Author Notes:
As you can see, I am positively drunk on caffeine as per usual... So, here's to yet another wonderful month! Thank you big time to everyone that have supporting our family, and the stories, thus far and into the future!
Now, much like how GSS will be getting a sudden training arc, RM will get a little bit of sudden slice-of-life because my plot bunny decided to revolt, so keep an eye for more of that content! Soon-ish, I guess?
As for other matter, Monthly Recruitment Drive is up! So go and grab yourself one of that slot and enjoy advanced chapters and even some NSFW images (when I actually can generate some with my PC lol)
Peace, and as always, enjoy!
https://www.patre-on.com/Heartbreak117
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Marshal Yuki
Marshal Yuki: https://postimg.cc/4nM23Yny
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A hand can be seen gripping the steering wheel of a truck, the knuckle turning white with the force being used. Yet, when a flicker of flame starts catching onto the messy cuff wrapping around the wrist, one can see that the pale hand is not attached to an arm or any other part of the body at all. In fact, one can't even see any resemblance to a torso or a head in the driver's cabin of the truck. What's left is just a dismembered hand still clutching the steering wheel of a vehicle with half of its upper body eviscerated by a cannon shot. The rest of the truck is slowly being engulfed in flame after shell fragmentations ignited its obviously exposed fuel tank. All around the car lie the dead bodies of some Polanians who had been riding on its back. Their precious war gear lay scattered and broken in the open, muddy road. If left unrecovered, it will be a serious loss to the already severely strained Polanian military's armory. Yet, it's also far too dangerous to try to recover them, especially when the zone is still an active combat site.
A hand can be seen gripping the steering wheel of a truck, the knuckle turning white with the force being used. Yet, when a flicker of flame starts catching onto the messy cuff wrapping around the wrist, one can see that the pale hand is not attached to an arm or any other part of the body at all. In fact, one can't even see any resemblance to a torso or a head in the driver's cabin of the truck. What's left is just a dismembered hand still clutching the steering wheel of a vehicle with half of its upper body eviscerated by a cannon shot. The rest of the truck is slowly being engulfed in flame after shell fragmentations ignited its obviously exposed fuel tank. All around the car lie the dead bodies of some Polanians who had been riding on its back. Their precious war gear lay scattered and broken in the open, muddy road. If left unrecovered, it will be a serious loss to the already severely strained Polanian military's armory. Yet, it's also far too dangerous to try to recover them, especially when the zone is still an active combat site.
The current battlefield is yet another hastily erected defensive encampment of the Polanian Army. It is also one of the last few that are in the way of total Belkan domination of 1/3rd of Polania. The Belkan High Command expects that territories from Gdańsk, all the way to Kłodzko, will be totally pacified by the end of the day. Summarily, this will also end the push of Army Group D, the Belkan Marines, and the three Airborne Divisions on the Eastern Front. While it's quite easy to continue the Belkan March all the way to Warsaw, ultimately, it's a wasteful endeavor and a violation of the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact. As agreed upon by the Reich and the Union, the remaining 2/3rd of Polania, Warsaw included, is for the Union to claim.
This abidement of contract, in turn, will unknowingly create an amusing situation due to the information gap on the Rusviet and Polanian sides. With the Reich ceasing its advance, the Polanians' act of a mass retreat from Warsaw for fear of a pincer attack on the capital city is rendered moot. As for Rusviets, still thinking that Warsaw is a heavily entrenched Polanian position, opts to subjugate the North and South of Polania instead in an attempt to create an encirclement. This will lead both factions to meet head-to-head in Southern Polania, and it will take a period of deadlock before both sides realize that Warsaw is left completely unoccupied. Then, a mad dash will begin between Rusviet and Polania, each vying for the psychologically important capital city, where whoever holds it will determine the remaining course of the war. Meanwhile, as the two factions duke it out in full view, the Belkans are perfectly content with just spectating the rest of this war. They will have their coffee and popcorn while watching the show, with their wartime resources being relocated to restoration and assimilation of captured territories. But that's a story for the future.
As of now, the ragtag Polanian Army is still being beaten black and blue out of their home soil. The Polanian soldiers, Regular Army or not, will be finding themselves barely scraping back to live and fight the Rusviets on another day, or becoming fertilizer for the land once theirs to farm. Quite a morbid thought, but it's an unfortunate reality of war, and it's ultimately karma being justly served. The Polanians can only lament the grim outlook their leadership, and perhaps even themselves, has brought about in this generation.
BOOM
Yet again, the Bofors 37 mm anti-tank gun recoils as it unleashes an armor-piercing shell. As the supply of this weapon is running dry after a great many were lost in the hasty retreat, only the most experienced gun crews are allotted this kind of artillery piece. Even before the fired shell even lands on the distant target, a hulking Belkan tank, the Polanian AT gun crew is already in the act of reloading and realigning their gun sight.
DING
A resounding sound can be heard echoing across the battlefield as metal meets metal. The 37 mm armor-piercing shell has matched up against Belkan steel, and the shell is found wanting in penetration. Splattering in a conical manner against the frontal plating of the Belkan armored vehicle, the shell does little to no obvious damage other than leaving behind a small 1 cm dent, a circular imprint on the plate. Before the Polanian gun crew can resume firing, the giant tank spins its multiple barrels before unleashing a river of red that results in the complete destruction of the 37 mm Bofors emplacement. Not stopping there, the blazing trail of screaming destruction pans and rakes the frontline in a manner not so dissimilar from a few days ago. Visible bunkers and camouflaged machine gun nests are unable to witstand the devastating firepower of the large Belkan tank for even a few seconds. Their hastily constructed properties, made out of woods and piled up dirt, lend them no durability against numerous 30 mm armor-piercing high-explosive shells. Polanian soldiers, old and young alike, have to dive for the deepest recesses of their trenches and foxholes unless they want to have anything above their shoulders being lobbed by the constant stream of hyper lethal fragmentation. Those who aren't in a position to do so are torn up into pieces unceremoniously by the screaming red scythe of Death herself. Such a sight strikes fear and trauma directly into the hearts of even old, conscripted veteran of the Great War, not to mention the young recruits that are still wet in their noses. To them, the roars of the Belkan MK 103-4 Gatling-style autocannon are even worse than hearing the whistle of bombs and artillery shells. At least the latter two only occur in a brief instant, not the constant, mind-numbing roaring as if a beast from Hell has been unleashed.
By the time the Gatling stops spinning, the entire front of the encampment is smoking mounds of toxic fumes and scattering debris. The Polanians that managed to cling to their very lives and souls start crawling or digging themselves out of their collapsed defense line. The lucky few officers who are entrusted with keeping their subordinates in check, more so than actually leading them, struggle to regain control of the situation. It's not a surprise when, once more, the youngest of the hastily conscripted force breaks down and deserts their post immediately when the Belkan barrage halts. To these once unblooded, high morale, and sometimes arrogant recruits, what few pistols the officers have are pointed straight at their fleeing backs and shot. A few deserters are swiftly made examples to keep the rest of the troops in line, but it's amusing enough that many of the deserters actually escape the line of fire due to the officers' poor shooting. With no time to worry about the escaped soldiers, the remaining Polanian units quickly rush to reestablish a field of fire against the obviously approaching Belkan force. They barely manage to raise their battered rifles over the edge of their trenches and fighting positions when grenades start raining down on their positions. Before they can shout or jump out of the way, multiple grenades explode inside the defense line, turning the trenches into corridors of death as fragments and shockwaves travel along the confined length.
It's indeed hard to say who can escape this wave of onslaught unscathed.
Before the Polanians can even break past the concussive effect of this round of explosive assault, the speedy and heavy footfalls of combat boots can be heard right on top of them. Soldiers, Belkans who are covered from head to toe in armor and battlegear, jump into the trenches, into the foxholes, and bomb craters with their guns blazing. They mercilessly and effectively cut down any Polanians that are found mobile with a weapon in hand via a combination of 8 mm and 9 mm projectiles. Thanks to their weapons' high capacity, the Belkans outmatch what's left of the Polanians in the lead dispenser department. The entire battle line is soon engulfed in the incessant reverberation of automatic firing.
Ducking away from the automatic burst of a Belkan Storm Trooper who has just jumped into the trench, a Polanian soldier, a bit high into his years, can barely get a grip on his old service rifle when he comes hiding behind a corner, struggling for a reload. Yet, before he can clamber each individual bullet into his weapon, yet another Storm Trooper jumps down and into the slaughter. The Storm Trooper body checks the old Polanian soldier, knocking his rifle clean out of his hands before jamming the blade of a large combat knife into his neck. As the Polanian gurgles blood in pain and shock, his hands reaching to the object lodged in one half of his neck, the Belkan Storm Trooper turns around, pointing his high-capacity MP9 down the trench and pulls the trigger a couple of times to kill a nearby enemy. He then flicks the lever to full-auto before unleashing control bursts to suppress an additional group of enemies. Once they're deterred from rushing him all at once, the Storm Trooper repositions himself deeper into the trench network, but not before taking the knife he implanted in the dying old soldier and using it to slit the rest of his throat. As the body of the old Polanian slides down onto the muddy ground, leaving behind a trail of blood along the edge of the trench, the Storm Trooper rushes from one corner of the trench line to another.
Albeit in lesser numbers, Belkan Storm Troopers advance blazingly fast in loose formation, killing and destroying everything in their way. The Polanians can only react passively and are unable to muster any reasonable resistance even when the Storm Troopers have located and attacked their command bunker. To this bunch of ragtag and ill-equipped Polanian soldiers, the Storm Troopers are seemingly unstoppable with their full-body BDUs and enclosed helmets. A Polanian-initiated engagement usually starts with Polanian rifles shooting and hitting the chest plates of the Storm Troopers, creating only puffs of smoke before the Polanians are promptly overwhelmed by the still-standing Storm Troopers' wall of lead and explosives. To the Polanians, these armored figures in green are no different than the much-feared Demons and Zombies.
When Death comes knocking fast, it's ironic indeed that the Polanian officers follow right in the footsteps of the deserters, taking only the nearest subordinates as meat shields. By the time the few groups of Polanian soldiers that remain in the encampment realize that their commanders have ditched them, it's too late to execute the traitorous bastards themselves. Yet, it's an issue for future them to deal with. Now that there's no proper leadership anymore, the whole defense line breaks instantly as all the surviving Polanian soldiers retreat haphazardly, leaving their deaths and wounded for the Belkans to deal with. Those with swifter feet escape the more fortunate fate of being POWs, while those lagging behind find themselves accosted by the deadly Storm Troopers. The latter's fates are decided by either the discarding of their weapons or a bullet to the head if they choose to resist arrest.
It is yet another crushing victory for the Belkan Reich, as minute as this engagement is.
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Viewing the humongous Belkan tank stopping right at the edge of their now destroyed encampment, the grizzled Polanian General nearly throws away his binoculars, even risks revealing his covert position, when he sees the Belkan troops make no attempt to chase the fleeing soldiers.
"Cursed them all to Hell! Why do they have to be so damn smart!" The General curses, the binoculars in his hands creaking in his vice grip. He's the ultimate man in charge of the fiasco earlier, overlooking everything from one of the taller hills, a bit of a distance away from the lost encampment.
"Pops... I don't think this is gonna work." His son, and also the aide of this reactivated veteran officer of the Great War, comments with a bead of sweat down his temple. "The Belkans aren't taking the bait and are holding back to secure their line."
As said by the son of the General, right after the Belkans secure their immediate surrounding, a couple of Ospreys come into deploy pre-fabricated, bullet and blast-resistant covers, for the Storm Troopers and the reinforcing Panzer Grenadiers to employ.
Seeing how quickly and boldly the Belkans are at claiming his old entrenched position, the Polanian General nearly pops a blood vessel. But then the words of his son surface in his mind, forcing the General to calm down and stop him from ordering a hopeless counterattack.
"The explosive traps we dug won't work if the Belkans don't take the bait in chasing our desolated troops..." The General mutters in the two-person hidey hole with bushes and branches overhead. "Since we can't ambush them with it, let's turn the trap into a defensive weapon. Have the troops retreat to the fallback position. Leave just a few to man the detonator. If the enemy pushes for an attack, have them detonate the trap when the opportunity arises to deal the most damage."
His son nods. "I will have the men prioritize the moment when we can take out most of the enemy vehicles."
"Make it-!"
Before the General can even finish his sentence, brief whistles can be heard above the camouflaged canopy hiding their Polanian ambush force. It's an artillery barrage, but not a normal one where the shells impact the ground; at least those give you a few seconds to make yourself scarce. Instead, these are airburst shells of the 150 mm howitzer kind. The General and his son thought that their positions were well-camouflaged and hidden from even an aerial reconnaissance plane. Well, they thought wrong.
KRABOOMKRABOOMKRABOOMKRABOOMKRABOOMKRABOOM
Dozens of airburst shells explode in deadly hail simultaneously above the Polanian position. The thin roof covers and deep foxholes do nothing to protect the occupants from the lethal metal rain coming directly above them. The airburst salvo spares no one on the hill; even the General and his son aren't spared despite the thicker protection of their observation post. The son finds himself battered with many cuts, some of which are quite deep, while the General finds that one of his legs is impaled by a large metal piece that immobilizes him in mind-numbing pain. However, the added protection did help in limiting the amount of fragments that made it through. Other soldiers and officers aren't as lucky, and most are turned into pincushions or shredded.
"Pops... Pops...! I got you!" The General groans painfully as his son drags him out of the ruined observation post.
Sparing his child a glance, he grimly realizes that his son has lost his left ear as blood pours profusely out of the wound.
"Medic! I need a stretcher here!" His son shouts, the adrenaline fueling his voice and dulling his pain. "I need a fucking medic over here!"
With a look around the cratered hill, filled with body parts and cries for help, the General comes to a belated realization that.
"I'm really too old for this shit..."
In the end, with no operable left vehicle to extract the two of them, his son had to commandeer a cart, used to transport deceased soldiers and pulled by a donkey, to carry them off to a hospital. The ambush plan, as expected, is promptly scrapped when the Belkan sends their Kodiak Armored Engineering Vehicles to clear out the booby-trapped field.
The Belkans' primary objectives in this war have been achieved.