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. 

[i]Jägers...[/i]

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

--

[b]“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?”[/b]

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.

[b]“Scheisse!”[/b] 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, [b]“INCOMING!”[/b] while he tried to tuck into his dugout better, and hope that nothing made a direct hit...