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Empire of Violette
Gabrelle Mountains, Empire of Violette,
Marksmen of the Gendarmerie Nationale defend the peaks of Violette's Gabrelle mountains against the Tyro-Redanian army
Corporal Valentin Léger steadied his arm, bracing his rifle tightly as it rested against the top of the rocky outcrop. A thin veneer of ice had coated most of the peaks here in the eastern Gabrelles, and he'd had to use his climbing pick to chisel away at the outthrust of stone in front of him, in order to make sure he had the perfect spot to prop up his Vinnault. Riflemen (such as his earlier self) using rigid rocks as bracing often had to contend with sliding or scratches after their weapons were fired, the forestock of their bolt-actions slowly being withered away—albeit cosmetically—with each shot. Léger didn't like that; he preferred to keep his weapon, his petit fusil, factory pristine. Scratches and wear might not have impeded performance much, but it seemed disrespectful to Valentin not to take extraordinary care of a device built for ending the lives of his fellow man. He imagined that it was more dignified to die from the shot of an excruciatingly well maintained machine. If there was one mercy that the Corporal could grant to the sons of the fathers he slew, it was that hours had been spent caring for his weapon for each dead man it produced. It was wrong, Léger surmised, to kill a man without exerting too much effort.
He wasn't used to being so high up in the mountains. Such perfect vantage points as this had been reserved for the artillery crews of the 25th Legion, Valentin's division, ever since they'd moved into this highland with the rest of the 1st Auxiliaire. Even though he'd been here in the Gabrelles since before Violette officially entered the war, this was the first time he'd been sent to a position to his liking. He'd mostly worked in the lower valleys before now, where the enemies were more numerous and closer, but paradoxically, harder to shoot. In the easier passages through the Gabrelle mountains, both sides were so well established that they had mutually learned, quite early on, not to send any men forward. In the valleys, any man who tried to advance would die twice before they could even scream. The Tyrians, to their credit, had made very sure of this intransigence; their officers had enjoyed the luxury of far more first hand accounts of soldiers dropping dead a foot in front of the line versus their Veletian counterparts. The trouble of such easy shooting, though, was that it was difficult to distinguish oneself. There were arguments between riflemen over whose shot had hit first, tactless gambling about which member of the Tyrian squadron conducting the latest probe would be last to die (they were all equally likely to die), and other such distracting juvenility. When the orders from headquarters had arrived for the line's focus to shift to rifle from artillery, Valentin had been quick to volunteer to make the trek up to the higher peaks. There were fewer men to kill up there, but fewer fellow killers too: he'd have a larger slice of a smaller pie. The Corporal had met an artillery squad on the way down as he had made his own ascent, and they helpfully told him of the perfect position—cut into the stone by mother nature herself—for he and his rifle to take up. Once he'd actually seen the spot, he wished he'd have kissed the artillerymen. It was the dike of his dreams, as if the hand of God had reached out from the nearby heavens to carve a dugout into solid stone with his own hand. He was regretful to have to share.
Léger had come along with a partner, of course. No sharpshooter traveled alone, no matter how independently minded or capable of autonomy he might have been. Valentin's was a Légionnaire: a rank down from Valentin, but from the 25th Legion, same as himself. Their commander always called him Niel; Léger had no idea what his first name was, and had no special reason to care. He wasn't much of a shot, but he did have a good set of eyes on him, and he was quiet—unfortunately quiet, even. The man was practically a ghost, speaking exactly as little as was necessary to communicate with his comrades. Corporal Léger figured something was wrong with his head, but one didn't need to be of sound mind to be a spotter. Unless Niel starting seeing hallucinations of Tyrian riflemen down the mountain, Valentin didn't care much what went on in his head. Besides, he seemed to open his mouth to eat exactly as little as he talked, and that was fine by Léger's standards; he was happy to devour whatever Niel didn't. The two slept right there on the front, hidden behind the outcrop of rock, a thick sheet tented up above them to keep out rain and snow while they rested, nestled in the crevices. Most of the men in the Auxiliaires had it much better, but Valentin and Niel weren't the type to gripe. Niel seemed numb to the world, and Valentin almost preferred the rugged conditions. It felt right this way, like he was a predator on the prowl instead of a cog in the machine.
One night, not a few minutes after the sun had rose, Valentin was woken up Niel. In his deep, reserved tone, he told Léger of the position of a Tyro-Redanian off on an early morning scouting mission. There seemed to be only one of them, which Valentin and Niel alike knew wasn't likely to be true. Even the Tyrians weren't dumb enough to send lone men out into mountains full of hostile rifles. Normally the Corporal would have waited for the enemy soldier's partner (or partners) to come within sight as well, but this one was too close. He needed to be engaged before he stumbled upon their position. Long after the Tyrian had hiked further up the mountains than Valentin normally would've allowed, he levied his rifle along the concealment of stone in front of him. With Niel looking out for movement from any other enemies that might be prowling behind the one they saw, Léger fired. The shot didn't echo like it might have in the lower peaks, as there was nothing here for the sound to bounce against but open sky and clouds. As the bullet found the torso of the Tyrian trudging up the mountains, he stumbled, not falling far behind himself but rather stumbling down to the ground slowly, as if shocked at the death of a loved one. Valentin wondered if this one had anyone waiting at home for him. He made a silent prayer for God to have mercy on the soul of the main he'd slain even as he set aside his rifle and helped his spotter try to locate any others. They saw no one: either the Tyrian had been alone, or the rest of his squadron had been far behind, and farmed against proceeding by the shot. They were likely too far away to have intimate knowledge of Valentin and Niel's position, thankfully. So, after training his eyes and ears for any sight or sound of commotion for a solid minute after he'd fired hid shot, Léger relaxed. He grabbed his pick and carved a notch into the rock, above the two from the other day. They'd gotten three that time, their first kills in the upper peaks, but one of those was Niel's. Léger didn't count those; he had to keep a separate tally of all those men whose lives he'd ended personally he'd taken personally. When he met his maker, Valentin wanted to be able to tell him exactly how many of his fellow man he'd ended during his mortal jaunt in the world: and that he was prepared to answer for every one.
The Kalpian-Veletian Military Deal,
Newly recruited and trained Légionnaires in Violette are given training with the Veletian 'Diuemart 75' field-gun
Before conflict between the Empire of Violette and the Tyro-Redanian Empire seemed possible, let alone impending, Violette's artillery squadrons were small in number and ill-equipped. The Ministry of the Army and the leadership of the Gendarmerie had always focused first and foremost on riflery: ensuring without question that each and every fighting man in the Empress' employ had a rifle and knew how to use it. Up until a scant few months before the war had begun, were a periphery focus for the Gendarmerie. The threat of the Hironese, even as far from the homeland was Veletian Settumu was, had been forefront in the mind of Violette's generals and admirals alike. It was only after the Survian Crisis (in which the Empire's intelligence implicated Tyrian involvement), and the Tyro-Redanian meddling in Sypia, that Aetoria was brought to mind as a closer and stronger rival to Confluence to Senryu. That is when the forces that be in Confluence began to truly prepare for a large-scale land war with their largest neighbour. Chiefly, this preparation was accomplished through the beginning of mass construction of artillery, and the training of many new artillery crews to facilitate their use.
All of this industrial might put to the task of the development of new weapons leaved precious little space to develop ammunition for those same weapons, however. Various domestic measures were suggested by the Ministry of the Army to make adjustments to production of civilian industry, subverting it for the army's use to produce more shells more quickly. These plans were thwarted, however, by a business proposition from Kairth & Sons: an armament company in Kalpia. Desiring to profiteer off the deaths of tens (hundreds?) of thousands, the fine folks at Kairth & Sons offered to help supplement the artillery shell production for the Dieumart 75 guns, proposing that their own industrial centres in Kalpia be retrofitted to help arm Veletian artillery. Minister Philippin Calvet, responsible for the army's procurement, was eager to accept. Why despoil Violette's own civilian manufacturing, potentially handicapping the Veletian economy's future growth and development, when foreign factories could fill the gap instead? With consent from the Kalpian government, the deal was signed, and the Dieumart 75s of the Gendarmerie Nationale would soon be firing away at the armies of the Tyro-Redanians with little need for conservation of ammunition. It was a good day for Violette.
