Hidden 7 yrs ago Post by Jeep Wrangler
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'No Country of Mine'

November 15th
Year 142
Fifth Era



Valo was a land of climates that varied more than the governments of each nation; where a man could only trust in his own climate in order to survive, it was difficult for those to adapt and shift into new territories. For the Wrea Federation, it was something they had been preparing for the entire Fifth Era, seemingly. Ever since the Year 004, so-called spies were sent all over to each nation, studying and living there for whatever reasons. Originally, the people of countries such as Avea, Hollai and Buo, all lived in relatively different environments. Some contained mountains, others marshlands and plains. The countries that stood between the 'Triple Powers of the West' and the 'Behemoth of the East' showed names like Juva, Nokai and Loiat, with many more on the side. They all had their own climates, and these climates played a huge role in their own natural defences that kept them sustainable for the years to come.

By the Year 105, the first Aircraft was built. It was the Wrea Federation who were quick to claim it, under the pilot's name of Julian Schmitten, one of the 'Directors' chief engineers. At first, it was a sign of national and global progress, spreading its word throughout Valo and to the other continents, such as Hua and Esvin. However, it was Avea that was quick to take notice of their capabilities. The Wrea Federation had a past of being ruthless to the other continents during their Imperial ages, so what could it mean to have them turn on a much more local opponent. It was first predicted when a Federation plane took pictures from above Avea's Capital in the year 132. The Fifth era was beginning to claim its historical key-point in time.

By the time the was was declared in the Year 140, everything plummeted. The Gersa Coalition was created, becoming a key-opponent to the Wrea Federation. Countries inbetween had already fallen by the time the Coalition was made, and they hadn't the resistance to defeat the Wrea Forces. Somehow, they could defy the laws of territory and march on, with machines as destructive as any other. The Coalition was already ready by the time they reached their borders, at least in the terms of equipment, and soon stories of valiant victories and agonising defeats spread like wildfire amongst the war-effort factories of the Gersan Homelands.

But there was the Year of 141, late December. The Gersan Forces made a large-scale attempt to drive their foes from their bases and towns in a wave of fire, and were able to gain half of Buo back, which had lost the most ground. Yet, it wasn't enough. It only proved itself in creating an unstable stalemate. Where no one pushed forward, and no one retreated. They dug into towns, setting up checkpoints, artillery bases. The Gersan Troops landed mobile aircraft carriers, turning them into ground and sky bases. The countryside had almost been destroyed. Whereas the Wrea Federation were the masters of the conventional field-warfare, the urban conflict reined supreme to the Coalition. The stalemate was what created one of the most decisive strategies in the entirety of the `Triple Nation's` existence. The 65th Spearhead Division.

They had been training for a few months, mostly made up of those dragged from factories and some that had been dragged from the reserves. Many weren't soldiers, but they were all the desperate generals could spare without losing the defences on the frontlines. It was a risky move, but they were beyond the point of turning back.

What had laid for the 65th in the present time was a difficult situation. Everyone had been practically strapped to a naval vessel and travelling for a few days. They had to land on the coastal lines of the Wrea Federation fatherland. As difficult as it seemed for such a strange military division, they had succeeded in capturing the beachhead. Well, it at least took the support of the Navy and Sky Navy. They arrived in waves, the first wave being the only one to take resistance during their landing. The second wave held some of the most important figures in the entire Spearhead Operation, 7th Platoon...

Well, nearly all of them. Sergeant Svaska, the Platoon Leader underneath the command of 1st Lieutenant Smithens, was barking away at those within their large landing craft. Prisoners, factory workers, nurses, teachers, mothers, fathers...All of them were receiving his briefing. They had heard most of it already, but some of the information was new, at least new to those on-board.

"Ladies and Gentlemen...Glad you could join me in this bucket of shit, where you lot fill up its contents. Welcome to Revea, the Northern Coast of the Feds' territory. You lot better be taking a sigh of relief, as you have missed the worst that we are going to encounter. Before the beach was bombarded by the Nachita-Class Behemoth we have available, our first wave were cut down from 100% to about 14%, including one of our own platoons who weren't designated for the coastal assault. At least you get some breathing room." Svaska was an elder man, older than almost everyone on the transportation vessel. He didn't expect any replies to anything he said, only for those to follow him...correctly. "When we hit the beach, in about 2 minutes, I want you to start assisting the support-Platoons in unloading all our spare gear. Once you have completed that, and most likely had your chit-chats, I want you to report back to me by the second rally point, as soon as possible. Anyone who is too late is left behind, so don't fuck around too much."

From the shoreline, a man, who's hand slightly shook from both the wintry cold and the sights seen at least two hours ago, remained still in place. His own Platoon were arriving in their large landing craft, where he wished he had been earlier. Corporal Isiah Neskrivich, one of the five members of 7th Platoon elected to go on the First Wave. The sights were horrible, but that didn't let him slip...He had his photos if anyone were to ask how it was, but by the time his comrade's craft landed, he hoped they would be talkative enough to clear his head...
Hidden 7 yrs ago 7 yrs ago Post by User
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"One Two Three. LIFT!" cried Richardson. Loading his girl up with the last trunk. he was looking eye to eye with Private Dawson, his new gunner. Dawson wasn't new to Richardson, no. They had served in the trenches. He was the support element that often pushed forwards and took most of the damage, but due to heavy damage, his rig was knocked out. Due to this, he was reassigned to a new rig. All well, their loss his gain. Richardson jumped up and grabbed Dawson's hand and was pulled up into the belly of the beast. He quickly swung himself into his drivers seat and checks his window. Giving the cool metal on the gears a soft stroke as if to calm the machine down. He started the engine up with a roar spinning on the chair "Dawson! I think she needs some more Coal!" Dawson sighed, he grabbed the shovel and started loading chunks into the Kiln "You know, this peice of shit needs far too much coal to run at factory level, just trade her in" Richardson chuckled "She wouldnt like that, I have had her since she first rolled off the line" Dawson rolled his eyes and shut the kiln "She isn't safe". "War isn't safe, she is lucky" he replied banging on the side with a CLONK "You'll see a friend, she will see us through. Just you watch" as he pushed the controls forwards, coming towards the Landing zone.

Hidden 7 yrs ago 7 yrs ago Post by GrimmReconz
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Landing on the casing riddled beach was the easy part. Gazing upon his recently deceased comrades wasn't so simple. Many of these lifeless faces looked younger than him-at least the ones he could recognize. Most of the blood had been washed into the ocean and around the shore however many bodies were still being hauled off. The few survivors groaned in agony as they were moved towards the ships. Hundreds of soldiers had begun to assist the support platoons in unloading spare gear while logistics officers set designated locations for important things such as ammunition and medical supplies. Crates were marked with lot numbers and brief descriptions of what they contained such as ammunition types, toiletries, and rations. "Hey grease monkey! How about you come help me with this Rubinov instead of playing with yourself." The familiar voice came from behind him and as soon as he turned around he instantly recognized the man. Nikita was a friend from Vasas that he'd gone to school with before taking over his father's shop. Nikita being a year and a half older had enlisted with the reserves before moving to become a factory worker in a nearby city.

Anatoli quickly jogged towards Nikita to aid in the moving of the 157 kg Rubinov. Slowly but surely moving it up the beach, Anatoli began to inhale and exhale harder causing the cold winds to singe his lungs. Several M18 and M10 utility vehicles passed by carrying dozens of crates loaded with even more ammunition, gun oil, rifles, helmets, and mortars while the two M10's hauled a pair of Model 137 45mm Anti-Tank guns. A tall and lanky logistics officer briskly walked towards Anatoli and Nikita before stopping and staring at the two for several seconds. Deeply inhaling he opened his greasy maw and barked at the two men, "Here is fine. I suggest you boys get back to the support platoons and continue to aid them in their mission to make this bloody beach hospitable." Gently lowering the Rubinov's wheeled mounting to the sand, Nikita scurried back to his post while Anatoli slowly followed. Arriving where he started he began to further assist the support platoons, moving more crates of supplies from point A to point B. The crates weren't too heavy at all, the job being more boring than exhausting.
Hidden 7 yrs ago Post by Legatus Bellum
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Seeing death all around him was not an alien sight to Michael. Neither was the sight of friends being mowed down in front of him. The blood-soiled sand, the thousands of casings. He had seen it a long time ago. Pools of blood collecting in between the bricks and potholes. When the landing craft's doors first opened, he had seen those that were dead, and when he stepped foot on the sand itself, he could hear them, screaming in agony. He actually blanked out for a moment when he heard the barking of orders somewhere nearby. They were going to unload. Like always, Michael couldn't see where he could help, and to him, the natural way of knowing was by asking. And so, he did. He approached a man who was being handed crates for him to just stack by the beach. The man was middle-aged and buff, yet he was only a private, like Michael. "Excuse me," Michael said softly; "what can I do to help?"

The man sighed deeply, and when the other person handing him boxes said that they were good, he turned to look at the boy. "You're a little young, aren't you?" the man asked.
"No sir, I'm nineteen," Michael replied.
"Thin, fair, graceful movement, way too polite for my taste. You must be Disas. What are you, like, a son of a noble or something?"
"No, sir, I'm the son of an officer," replied Michael.
"Well, I don't care," the man interrupted. "If you want to make yourself useful, you can start carrying these boxes over to point B. Honestly, I don't know where that is, so just follow those guys," he added, pointing to other soldiers transporting crates full of supplies. "Or can't you lift that? You look way too thin... but then again, you probably were raised and kept inside your little noble house."
"I'll go and transport some crates," Michael politely said despite the clear insult, grabbing a box. Being raised a sickly boy, he was weaker than most other soldiers. Really, he was merely a compromise, a nothing compared to the others. However, that won't impede him. The only reason he had combat experience was thanks to the fact that he joined the soldiery because of his devotion to his country.

Michael pushed aside his gun, and picked up the first crate in front of him. He had a small bit of trouble lifting the first crate of ammunition, but eventually, he got around to doing just that. It wasn't too heavy, lucky for him. He was careful in putting the boxes of ammunition down, taking time in actually organising the crates he managed to get to point B. After all, he wanted to be as organised as possible so he could make up for being a compromise.
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Isiah looked around, seeing the men and women begin to flow off of their landing crafts. It was far more peaceful than it was one hour before, where Isiah stepped off of his. It was a hellish scene. Even for someone used to the environment, the fact that there was little he could do to fire back at the opposition. Some aimlessly fired in the general direction of the MG-Emplacements that the Wrea Federation had left to defend the coast, but they weren't any match. Isiah spent most of it sitting behind what was left of a tank trap, occasionally taking photos and darting between cover to ensure everyone was alright. He himself wouldn't have lasted much longer if it weren't for the Behemoth and the Sky-Navy. He didn't think anyone would have.

Slipping out of his trance, Isiah began to wander along the beaches. It reminded him of a familiar scene, one from another photographer's work. It captured the great coastal defense that the Navy made early into the war. The Gersan Forces weren't the first to attempt a beach assault, the only difference was that Isiah's side were the ones who actually managed to get on the beach. The entire Flagship for the Capital Navy partook in the defense, proving its worth and ability every second after the other. It was a glorious victory for the Gersa Coalition, but it hadn't gone unnoticed. Since then, only four major Naval battles occurred, three of those in fact were won by the Gersa Coalition. It was true what they said. They controlled the sea. The Federation controlled the sky. No one controlled the land. It was a bloody stalemate. That's why Isiah and the 65th were here. To make some kind of difference...It seemed impossible.

Isiah continued to plod heavily across the beach, his uniform already sandier than the newly-landed individuals. He moved up closely, spotting a smaller individual talking to the older few in the same division. They looked at him, and he listened in. 19, Officer's son...He'd heard that story a lot back on the Western Front. It was a story that stuck with him, seeing as most able bodies were like that. In fact, it was a specific man he remembered from training.

"Well, Michael..." He began to follow him once he lifted a box up. "Enjoy the boat trip? I sure as hell didn't enjoy mine...You probably had guessed that..."

The two continued to walk down the beach, Isiah helped directing him where he had to go. It was straightforward, but the constant flow of man, woman and machine being deployed on the beach made for a very difficult movement plan. They had to dart, in and out, past everything that was rolling towards the coastal wall of the hillside, where the Federation defenses were earlier. He clapped his hands together, and let his weapon fall into the support of its sling.

"Officer's son? Wow...I didn't know that. Would've thought you'd be in Officer Schools like Burlok by now...The conscription get to you first, or were you planning on sitting the war out? Either way...I think it's best if we get any man, woman or kid old enough to defend our lands...Providing the Feds don't kill them first. So...Where you from, again, Michael? Forgot during the trip here...Y'know...Spent most of the time sat behind cover being shot at only an hour ago. Hard to keep track."

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"And Up over the mountain", the large Mechanical beast wired up over the hill, they had gotten very slightly lost... Only slightly. They were now inland going towards the friendly Liberated beach. The machine had lost its markings of its country of origin. But then it had lost that month before in the bogs of the Trenches. Back when the machine had fought tooth a nail in some of the worst conditions in the land. Fighting every day to stop a superior force from move one more step towards them. Every day losing battalions and brigades to the endless forces of an enemy that was better funded and armed for an attack. As the turret peeked over the lip of the hill, it made large THUMPing noises and CRACKing sounds as its feet found grip in the fox holes and encampments of the beaches. The face and grill looked like shit, it had large pieces of branch and tree in its front. It had almost lost its antenna in the fights and was smothered with dirt. If the crew hadn't known better they would have thought it was a hostile given its alien nature.

As it started to make its descent. The defence platoons that it had to walk past looked up from their work. Into the underside,m as it swung its legs around the beach losing traction and speed. Richardson didn't mine, to him she was still alive and kicking. However, the ground pounders didn't seem to be best pleased. To them, it was a hulking slab of metal, the first lenders weren't much pleased either. This would, after all, of absorbed large amount of bullets. Why wasn't it landed with them, why is it only just arriving now? Why isn't it holding its serial number and detachment pain, it looks like it been through too much combat, and not in a good way. Richardson could feel this, as could Dawson. Opening the hatch he shouted down "Hey, Richardson! I don't much like this... It feels like their gonna turn on us at any minute. Are you sure this is the right beach?" Richardson nodded "Yup, look. 7th Division" pointing to the landing crafts. Dawson sighed, shutting the hatch and sitting back in his cockpit. Spotting the landing crafts offload point. He stopped the Rig and parked it on them flat of ground next to it. Settling in until he was needed again.
Hidden 7 yrs ago Post by Legatus Bellum
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Michael continued the walk through the sand, another crate in hand, as Isiah followed and guided him, presenting questions. "Well sir," he replied, "I actually joined the military myself. I didn't think of myself as a leader, so I thought it'd be better for me to not join the Officer Schools. As for your second question, I'm from Avea. It's a nice place with decent people, but some of them aren't very considerate of patriotism. Some prefer to hide behind their metaphorical walls and watch as the other races get slaughtered until the conscription came. Sure, a lot of the Disas are pretty nationalistic, but really, only a few actually join the military."

Michael placed the crate of ammunition down by 'his' little pile.
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