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.