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The Battle of the Winter's Solstice
Gregory had forgotten the last time the snow had stopped. For days now it seemed to just mindlessly fall, careless in the chill wind while all around it the world tore itself asunder. In 30 days 19 thousand men had died, 600 every day, yet the world remained virtually unchanged in the absence of those lives. It didn't matter, every soldier that met his end in these god-forsaken Zellonian fields died in the name of the Tsar and his nation; and truly was there a better fate than that?
"General, sir!"
Before he could ponder any further, a young voice pierced his thoughts and brought Gregory back to reality. The flap to his tent had been opened and snow fell idly onto the hard ground. A soldier had entered, his red and sweating face made him look almost like a child, and held a telegraph note in his hands.
"Orders from Field Marshal Bogolov himself, sir." The boy ejected, anxiously holding out the note for his commanding officer.
Gregory took hold of the parchment and began reading. He was unsure what was so urgent, as the orders he had been given prior remained unchanged. March east, take Vorl, win the war. Of course, the old bastard Bogolov had no idea the conditions of Zellonian winter and the underestimated fighting spirit of a poverty-stricken nation facing defeat. Even Gregory himself had underestimated the Zellonians, for even after he allowed the razing of Nervinton the populace remained insubordinate and troublesome. Truly, if there was ever a culture built around stubbornness, it was that of the Zellonians.
"Yes, thank you soldier. Dismissed." Gregory said off handedly, at first forgetting the young soldier had been there at all. However, before the boy could escape back into the camp, Gregory quickly stopped him. "Inform the men preparing for deployment to the front that I will be speaking before their departure."
The boy-soldier nodded quickly and departed, Gregory couldn't help but feel pity for the runners in these winter conditions. He had already seen some collapse from the strain, others falling over unseen obstacles in the snow; it was truly a hellish task. Gregory sighed, rubbing his forehead with one hand while he tucked the note away into his jacket with the other. Rising to his feet he departed from his tent and began the trek across the snowy headquarters of the Army Group; for as far as the eye could see smoke clouds grew in the distance as hundreds of campfires and cooking stations were alight, the General couldn't help but wonder how many of the lives in these tents would be lost by this time next year. Of the faces he saw passing, how many would not return to the shores of the Empire? Never before had he had thoughts such as these, hell he'd never seen real war before now, and couldn't help but feel the stress of his position beginning to weight upon him.
"So, anyone back at home waiting on you Nikolai?" Pytor asked, smiling wide as he tucked away the note his fiance had sent him into his winter coat.
"Of course, my mother and sister are at home. In all honestly, I worry about them a lot. Mother is sickly, and poor Lada tries her best but with school and all... I worry." Nikolai replied, his own smile fading as he stared absent minded down the dirt road ahead.
His regiment, the 4th Oslograd Guard, had not yet seen deployment to the front. Now, after a month of seeing the frontliners coming back in smaller and smaller numbers, it was his turn for the fire. Nikolai would be lying if he didn't feel a black pit boiling in his stomach like the coals that lit the campfires at night. Even worse, the General would be making a speech to the regiment before they departed. Had he signed their death warrants already? The thought disturbed him.
"Look alive! General Yakovich is coming this way!" Borislav yelled, grabbing his rifle and pushing himself off the ground as the men quickly scrambled to assemble and look orderly for the General.
Nikolai had never seen Yakovich in person, though he had heard that the General was surprisingly young for his position. It was uncommon in the Osladian army for generals to be younger than 50, and Yakovich was barely 40 himself. How he had attained this position no one could say, though some theorized his family must have ties to the Tsar or, if the army was lucky, Yakovich was some sort of genius tactician. The General was indeed young, and walked with an air of confidence as he turned the tent line and began his approach to the assembled men. A small black stubble and a short army permissed haircut, the young General hardly looked any different from the rest of them.
Stopping at the center of the line, the General turned to face the assembly and the soldiers immediately straightened themselves. Yakovich smiled and began to speak.
"At ease. Soldiers of the 4th Oslograd, today you are being dispatched to the front lines to face our long hated enemy. The Zellonian menace, and her lapdop Memoital volunteers, are the bane of our Empire's existence. Remember, it was the Zellonians who brought aggression to our doorstep, and it was their mad King that refused offers of surrender when we came to their shores. Their King has watched his soldiers die without even a weapon in their hands and he still believes he can win this war. Gentlemen, let us prove the Zellonian madman wrong. This war has long been in our favor, and it will continue to be in our favor as we fly the flag of our holy and righteous Tsar and Empire over the ruins of Nervinton, Vorl, and Zeel. I want you all to remember, our empire was not forged by only the Tsar and God; but by the will of the Osladian soldier and his divine right to victory and glory. Your forefathers stood where you stood, on the soil of a foreign and hostile land, and made it their own. Zellonia will fall, much like the Karumi before them and the Boletarian kings before that. For it is the right of our people and our righteous god to smite our enemies. Never forget your ancestors and your birthright. Hail Oslad, and God save the Tsar! Dismissed gentlemen."
