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12 mos ago
Current "Out of every hundred men, ten shouldn't even be there, eighty are targets, nine are the real fighters, for they make the battle. But one is a warrior, and he will bring the others back." -Heraclitus
3 likes
2 yrs ago
"I have resolved never to start an unjust war, but never to end a legitimate one except by defeating my enemies." -King Charles XII 'Carolus Rex' of Sweden, 1700
1 like
2 yrs ago
“Civilians are like beans; you buy 'em as needed for any job which merely requires skill and savvy. But you can't buy fighting spirit.” -Robert A. Heinlein
5 likes
3 yrs ago
"Throughout the day, no time for memorandums now. Go ahead! Liberty and independence forever." -David Crockett
3 yrs ago
"The soldier is also a citizen. In fact, the highest obligation and privilege of citizenship is that of bearing arms for one’s country” -General George S. Patton Jr.
3 likes

Bio

I'm Britton. I'm currently a high-school student that has an extreme interest in the historical field, especially that of culture, military, and politics. My other interests include national and international economics.

Most Recent Posts

Name: Sergeant Garith Calman
Species: Human
Faction/Unit: Rebel Alliance, 6th Special Personal Security Detail (formerly of 7th SpecForces Division)
Location: TBD
Synopsis of Role: Escapist. Sapper of the SpecForces Urban Combat Specialists, of the fame of taking part in multiple breakouts of imprisoned Rebels (including his own); expert in Urban Warfare Theory, tunneling/alternate exit construction, and hand to hand combat.
Interested.
Interested. Of course Jegan is the chad suit.



I'm still here. Apologies, simply struggling with school workload. I'll try my best to get a proper post up soon as I can.
Ivers had stuck mostly to himself since their mustering. If the early-20s comrades of his were 'boys', than he was a mere child, nineteen and with a doughy, rounded face and smooth features. He stood barely 5'10" and was gangly and scrawny, long arms hanging down at his sides and hands marred with calluses and marks from working the agri-farms. Ferocious tan lines gave a stark contrast between the skin of his arms and that of his torso, a stark contrast of color that didn't help his situation in the slightest.

During the training, he was a mostly aloof and reserved boy, the drill sergeants having laid into him for his exceptional youth and inherent childish idealism. The solution, he'd thought, was to keep to himself. Participate in team building where required, but don't give any comrades or superiors an inch, because he knew they'd take more than a mile. And now, sitting at the foot of his bunk, organizing his gear to near perfection in his footlocker, he wished he'd actually tried to make friends. He was surrounded by what could've been strangers, all with short, regulation haircuts which made them all look near identical to him.

A jeer and cacophony of laughs broke the sea of small chatter in the barracks bay. As he traced his eyes across the crowd which was congregated, he caught sight of the Lancers. Lancers, how he loathed them. He was no stranger to aristocracy. Barons, Earls, and Dukes all served the Kaiser alike on Uzania, but they never pretended that they put themselves in any more danger than the occasional honor duel. Yet here were Baotovans, these blue-bloods who were more flashy than Scintillans and twice as arrogant. So much he wanted to say something. If the Uzanians were toy soldiers, than these Baotovans were toy dolls, mix-and-match parts of gold and feathers which just increased their pompous aura.

He looked down, a hand having unconsciously balled up into a fist. Exhaling sharply, he folded up the shelter half and thin bedroll kit in the bottom of the footlocker. As much restraint as he had, he had little faith in the restraint of his more outspoken comrades. A fight would come, all he could do is decide whether he was going to join in.
>FORT BENNING, GA
>THE PREVIOUS DAY, 0800 hrs

It was Alpha Company's turn to run the Gauntlet. The column of guys from 2nd Platoon were trailed out in full gear as the second platoon in the staggered-start schedule. 1st Platoon started half an hour ago, giving the 2nd the reassurance that the first few courses of the Gauntlet were at the very least cleared. Yet as the platoon walked to their starting area, all kitted up with their vests, artificially weighted rucksacks, and M4s loaded with dummy weighted magazines, they all dreaded the exercise.

It wasn't the PT that got to them necessarily. The presentation and organization was the problem, to them. The Gauntlet was some cooked up idea of the Major's that he stole from some almost decade-old article. It was originally some 40-hour mega-course that pushed soldiers to their limit, and was usually scheduled about every six months. But, in the usual fashion, that was deemed "insufficient" by the standards of whoever planned the damn course. Instead it was compacted for them into a single-day exercise that tried desperately to cram every little bit of the original course's itinerary into it, and was repeated no less than every two months.

His platoon lead, upstanding as he was, crushed dissent wherever it sprouted, and Staff Sergeant Clark was his hammer of repression. So, despite his own feelings, it was Justin's job, despite his own opinions, to stop the talk. And the platoon was good at talking.

"Hey, Staff Sarn't-" Corporal Staver, assistant lead of squad two, piped up from the front. Justin, relegated to the back of the column to keep watch while the Lieutenant led up front, huffed a sigh.

"Yes, Corporal?"

"Why is it that every two months, every time it's Alpha's time to run the Gauntlet, the Major always comes out to watch us, but never the other companies?"

It was true, every time they ran the Gauntlet, the Major, executive officer of the 3rd of the 75th, right hand of who may have well been God himself, came out to watch specifically Alpha do its run. Never did he watch Bravo or Charlie as closely as much as he seemed to breathe down Alpha's neck. It's likely he was somewhere with his eyes glued to 1st Platoon as they spoke.

"I don't know, Staver. Maybe he just wants us to excel." Justin knew that wasn't the reason. If that were the case, he'd be watching every company. No, it was because of the Captain. The Captain was perhaps the most respectable man in the battalion as far as Justin was concerned. As much as the Lieutenant was a brown-noser to the Major, the Captain of Alpha didn't take any bullshit. And that just made the Major's gears grind.

Stavers, as unsatisfied he was with the answer, didn't speak up again. He knew he wasn't going to get an answer from Staff Sergeant Clark, and certainly he wasn't going to take that one to the Lieutenant.

They rolled up on the starting area after about ten minutes of walking in a column. The Lieutenant halted the platoon and had Justin form them up by squad. Before them was stage one, the obstacle course. It was like something straight out of Full Metal Jacket, a collection of cobbled together wood and metal built to Army specifications. That was to say, purpose-built and prone to wear away within the year. Of all the squads formed up, the Lieutenant was going first with squad one. Justin was to send second squad after, and accompany squad three.

A bullhorn sounded, and squad one surged forward. The entire platoon was allotted fifteen minutes to clear the obstacles and proceed to the next area, and squad one made good time. After a decent head-start, second squad trailed behind. Staggered in last, Justin led the charge of squad three. Over log barriers and under concertina wire-wrapped wooden boards, they dragged themselves through the mud of the insufferably hot Fort Benning climate. It was going to be a long day.




>FORT BENNING BARRACKS COMPLEX
>SOME TIME LATER...

Justin practically had to drag himself through the door of his barracks building as the pitch darkness of the early night was setting in. The Gauntlet was a poorly-designed tough-nut hell of a challenge, but it wasn't impossible, and as always, all of Alpha Company made it through with flying colors. But suffice to say, after all of that, Justin was fucking exhausted. His prime concern was making it to a bed and a bottle of Jack Daniels to wind down. And as he stripped off his utterly fucking soaked uniform, he began to pour himself a glass of his choice brew of whiskey.

Sitting on the bed, he reached to his nightstand to grab his phone, checking off all the notifications he had while in the Gauntlet. His burner, sitting firmly on top of a stack of papers in the stand, flashed with a black and red exclamation point. Flipping it open, he read off the message, murmuring it quietly to himself, before belting out venomously in his beautifully redneck accent which he only used casually.

"Aw shit."




>THE NEXT DAY
>0500 hrs

Justin rolled out of bed much earlier than he would've cared to. The Company was slotted to have an easy day after the Gauntlet to recuperate. But no, UMBRA was activated. Bullshit. He dragged his achy self into his bathroom, in the near pitch dark of his room, flipping on the blindingly white fluorescent lights. Literally passing through the shower in moments and running a razor over his face haphazardly, he donned his usual civvies as he left post, leave-slip in hand.

And of course it was the exact same car waiting for him again, in the exact same spot, same bald, unspeaking and unflinching driver as before. Pursing a lip and building his frustrations as he got in the back of the car like before, he spoke up.

"Can I at least take my own goddamn car?"

The suit up front paused, his eyes concealed by sunglasses as he obviously looked back at Justin in the rear view mirror.

"No."

"Wh-" Justin started, not even bothering to continue voicing his frustration as he buckled up. He was passed out in his seat before they even hit the interstate.

He jolted back awake as they hit a surface of gravel among the hills of West Virginia. They were here. The mysterious driver dumped him out without so much as a goodbye in the midday weather in front of the safehouse. Go-bag and duffel over his shoulder, he stepped up to the porch and headed inside.

"So who's fuckin' idea was this?" The Tennessean called out, rubbing an aching knee.
Name: Lyle Ivers
Age: 19
Gender: Male
Former Profession: Farmhand
Rank: Private
Specialisation: Infantryman
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