“Wilkommen in Belgium!” The commissar let out a half laugh, before turning to the men of the 38th Armoured Infantry. “As soon as we cross this border,” he kicked dirt and grit over a line he had drawn in the mud. It likely wasn’t a proper border, but it was as good as they were going to get. “We shove a stick so far up Britain’s asshole that they won’t remove it for a thousand years! So, let’s get shoving!” He stepped over the line quickly, luger in hand, and indicated for the rest of the group to march forward and past the border.
Unlike the rest of the squad, the commissar wore nothing but his black battle dress uniform. In comparison, the soldiers behind him wore huge MIA suits. - Mechanisierte Infanterie Anzug. These contraptions were lumbering things, with thick plates of darkened metal protecting the wearer from damage. On a soldier’s back was mounted various ways of fuelling the weapons of war they carried. Some had the crackling of a tesla pack, the lightning crackling between the two, powering the immense shock guns they carried. Others, huge fuel canisters, flamethrowers hissing with each step they took. Still others held toxic smoke, bullets for a Gatling gun, and far more. Each face was hidden behind a gas mask, the tempered glass giving them an inhuman appearance as they stormed over.
Behind them, more soldiers stepped, some armoured, some with just the grey uniforms and stalhelms of the regular Wehrmacht, or mounted on attack motorbikes or kubelwagens. Planes roared overhead, the howl of jet engines as they eagerly searched for their first prey, vicious, painted teeth bared as they crossed the border.
The steady stomping of mechs set a pace for the rest of the army- the towering metal constructions a good fifteen feet tall at the absolute smallest, most twenty-five or more, artillery pieces strapped to their ‘arms,’ if you could call their sides were weapons hung arms. The German Army marched to war.
News of the attack on Belgium moved fast. The French Army had mobilised before the first German soldier had crossed the Ardennes, they were not going to make the same mistake as they had last war. Army songs, practically hymns, were shouted out as the soldiers carved their way into the dirt, preparing foxholes, or entering pillboxes set up for this exact purpose, machine guns and anti-tank rifles being set up.
A squad of snipers, dark green cloaks and muddied faces entered the forest and split up, clambering swiftly up trees or entering ditches, where they seemed to blend in perfectly with their surroundings. Radios hissed, before going silent as they confirmed positions, before staying still, entering a meditative stance to prepare themselves for the killings.
The 305th Parisian Regiment was, however, simply another one of the groups that had come for the preparations. Their dark blue uniforms were stained with patches of sweat- the beating sun making the hard work they were doing harder. Finally, when the whistle for break sounded, they discarded their tools for now and sat back against trees, or headed to one of the few mess tents to see if some soup or coffee couldn’t be found.
Whilst coffee was in abundance, soup was not, saw Priest Jacques. He was in charge of the mental wellbeing of the 27 men that made up the 305 Parisians, and he knew that in times like this, they would all be in good spirits. The hated foe was coming and they were prepared, a few even firing off shots into the air. It was not now that he had to be worried. No, it was after half a year or more of bloody fighting that the men would find wearing down, even zealots like the Parisians. Combined with high command seemingly wanting to drag warfare back to 1915, brutal muddy trench warfare in which the French fighting spirit had been found once more, their lost Napoleonic fervour returning to them… He couldn’t guarantee that they would find that once more.
High above, black specks could be seen, and men initially dived for cover, before realising foolishly that the sound of aircraft engines was nowhere to be heard. Eagle Squads soared above, their pilots bundled up, oxygen tanks strapped to their faces and goggles tightly fitted against their faces. “Alpha Dog, spotting French preparations, but no sign of the krauts.”
“Roger Skylark, we’ll be continuing this mission for another ten minutes, but it looks like the French have it well in hand. We’ll be returning to airbase before you know it, don’t you worry.”
“I’m not worried about attack, I’m worried my balls might freeze off. How the fuck is it so sunny and yet so goddamn cold?”
“Ask the Germans airmen that. I’m sure those pseudoscientific idiots could tell you some believable bullshit.”
That, was, of course, not the main British force. No, that would be back in England, soldiers lining up on the Dover shores to enter one of the great living submarines that would take them in safety to their destination of Calais. Each one of the huge creatures made by taking the humble blue whale and altering it beyond recognition, were vaguely related to the zeppelins that were silently hovering above, but whilst those constructs were reserved for the soldiers that couldn’t or would not go underwater- like the minotaur drivers, the Norwich Riders- more formally known as the Anglian Mounted 15th, stood gently calming their mounts down, preparing to enter the creature.
The mounts were some of the first ever melded creatures- used back in the American Revolution to crush the small population of revolutionaries. These were what had put George Washington’s mauled head on a pike and placed it on the walls of New York until it rotted to pieces. They looked a cross between a wolf and a wildcat, but they were the size of bears, and much more loyal than any of the creatures that had been combined to make it. Soldiers murmured reassuringly and scratched behind ears as they led them into the belly of the beast, where stables had been set up- no, grown out of the bone and muscle of the creature.
“Next stop- Jackbooted Killing Time!”
The screams of battle and fleeing civilians echoed throughout the village. Demons and soldiers ran rampant, thatched roofes burning to the ground as torches and lighters were thrown to fan the flames. Most of the soldiers in front were armed not with rifles or armour, but with nothing more than cloth and swords. Whenever they died, demons sprang forth to wreak more havoc, tearing with unbridled savagery at their foes.
This, was how the war started. In fire and blood, each side eager to test their new machinations against the other.
Welcome to Weirdest World War! In this, we take control of a single soldier from one of the factions, and by extension, one of the squads provided. This means that we’ll all have a British rider, a German armoured infantry troop, a Japanese yokai warrior and a man of the Paraisian 305. The story will rotate around these soldiers as they clash in Europe and, later on, the British clash with the Japanese on the Pacific front.
This is supposed to be slightly barmy. Almost every soldier is insane to one point or another due to the superscience shenanigans- the Germans use fuel sources with side effects they don’t understand, the French are religious and political fanatics, the average British soldier has had gene modifications, and the Japanese are literally bound to demons.
@GreenGoat @Penguinimus @Vashonn @Deadnaut @Andreyich @OppositionJ @BCTheEntity @Er0r @Commodore @Bazmund
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