The frontier was quiet but for a light breeze flitting through the tallgrass. All along the border between Newfoundland and Facist Montreal[sup][1][/sup], a massive trench was dug and tanktraps were lain; the majority of the Army was posted to the so called 'Great Ditch', in a response to Quebec's aggression towards the other Canadian states. 

Brigadier General Vern Michelson squinted at the horizon, the front had been calm ever since it was established, no Franco-Montrealan troops had been spotted anywhere close and long distant scouting had come up with the same conclusion, it seemed as if The Republic of Ontario had slowed them down and more forces were diverted to fight near Toronto and Otowa. Michelson took one last drag of his cigarette before flicking the butt into the trench, he stood on top of an earthen platform one of many dotted along the spine of the trench used as artillery positions; bringing the radio's mouthpiece to his lips, he spoke in a deep voice. 

"Craig, are you there?" he mumbled through. Craig Patton, a distant relative of George Patton, was his military equal and friendly rival since they started military service; he too was a Brigadier General, the only other apart from Michelson himself[sup][2][/sup]. He heard a groan from the other end.

"What do you want you annoying bastard?" replied his life long friend, stopping to yawn.

"To hear you call me something else," retorted Michelson warm-heartedly before continuing, "How's the line holding on your end?" he said, picking up a pair of binoculars and scanning the horizon with them. It was quiet, that unnerved Michelson.

"It's all F***ing clear." he replied, bedsprings creaking audibly as he sat up on his cot.

"Thanks for not calling me a-"

"You annoying bastard." 

"Well, so much for that," Vern sighed and gave the horizon one last look over before putting down the binoculars and rubbing his wrinkled forehead; he was expecting an Ontarian Regimant to arrive some time soon but they had long missed their scheduled resupply stop, he was worried, "Say, have you gotten word from the-" as he spoke he saw a little figure come over the horizon.

Michelson brought his binoculars back to his eyes and saw that it was a single Ontarian soldier, the blue fatigues making him easy to decern as such. His face was blackened with dirt and he sprinted full pelt down the field, yelling something incomprehensible from that distance. 

"What th-" a flood of soldiers crested the horizon, much more then a regiment as more poured forth from behind them, the yelling was much more audible now. As the tide of panicked men approached, from behind them the sound of numerous tank tracks squealed, Michelson barked down the mouth piece. "Craig, get your men ready, those Frenchy Bastards are here!" he switched to the artillery channel, "Ready for a fight gentlemen and fire at will." behind him they were loading artillery. As the first Ontarian troops made it to the trench and began leaping across, the tanks rolled into view and began firing on the bulk that had yet to get close; high explosive shells rained down in response from friendly guns. More tanks swarmed over the horizon. Firing intensified as the French tanks fired on the trench instead, it seemed that an endless amount of tanks were surging towards them. 

Michelson plucked one of the Ontarian troops out of the retreating flood, grappling him over by his collar, "what the f*** is going on?!" he barked at the boy's face.

"Toronto," he panted, tears streaming down his face, "It's fallen. They're heading for Otowa now." now he burst into sobs and Michelson let him go with a grimace on his face, looking up he saw a distant tank sighting him. For a moment the world slowed down, a flower of light bursting out of the barrel of the French tank sending a shell directly at him, Michelson closed his eyes and was knocked down.

His ears rang and his nose bled, and when he opened his eyes all he could see was shadows, was he aliv-. He vomited. Out came the coppery tang of blood and suddenly he felt alright. Sitting up, Michelson looked around and saw all his troops on the floor, clutching their guts and groaning with blood dripping out of their noses. They were all alive but where were the tanks? He scanned the horizon, all there was were helmets, dogtags and tank tracks strewn on a field where there were tanks and fleeing troops. He staggered to his feet and propped himself up on the table with the radio, he was very much alive, he wouldn't be in this much pain if he weren't[sup][3][/sup]. Picking up the receiver he wiped his bloody nose with the sleeve of his trenchcoat.

"Send a message to Otowa." 

[@mrambo90] [pre]From: The Soverign Dominion of Newfoundland, Northern Front
To: Otowa, Republic of Ontario (Canada)

Otowa. We have received word that Franco-Montrealan forces are    inbound. Please reply status and status of Toronto. 

[/pre]


1. Facist Montreal (Pre-Cut'n'Paste) one of the Canadian Free States, a Franco-Nazi puppet used to open a front in North America.

2. There are only to Brigadier Generals because the standing army consists of only two brigades, any additional brigades raised through drafting are added to the pre-existing brigade and the chain of command is altered.

3. Due to being very close to the edge of the "Cut'n'Paste", they suffered severe physical damage but because of time dilation  they exist with the aftermath (bleeding, ringing ears, scars) but not the actual damage. So if someone had internal hemraging, they would lose the hemrage but still vomit blood.