[b][center][u]Marching Orders[/u][/center][/b]

[i][center]Five Miles West of Scherwin[/center][/i]

Eckhardt Greiter was unnerved by the situation, to say the least. The entire regiment had suddenly been ordered to mobilize at 0800 that morning, and five hours later, the first of the men had started to disembark from the massive column of ural-4320s that had driven all the way from Potsdam. Thousands of East Germans, all in their muddy green combat fatigues and kitted for war, were amassing in their droves. This was highly unconventional, and what troubled the young Feldwebel more than the apparent haste his regiment had been obliged with, was the fact he had received so little information about what was happening. Even his immediate superiors seemed clueless when he chanced the all important question of "Why are we here?" 

There had been no scheduled drills, or exercises, which whilst not uncommon under the leadership of his Soviet masters, was made all the more strange by the apparent presence of what he guessed to be the entire northern army. The air was thick with Mi's of all varieties, and they buzzed violently across the sky; some descending to deliver officers and equipment, others emerging with their weapon systems fully stocked and operational. As he shielded his eyes from an unusually high Winter's sun, he spotted a squadron of Migs rocketing their way towards West Germany. 

Was this another posturing? He had heard rumours that NATO had been particularity bold in recent months, and there was talk of foreign jets piercing Soviet airspace and then withdrawing rapidly as if they were testing for weaknesses. Maybe the boys up top had decided that enough was enough, and that the capitalist swines needed showing that the East was a giant best left asleep. 

Leutnant Meirs Kezwig, Eckhardt's platoon commander, appeared from the chaos of men and munitions and marched over to him. It seemed that answers were about to be given.

"Greiter, what kind of circus do you think we're running here?" barked Meirs; his face twisted in blazing anger.

"Sir?" 

"Where's the men? Where the FUCK is my platoon?" Meirs screamed. Vissible spittle blasted from the man's mouth, and splashed over Eckhardt. 

"Disembarking, sir," replied Eckhardt, attempting to keep his calm. 

"We should have headed out fifteen minutes ago. This wont do, this won't fucking do!" 

"I will go and help get the me-" 

"No, Greiter, you're not helping anyone. I hold you responsible for this delay," said Meirs, his lips trembling and his red face a fitting tribute to the national colours of his overlords. 

"No excuse sir," replied Eckhardt. Well, he had several excuses, the main one being that he was just a Feldwebel - and one of many. Why was it down to him to single-handedly manage the troop train? 

Meirs waved a hand at him in irritation. "Who do we have?" 

Eckhardt turned and pointed to the nine soldiers of his assigned rifle squad, that had travelled with him from Potsdam after a messy unit assignment. He knew none of them, and was fairly sure he had ended up with soldiers from another platoon - or regiment. 

"That will do. Get yourself some wheels, and roll out," said Meirs, somehow calm and collected despite his drama moments earlier.

Eckhardt snapped up a salute. "Yes sir. Where am I going, sir?"

Meirs lost his momentary calm, and reverted back to the primal beast of a man that he was. Short, fat and untidy, Meirs was the very thing the West repeatedly mocked the GDR's army for. He was no soldier. No. Just a favoured Party Member with a bit of political sway. He was obviously panicking, which was why he had singled out Eckhardt as a target for his illogical fury. He yelled words that Eckhardt could not understand, and stomped his feet like a child. After a few moments of this tantroum, he pointed across the muster field. 

Rows upon rows of SPz BMP-2s - an apparent upgrade to the BMP-1s the young Feldwebel was used to working with - were parked and motionless. Beyond them, two dozen of T-72s were firing up their enginies, emitting a huge ugly smog of choking diesel into the cloudless sky. 

"Follow them," Meirs said, sneering.

"Just follow them, sir?" 

"Did I fucking stutter Feldwebel?" 

"No sir, no you di-" 

"Shut the fuck up. When this is done, I'll see to it that you're assigned toilet hygiene duties for the rest of your fucking natural life," screamed Meirs, poking a stubby finger into the Feldwebel's chest. 

"Our objective, sir?" 

"Just follow the fucking convoy, you'll get your sitrep enroute. Now go, fucking go! Let me sort out this rabble," said Meirs, turning to walk away before Eckhardt could chance his luck further with more questions. 

With a heavy sigh, the Feldwebel turned to his squad, and nodded. "You heard the Leutnant, gear up and let's go."

The men hesitated at first; some because they hadn't finished snickering at Eckhardt's treatment by the platoon commander, and some because they were genuinely scared by what was happening. He paid them no heed either way, and quickly shooed them all towards the nearest SPz BMP-2 with threats of punishment. As he entered the vehicle, he cast one glance behind him to take in the scene of an entire army preparing for war, and shuddered.