunderous pair. Hoping to slow them down with one more damaged or destroyed vehicle. The first shot he saw punching through the upper sheetmetal of the body, the second he fired through the barn itself, knowing that the burning wood would provide no protection from his gun, but the effects could not be observed. Rudolph recoiled from the slope, pulling himself, and the rifle back to his arms, to continue the retreat.

There was a moment of respite back from the fighting position that was being overrun -- the Holtish apparently, once they overran the position, were going to consolidate, but for the Augstbergen, there was the running, trying to find a place of cover, a place to lay up.

Luck was with them in that the countryside was a series of ridges and hills with forest, between which were meadows or farmland; they fell back from one such place where the Holtish were overrunning, and Hasso had no idea how long they'd run, only that they were falling back in a rush, losing their cohesion and organization. Hasso was just a private, and the rest of the squad weren't much more than privates-- they couldn't know the political considerations that came with stringing the defensive line out like that, the fumbles of an inexperienced wartime command of a militia army whose officers included local mayors and other people who were probably not suited to actual command.

He caught his breath in the next woodline, though he took it upon himself to get into what cover he could find and keep an eye on the direction of the enemy. He couldn't imagine them stopping for too long, possibly galvanized by the successes of the first push. There were survivors here of the second platoon, and he could see that they were missing a number of familiar faces. That was someone else's problem. He checked his ammunition in the pouches, gave himself a mental accounting of what was used up -- and was shocked to see how much he'd fired off in the furor, and checked his grenades, which he hadn't used -- last time, that was. Now he remembered them.

He wasn't entirely sure of precisely how much time had passed, much less what was happening in response to the Holtish attack, so he was taken by surprise by the sound of engines. He noticed the rumble of the engines, but the direction of the sound had him utterly confused.

Adplf collapsed, his legs burning his lungs heaving as he gasped for air. When he saw the line brake he knew it was lost so he ran with the other huffing and puffing away form the Holtish not daring to look back. When he realized the bullets had stopped wizzing he finaly glanced over his shoulder. Relief poured over him when he saw nothing but fellow Augstbergen.

Today had been his first day of combat since he volunteered, that was two weeks ago. He had never imagined combat to be such a horrendous everthing from the sounds and smells. In his mind combat was to be a glorious and honorable thing where you fight for what you believe in. Now he knows how disgusting it really is, images of blood, gore, and corpses flashing through his mind.

Now he lie in the underbrush in a woodline with a few of his compatriots scatterd about him. He reloaded his K31 and took a swig from his cantine. Then after a moment of rest he crawled into a position behing a large oak tree resting his rifle among its roots. He focused his attention on the way he had come from, the way his enemies would be coming from, he lie there waiting..

Elisa struggled not to panic. In the brief pause from running, she managed to care for those who she could see were hurt around her before the trepidation set in. First was a soldier she ran with, some younger kid from the infantry who was shot in the back of the thigh as they sprinted through the bush. He fell a few feet in front of her, and she stumbled forward to grab and yank him up, not knowing for sure how seriously he was injured.
"Get UP!!" She roared into his ear as the bullets whizzed by.
"Get UP! You need to run, you're fine just fine just run!" She screamed this time, propping his left side on her right and moving forward. There was no way in hell she could run while carrying, or even supporting most of a grown man, but she figured that maybe she could take at least some of the weight off of his left leg, allowing him to run or hop ahead.

Screams echoed all around as they hobbled ahead, him groaning and hyperventilating, and her cursing his stupid leg. She saw others get shot, blown yards away, blood and flesh flying all around, and she couldn't think of how to help them quickly enough. Grimly, she realized that she wasn't the only one who understood the severity of their situation. She could tell that those who didn't instantly get back up and fight through the pain were either dead or impossible to run with. She wanted to scream at the others to help them, they were men-- yell at the burlier ones to pick up and carry the scrawny, child-like injured, but she knew that it was a fantasy. No one would risk their life and drag a most-likely-dead weight. Not to mention that you would have to be a professional weight lifter and sprinter to run with the full 100kg of another man in your arms, the kind of running required to come out alive.

When they finally reached what seemed like a place they could pause, just for a moment, she wasn't relieved but instead terrified. She pushed the guy she helped run, the one who almost cost her her life as they fell behind the others, into the ground where the rest of the unit lay and slapped his hands away when they shakily tried to grab at his ripped-up leg.
"Stop moving, stop it!" She ordered, before taking a quick look around her. She couldn't tell who and who wasn't missing, but as if to answer her prayers, she saw that there were many still okay. The casualties, she figured, couldn't be in double digits. Finally she calmed slightly, and after quickly scanning the others to see if anyone was in a worse state, she looked down at the pale and hysteric man next to her. He stammered something and tried to look around, but she pushed him flat on his back.
"Shh, stop, you're going to be okay. Don't worry, it'll be ok, you don't seem to have burst an artery and-" She stopped upon seeing that her quick, thinking-out-loud diagnosis wasn't making him feel better at all. Instead she looked at it herself, making mental notes.

Bullet injury to the posterior thigh. No signs of artery damage or excessive bleeding. Exit not visible, bullet possibly embedded in the deep tissue or mass. She unstrapped and unzipped her medic pack and peered inside, digging among the vials of precious, clear liquids. Finally, finding what she needed, she took out a syringe and filled up 30ml of the 2mg/ml solution.
"I-Is that morphine?" He stammered, finally calming down upon seeing what was probably going to ease his pain and panic.
Elisa nodded, knowing that it would make him feel better to think so. Instead, she preserved what she knew to be crucial and injected him with the weaker, less dangerous Tramadol. It would not only ease his pain while saving her short supply, but also allow him to remain clear headed and awake if they had to run once more.

Glancing over the bush, as if peering into the mouth of a giant and terrifying monster, she crawled on her knees to asses another injury, hurrying to do what she could before they had to get up and keep going.

Sergeant Demille did a quick headcount of the survivors. Nineteen men made it back to the rally point plus the medic; twenty people. They instinctively formed a linear defense along the woodline sighting in on the direction they just ran from. The remnants of what should have been a 57-man platoon that could only muster 34 on the first day of a war, hugged the ground waiting to see what would happen next.

Korporal Krebs tried fiercely to calm himself down. He checked on his squad, six survived first contact. They were now combat veterans. Hopefully things would be easier. He noticed none of the heavier machine guns, the MG04's made it back. Their gun crews considered dead or newly made guests of the Holtish military machine. At least they still had the MG24s and the ATR.

Thinking of their invaders, Manfred looked across at what they were doing. He counted four halftracks with dismounts forming a loose herringbone formation, focusing their attention outward. The sounds of engines humming in the distance could be heard behind them as well as in front. The dull, distant thump of artillery also made an impression on his ears. That tell-tale whistle of 105mm projectiles fired from a battery of Augstbergen M34 Kanons screamed toward the farmhouse. Recognizing the sound as soon as he heard it and realizing how close they were to the enemy, Korporal Krebs yelled! "Incoming!" hoping everyone would attempt to make themselves one with the ground. Manfred tried to crawl into a depression praying that the men on the guns were good with their aim.

The impact was short. The first round landing about a hundred meters from where the second platoon gathered. Five more rounds impacted on line with the first, sending plumes of dirt and gray smoke flying about thirty or forty feet into the air. The rumble of artillery landing so close to the Jager Infantry sent shock waves like earthquakes rumbling through the ground. The heat from the blasts sending wave after wave of concussive hot air into their position. Six seconds later, another volley fell about a hundred meters closer to the farmhouse. 'Great, they are walking the rounds into them,' Manfred thought to himself. 'But who is adjusting rounds?' The only thing Manfred could gather was either there was a Forward Observer nearby watching or their very own Company Commander was not far away. Slowly the barrage of artillery walked into the farmhouse until 105mm rounds impacted upon the Holtish unit. The rounds stopped falling after roughly ninety seconds of explosions.

Shortly after the cessation of artillery, the survivors of 2nd platoon witnessed the arrival of Augstbergen Panzers. Ten lightly armored vehicles moved up from the rear belching 37mm high explosive anti tank (HEAT) rounds and 7.92mm machine gun rounds at the Holtish infantry. 'This is the counter attack,' Sergent Demille thought to himself and then looked at his platoon. "Get ready to fall in behind these tanks. As they attack into the Holtish infantry, we will follow and support them. If you are too badly injured to go on the attack, stay here in the tree line with the medic!"

As the Panzers advanced, Sergeant Demille and Korporal Krebs stood to join them. They trotted forward about a hundred meters behind the tanks; expecting the rest of the platoon to follow. Manfred did not know what type of tanks these were. He'd seen them in an armor recognition card once, but forgotten about that years ago. He looked to his left and saw two more platoons of infantry, the rest of the company emerge from the trees. There could have been about seventy or eighty men trotting forward behind the tanks, up the hill towards where the Holtish halftracks had stopped.

His lungs were burning as he slid to the ground alongside the remnants of the squad. The 1939 went to the ground as he followed behind it, grunting as a dull pain raced up through his left hip. A brief moment of digging with his finger tips, and he dug out the offending rock. Halliger's broad chest heaved, sucking air the clean air into his lungs, his mouth was dry like paper. He fumbled for his canteen, yanking the cork out with a slick popping noise, he slugged a bolt of water down, and then, with an effort of will, replaced the cork into the aluminum vessel, twisting it down and in tight. When and where he could refill was a question that had no answer. If the Holtish were this far forward, and pushing the defense line back, the secondary lines would be in a furious retreat themselves.

His hearing, still muted from the roar of the rifle he carried, missed the sound of the incoming artillery, his first notice of it was the muffled roar of Krebs, Rudolph obeyed the order without needing to look around. He buried his face against the stock of the massive rifle, covering his face with his left arm, and the back of his neck with his right. He felt flicker of warmth as the heat and light escaped from the shells, the trembling vibration beneath him that gave him a new-found respect for the power of the artillery, and the thunderous explosions that made even his portable cannon, seem a bit small in comparison. Mid way through the barrage, he dared to peek under his left hand, watching the rain of explosive shells falling, walking destruction to where the Holtish had paused to regroup.

When the shelling finished, the world seemed to descend into a calm as such he had never experienced. Perhaps it was just quiet by comparison to the fireworks just seconds ago, but to Halliger, it felt like the world itself just gave a silent sigh of relief that the explosions had ceased. The moment was quickly washed away with the arrival of the Panzers, both felt and heard. The rumble or snarl of the engines, the vibration of each nearly-ten ton tank rolling forward, the bark of their machine guns when they opened fire with the thunder of their cannons, tanks changed the battlefield dynamic rapidly. He looked over, and recognized their type, and then looked to Demille and Krebs, seeing and hearing their actions, he engaged his weary muscles. Pushing himself from the ground, he paused to hoist the massive rifle once more, cradling it in his arms as he joined the rest, running forwards behind the line of tanks. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he was going to hurt tomorrow.

Aldo picked up a grenade launcher off a wounded young soldier, along with his ammunition; the adapter, which was like a cup at the end of the rifle, the special magazines of blanks, and the hand grenades, converted over to the purpose of firing. It was a cumbersome, "Pull the pin" type arrangement that kept the grenade in the cup with the spoon in place, which was a very important safety feature, but at least it was field functional. He knew the weapon, it wasn't well-thought of in most cases, but Aldo understood the maxim of 'any port in a storm.' Seeing the survivors of the attack that were wounded, young men and some women mangled, some crying piteously and some bleeding out in silence and seeming (but illusory) dignity was a shock to the system. He'd talked gently to the young man, assured him he was going to make it and got ahold of the boy's equipment, while hating himself for the expediency of that compassionate act, the coldness of it. And yet, the boy no longer needed the grenade launcher -- a leg was gone, and Aldo did.

It was, regrettably, without a sight -- it was a hastily designed thing put into service a couple decades ago but never replaced with a better version due to the typical budgetary issues that sometimes plagued the PAF -- the unwillingness to change too quickly and render equipment obsolete to the point where it needed replacing. The militia would have to be retrofitted, and that tended to retard certain developments.

Aldo wasn't about to complain too much -- it was more firepower. When Krebs gave the moveout order, he watched as the artillery barrage started to land, shooting up plumes of flame, smoke, debris, splinters...belching it into the air and bringing it back down with a fury. He could smell the explosives in the air, even over the diesel fumes of the tank he was moving up behind, with a pouch of rifle grenades held in a scrounged gas mask pouch, with the mask itself chucked as unwanted weight, where he could quickly get to them, read to be inserted into the cup launcher on his rifle. He'd quickly decided that counterattacks were no time to hump extra weight and had quickly divested himself of everything but the weapons, the webbing, the ammo and a single canteen-- the water he'd not drunk when he made the retreat. His medical kit was given to a field medic who insisted upon it, citing supply problems -- already? -- and he surrendered it with a perhaps naive faith that he might not need it or that someone else would surrender theirs for him. Or perhaps he couldn't leave it on his conscience. There wasn't precisely time to auto-psychoanalyze.

It was also a bad time to imagine what the artillery barrages were doing to mere flesh and bone if they were grinding up the countryside like that -- from meadow to mudsink in a matter of seconds, the terrain went from rolling, verdant hills that the sheep grazed upon to a churned up, shell-pocked hellscape of monotony and broken trees.

He was dirty, feeling gritty and caked with a film of sweat under the wool of his uniform. It was cool air, but he was sweating like a pig already and hating the feeling, from the back of his neck, his underarms all the way down to the crack of his ass. He did learn one thing about tanks -- the fumes made him light headed. He had a gas mask, but there was no way to see well with one on, and Aldo very badly wanted to see the enemy before the enemy saw him. He'd drilled in gas masks before, knowing that they impeded breathing and made fatigue worse as he felt the mud come up on his boots with every step, slowing the advance of the infantry and, surprisingly, the armor as well. Aldo had driven cars and motorcycles in such conditions, but was surprised by how much a tank lost in the process -- the weight made it worse.

But the fumes were getting to him, and the gas mask was unacceptable, though it rested in a pouch like the one where he had his grenades, so he tied a towel around his face, after a moment of digging through his web belt's gear. Now his eyes were tearing up, but at least he had something to cover his nose and mouth with as he made the advance -- he'd done what he could for comfort, even though the cynical part of him informed him that comfort, as he trudged through the churning mud to a likely violent end, should be the least of his concerns.

And he didn't consider what the rest of the army might be doing, or what was going on even a hundred meters beyond where they were -- there was this field, that ridge, the farmhouse and the Holtish. There was no time beyond the attack, not anymore, just the focus on the one way, acceptable way, anyway, out of this attack. He'd have to fight through.

When Krebs glanced back to check on them, and the glance lingered on Aldo quizzically, Aldo hoisted the grenade launcher equipped G34 and patted his converted ammo pouch, since his expression was masked and there was no real way to shout over the diesel of the tanks -- the damned things were loud. He hoped that got the message across -- he'd scrounged up some firepower. He hoped it might make a difference in the odds.