Sergeant Harald, Gallian Militia
Grinning companionably, Harald leant in close to the new recruits.
'I think we could do with another sniper, so I'll try to fast-track that training after Vasel. And having another experienced lancer means I can get Bons working exclusively as an engineer, so thank the Valkyrur for you MacDonald.' He backed off a little so that the rest of the squad could get acquainted with the FNGs, sparking up a cigarette in the process. In truth he was starting to get a little worried about the number of scouts in the squad; having a dedicated rifle section was useful certainly, but they would need some more shocktroopers soon, especially with the urban combat he predicted in Vasel. Before he could finish that thought though, Harald found a fistful of paperwork thrown at him, accompanied by a nervous wreck. Another transfer? Maybe the Valks really were on his side after all.
He knelt to pick up the transfer paperwork before the girl could.
'Fina, is it? I happen to think being one of the clan is a good thing too, but I'd be careful about saying it out loud.' After whispering that little gem of advice, he stood and smiled paternally.
'So, Private Fina. Welcome to Squad Four, the finest collection of scouts the Militia has ever seen.' The hint of bitterness in his voice wasn't directed at anyone in particular. In deference to the rest of the squad he added,
'... plus a few others.' If he was honest Harald had a ton of questions for his fellow Darcsen, mainly about where she came from and which clan. But as Sergeant he had to maintain appearances and giving the impression of favouring his fellow minority ethnics over the others was a fantastic way to get himself demoted.
'I'd give the introductions again, but I think we're running out of time.' As the conversation among the others died down, Harald raised a hand to call order.
'Alright, you all heard the briefing and know what you've got to do. Anyone with questions, please come to my office the bunkhouse. For the moment, you are all dismissed. Clean yourselves up and prepare seven day's worth of provisions in your knapsacks.' Seven days food was a fair amount to carry, but thankfully they had Carn's APC as a mule.
'Assemble here at 0530 tomorrow morning, ready to march. And don't forget to draw as much ammo as possible. Dismissed.'Lieutenant Beirmann, Imperial Army
'Indeed I shall ma'am. Siegfried will exceed your expectations, I assure you.' Marcus meant it too. Despite this being the super-heavy tank's first field test, he was supremely confident in its combat capability and trusted his crew to perform perfectly; after all, he had hand-picked them all for their stellar combat records. He was rather taken aback by the Major's decision to hang back though. In their earlier combat trials she had been more than willing to get stuck in, often driving her armoured car close beside the tanks during combat. Arguably a bad idea, but it probably helped her gauge their combat performance better than second-hand accounts.
'With your permission ma'am, we shall commence the assault. For his Imperial Majesty.' He again saluted crisply, before making his way back to the assembled tanks.
He took a few minutes to inspect the other elements of the task force, getting reports from the panzer-grenadiers and support tanks before moving on to
Siegfried. Despite his history as a lone wolf, Marcus was well aware that good communication between armoured and infantry forces was vital in conventional battle. Indeed, the Gallian forces defending the ridge they were slated to take would be taking full advantage of their integrated support. When he arrived at his own vehicle, one of his crew gave a ready report. As with all of Beirmann's crew, Glockner had been picked specifically for his exceptional skill and attitude. As well a being an outstanding gunner, he was also
Siegfried's second in command should anything happen to Marcus, a role the Lieutenant wouldn't have given unless be had confidence in Glockner's ability.
'Very good, Gunner.' Marcus made a point of referring to his crew by role rather than name, preferring to foster professionalism and respect rather than affection among his subordinates.
'Man your station and prepare for imminent contact.'Five minutes later the line of Imperial vehicles began their advance. Two miles ahead across open ground lay a ridge of fixed Gallian defences, holdovers from the first war. From his position atop
Siegfried's turret, Marcus surveyed the enemy through a pair of binoculars. He spotted about a dozen tanks, typical small Gallian designs, more pre-war infantry cruisers than true battle tanks; they would fall rapidly. Of more concern were the trenches lined with riflemen and a remarkable amount of lance-wielders. Plenty of meat for the grenadiers then. He opened up a radio link to the rest of Sqdn 655.
'Men of the Empire, prepare yourselves. Priority fire on the enemy tanks, then shell the bunkers. Once all fixed defences are down, the grenadiers will advance and dismount fifty metres from the trench line.' His orders were curt, but to the point. By now no-one in 655 expected speeches from Marcus Beirmann. Once they reached the 2000 metre line, he switched radio channels to inside his own tank.
'Gunner, target light tank, 45 degrees left. Side armour, below the top tracks.' He kicked the driver's shoulder and the tank veered leftward. As the first shots were fired, the voices of two hundred grenadiers raised in song as they waited in the back of their APCs.
Forward we march,
To conquer those who defile the graves of our fathers,
For the everlasting glory of the Emperor, king of kings!
