For Harvey Kruger, joining the Army had never been a question. Not merely because of the draft, or because the campaigns to reunite the lost states demanded more and more soldiers each day. The main reason he had joined the Army was because his father had been a soldier during the Second World War, and before that, his grandfather had been a soldier in World War I, and before even that, his great-grandfather had fought in the West, a cavalryman tearing up Native American tribal lands. It was only natural that three generations later, Harvey Kruger would be part of a long line of soldiers, this time coming back full circle to pacify the West once more from corrupted ideologues that sought to dismantle the Great American Awakening and undo the Communist progress.
Training had been brutal, focusing on rifle marksmanship with the new M14 that he quickly grew accustomed to, as it was not radically different from the M54 that he had trained with during his first year of reserve training. Now part of the 13th Infantry Division, nicknamed "Blue Ridge Devils," Harvey was prepared to head out to the world with vigor in his heart and the Communist Manifesto memorized in his mind, ready to spread American Socialism far and wide.
"Listen up!" Sergeant Hartman called, sitting at the rear of the APC. "Tomorrow, we're crossing the border. Lieutenant told me that they think these Yankees are still under quarantine, so do me a favor and keep your gas masks on. I don't care how hot and stuffy you get in it, keep it on until the chemical guys can clear the area. Understood?"
"Yes, Comrade Sergeant!" they called back enthusiastically.
He nodded, lighting up a cigarette that lit up his hard, scarred face. "Good. Keep on your toes out there."
Harvey took a deep breath as their APC shuddered, trundling over some sort of obstacle. Felt like a tree or something. Sergeant Hartman had said that their objective was going to involve beating up on trapped Yankees in West Virginia. He couldn't help but wonder how they were going to fight them in the mountains, but maybe that's why they had been called the Blue Ridge Devils. Stories from veteran soldiers told him that, during the 2nd American Civil War, this division had singlehandedly snatched victory in the mountains of Georgia from Confederate-minded rebels, which had given them the moniker.
Would that same success be replicated here? Did the Midwesterners even care about their heritage?
Ballad About American Boys
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Markus Wilding
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Markus Wilding
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Re: Ballad About American Boys
Their APCs had dropped them off somewhere near Summersville, with a new task soon handed down to them - they were going to destroy what remained of Midwestern resistance here. The M14 in Harvey's hands felt heavy as they approached a cluster of large buildings, apparently warehouses of some sort. He could see the telltale signs of war all around the complex, from other American soldiers posted up on rooftops, to chunks of buildings missing from recent bombing attacks. Even the air itself tasted like warfare, burning with gunpowder and smoke. According to Sergeant Hartman, the enemy had holed up in one of the buildings, refusing to come out, and with friendly forces holding the surrounding rooftops and preventing a breakout, it was up to them to clear out the warehouse.
Sergeant Hartman seemed like the only one who was unenthusiastic about meeting the enemy in combat.
It had begun raining as they approached the target building, freezing an already chilly Harvey. The Sarge had them break out of their disorganized march up to the warehouse and more into what resembled a skirmish line. Harvey was right behind the Sarge as they neared the first window, only to be met with a hail of bullets. Undeterred, he gestured for the squad machine gunner, Morrison, to move up, shouting at him to start shooting. He obliged, happily filling the air with lead that allowed the rest of the squad to move around him to gain access to other windows. Harvey stole a glance inside, and could have sworn the only thing he could see was just pitch black.
Just as they had reached the other side of the window, Harvey heard screaming. He turned to see Morrison on the ground, his M60 next to him as he clutched his arm, shouting in pain. Gunfire filled the air, this time from friendly M14s and enemy rifles as Harvey slung his rifle back, dragging Morrison over to cover. For now, a simple field bandage would have to do, which Harvey tore out from his IFAK pouch. It continually bled as he wrapped it tight, causing more than a little bit of panic from Morrison.
"Hey, Sarge," somebody else asked. "What're we supposed to do now?"
"You're doing it right now!" he shouted. "Keep shooting!"
Harvey, having done all he could for Morrison, took his rifle back up in his hands and peeked around the wall. Almost immediately, the crackle of a machine gun greeted him, and he could clearly hear someone inside shouting about the "left side." Well, hell, that's where they were. He leaned back around, going lower this time, as the rifle shook in his hands. The recoil was a lot stronger when in combat than it had been during training, and it was honestly anyone's guess where his shots went after the first one. Sergeant Hartman started yelling at people to throw their grenades, and despite being one of the worst at it during training, Harvey followed suit, lobbing frags into the building with the rest of his squad.
"Uh, Baker 4-2, this is Hound Dog, how copy, over?"
That was their radio. Who the hell was asking for them right now?
"Hound Dog, this is Baker 4-2, copy loud and clear, over!" Sergeant Hartman shouted, having dragged their radioman to him.
"We are getting more intel on that target objective, break," the voice said. "Initial recon was wrong. It is not, say again, not two squads. It is actually two platoons, over."
"What?!" Sergeant Hartman yelled. "Are you fucking kidding me?!"
"Baker 4-2, that is not authorized radio protocol, but I'll ignore it this time. That is affirmative, out."
"Fuck!" Sergeant Hartman said, throwing the receiver down as the two sides traded gunfire. "How's it looking, guys?"
Just as he dared to ask this, a shot cracked out, killing the new kid, a Jamison from New York. It was as if dramatic irony had led him to be killed exactly as the Sarge asked. As another crescendo of gunfire erupted, Harvey could hear, clear as day, someone from inside shouting to "stay away from the fucking windows." Sergeant Hartman cursed again, rounding them up as best he could and withdrawing from the windows. There'd be no destroying the enemy today. Just a brutal, demoralizing lesson, and two casualties - one dead, one wounded - to show for the ammunition they had expended and the roughly twenty minutes they had spent.
Sergeant Hartman seemed like the only one who was unenthusiastic about meeting the enemy in combat.
It had begun raining as they approached the target building, freezing an already chilly Harvey. The Sarge had them break out of their disorganized march up to the warehouse and more into what resembled a skirmish line. Harvey was right behind the Sarge as they neared the first window, only to be met with a hail of bullets. Undeterred, he gestured for the squad machine gunner, Morrison, to move up, shouting at him to start shooting. He obliged, happily filling the air with lead that allowed the rest of the squad to move around him to gain access to other windows. Harvey stole a glance inside, and could have sworn the only thing he could see was just pitch black.
Just as they had reached the other side of the window, Harvey heard screaming. He turned to see Morrison on the ground, his M60 next to him as he clutched his arm, shouting in pain. Gunfire filled the air, this time from friendly M14s and enemy rifles as Harvey slung his rifle back, dragging Morrison over to cover. For now, a simple field bandage would have to do, which Harvey tore out from his IFAK pouch. It continually bled as he wrapped it tight, causing more than a little bit of panic from Morrison.
"Hey, Sarge," somebody else asked. "What're we supposed to do now?"
"You're doing it right now!" he shouted. "Keep shooting!"
Harvey, having done all he could for Morrison, took his rifle back up in his hands and peeked around the wall. Almost immediately, the crackle of a machine gun greeted him, and he could clearly hear someone inside shouting about the "left side." Well, hell, that's where they were. He leaned back around, going lower this time, as the rifle shook in his hands. The recoil was a lot stronger when in combat than it had been during training, and it was honestly anyone's guess where his shots went after the first one. Sergeant Hartman started yelling at people to throw their grenades, and despite being one of the worst at it during training, Harvey followed suit, lobbing frags into the building with the rest of his squad.
"Uh, Baker 4-2, this is Hound Dog, how copy, over?"
That was their radio. Who the hell was asking for them right now?
"Hound Dog, this is Baker 4-2, copy loud and clear, over!" Sergeant Hartman shouted, having dragged their radioman to him.
"We are getting more intel on that target objective, break," the voice said. "Initial recon was wrong. It is not, say again, not two squads. It is actually two platoons, over."
"What?!" Sergeant Hartman yelled. "Are you fucking kidding me?!"
"Baker 4-2, that is not authorized radio protocol, but I'll ignore it this time. That is affirmative, out."
"Fuck!" Sergeant Hartman said, throwing the receiver down as the two sides traded gunfire. "How's it looking, guys?"
Just as he dared to ask this, a shot cracked out, killing the new kid, a Jamison from New York. It was as if dramatic irony had led him to be killed exactly as the Sarge asked. As another crescendo of gunfire erupted, Harvey could hear, clear as day, someone from inside shouting to "stay away from the fucking windows." Sergeant Hartman cursed again, rounding them up as best he could and withdrawing from the windows. There'd be no destroying the enemy today. Just a brutal, demoralizing lesson, and two casualties - one dead, one wounded - to show for the ammunition they had expended and the roughly twenty minutes they had spent.
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Markus Wilding
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Re: Ballad About American Boys
Somewhere in another suburb, a machine gun echoed in the night. The dull orange glow of something on fire cast off an eerie haze over the horizon, only broken up by the occasional green-tipped tracer that shot up into the sky. Following the warehouse in West Virginia, they had been shuttled over to deal with combat in Detroit, with replacements shoved in almost as quickly as they fell. Fighting in the city itself was draining him - Harvey felt as if it had sucked him dry of any energy, sapped of the very will to fight even as he heard rifles firing in the night. He had been here for some two days, and already wished he was back home. Fighting in the city was bad enough, but when everyone worse the same green uniform he did? It was like looking for a needle in a haystack.
There wasn't any rain today, but he secretely believed that rain only showed up when he was about to gear up for a fight. Harvey's friends had long grown delirious, and the new kids didn't even know his name. Maybe it was for the better. In between Roger going on about how the ancients were shadowing them and the Sergeant's constant demands to keep vigilant, there wasn't ever much time to talk. All that mattered to him right now was whether he was quick enough to get the trigger squeezed before the other guy.
So far, fifteen out of fifteen times, he had been lucky. Then again, when he was 16, he had managed to wreck the family car. So maybe sixteen wouldn't be his lucky number. Maybe tomorrow was the day it all ended. At least then he wouldn't have to deal with the MCIs anymore.
There wasn't any rain today, but he secretely believed that rain only showed up when he was about to gear up for a fight. Harvey's friends had long grown delirious, and the new kids didn't even know his name. Maybe it was for the better. In between Roger going on about how the ancients were shadowing them and the Sergeant's constant demands to keep vigilant, there wasn't ever much time to talk. All that mattered to him right now was whether he was quick enough to get the trigger squeezed before the other guy.
So far, fifteen out of fifteen times, he had been lucky. Then again, when he was 16, he had managed to wreck the family car. So maybe sixteen wouldn't be his lucky number. Maybe tomorrow was the day it all ended. At least then he wouldn't have to deal with the MCIs anymore.
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Markus Wilding
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Re: Ballad About American Boys
Thirty hours ago, Harvey had been having a good day. They all had been having a good day. They hadn't been shot at for a week. The MCIs, surprisingly enough, somehow improved with the introduction of a new menu (Harvey still hated the lima beans and ham, and hurled them into the nearest river whenever he was cursed enough to have them). Hell, even the Sarge seemed to be in a good mood.
Now, though, at roundabout "fucking too early in the goddamn morning" according to the Lieutenant, they were under all sort of fire imaginable. Literal, metaphorical, and, Harvey began to suspect, experimental. Enemy machine guns had shot up their position, while artillery rained down all around them. The brick buildings and old concrete factories had been demolished long ago, replaced by piles of rubble that only hid enemy sharpshooters and assault troops. Someone was shouting, but above the squad's machine gun and his own rifle, Harvey couldn't hear what they were saying. Airplanes roared overhead, dropping bombs not even two blocks away. The enemy had set up a speaker, and it blared noise on the hour, every hour, propaganda about how they were fighting a pointless battle for people that didn't care about the common soldier.
As the sun began to rise, he could finally see the people he was shooting at. They didn't look much different from him - old M1 rifles, steel pot helmets. Theirs were old WWII types, not the new one that everybody called the "gumdrop." Occasionally, he saw a flash of something familiar, but he shook it off as combat nerves. That's what the medic had called it last month, anyway. Squeaking tracks had joined in the cacophony of noise that enveloped the battlefield, and Harvey watched an old Sherman, done up in a camo pattern to match Detroit's usual landscape. The turret slowly rotated towards their position, and he heard clearly his sergeant shouting for them to displace.
That was when it all went black.
HARVEY J. KRUGER
JULY 8TH, 1942
AUGUST 20TH, 1961
PFC, S.R. ARMY
Now, though, at roundabout "fucking too early in the goddamn morning" according to the Lieutenant, they were under all sort of fire imaginable. Literal, metaphorical, and, Harvey began to suspect, experimental. Enemy machine guns had shot up their position, while artillery rained down all around them. The brick buildings and old concrete factories had been demolished long ago, replaced by piles of rubble that only hid enemy sharpshooters and assault troops. Someone was shouting, but above the squad's machine gun and his own rifle, Harvey couldn't hear what they were saying. Airplanes roared overhead, dropping bombs not even two blocks away. The enemy had set up a speaker, and it blared noise on the hour, every hour, propaganda about how they were fighting a pointless battle for people that didn't care about the common soldier.
As the sun began to rise, he could finally see the people he was shooting at. They didn't look much different from him - old M1 rifles, steel pot helmets. Theirs were old WWII types, not the new one that everybody called the "gumdrop." Occasionally, he saw a flash of something familiar, but he shook it off as combat nerves. That's what the medic had called it last month, anyway. Squeaking tracks had joined in the cacophony of noise that enveloped the battlefield, and Harvey watched an old Sherman, done up in a camo pattern to match Detroit's usual landscape. The turret slowly rotated towards their position, and he heard clearly his sergeant shouting for them to displace.
That was when it all went black.
HARVEY J. KRUGER
JULY 8TH, 1942
AUGUST 20TH, 1961
PFC, S.R. ARMY
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Markus Wilding
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Re: Ballad About American Boys
June 18th, 1963
Tabora, Kingdom of Tabora
1548 hours local time
Lieutenant Cameron Ross shielded his eyes from the harsh African sun, squinting in a vain attempt to see something out in the vast expanses. They hadn't expected to see much action here - battalion said that if anything, the Victorians would probably knock out half the country before the Marines could even get near anything. Nobody had thought the Taboran king would actually abdicate, but then again, royal politics wasn't something that Ross much paid attention to. Right now, his orders were to hold outside the Taboran capital and wait either for the Victorian Pac squads to clear it, or for somebody higher up to say that they were done and they could go home.
"Hey LT, see anything?" Sergeant Brooks, his gunner, tapped him on the shoulder as he called out. His voice was muffled by the gas mask, an ever-present element of their situation. Ross didn't mind the heat, but the heat combined with the gas mask that made it impossible to smell anything other than treated rubber and chemicals.
"Negative, Sergeant," Ross replied. He took his binoculars up to his eyes, scanning the horizon. There had been reports that some upstart general had gone and declared himself King, and was leading a rebellion to punt the Victorians and Marines from Tabora. So far, that seemed like a lot of chickenshit judging by the way the horizon was calm.
The distant booming of artillery, though, dispelled any notion of peace. Ross ordered his tank, as well as the rest of the platoon, to button up and prepare for an attack. The interior was less cramped than the old M47, though that wasn't saying much. The dim dome lights buzzed as Ross slammed the hatch down, locking it in place just in case they needed to start moving. The shells began to pound down around them and the platoon, prompting Ross to get on the radio and relay the attack on his position to command. Each shellburst rocked the tank and produced a hollow echoing, with a handful landing uncomfortably close.
"Platoon commander, be advised, Kirchner's HQ is ordering all units to assist Taborans in any way, over."
He frowned, muttering under his breath as he checked his periscope. A wave of Taboran infantry had begun advancing at his platoon. "Sergeant, open fire!" he ordered, to which Sgt. Brooks immediately replied with in the form of sending out high explosive shells at the incoming Taborans. "Command, all due respect, is the General fucking drunk? We're taking heavy artillery fire from Taboran rebels, and I am currently under attack by Taboran infantry!"
"Orders stand, Lieutenant. Unofficially, do what you have to. Out."
Well, that settled it. Ross switched channels, informing his platoon that, for now, the orders were to repel the assault by any means necessary. For the moment, it looked like a basic WWI-style infantry and artillery assault. They could easily sustain this defense, as long as nothing unexpected showed up. Sgt. Brooks and Corporal Murray, their loader, fired round after round of HE as fast as time and target considerations allowed.
Tabora, Kingdom of Tabora
1548 hours local time
Lieutenant Cameron Ross shielded his eyes from the harsh African sun, squinting in a vain attempt to see something out in the vast expanses. They hadn't expected to see much action here - battalion said that if anything, the Victorians would probably knock out half the country before the Marines could even get near anything. Nobody had thought the Taboran king would actually abdicate, but then again, royal politics wasn't something that Ross much paid attention to. Right now, his orders were to hold outside the Taboran capital and wait either for the Victorian Pac squads to clear it, or for somebody higher up to say that they were done and they could go home.
"Hey LT, see anything?" Sergeant Brooks, his gunner, tapped him on the shoulder as he called out. His voice was muffled by the gas mask, an ever-present element of their situation. Ross didn't mind the heat, but the heat combined with the gas mask that made it impossible to smell anything other than treated rubber and chemicals.
"Negative, Sergeant," Ross replied. He took his binoculars up to his eyes, scanning the horizon. There had been reports that some upstart general had gone and declared himself King, and was leading a rebellion to punt the Victorians and Marines from Tabora. So far, that seemed like a lot of chickenshit judging by the way the horizon was calm.
The distant booming of artillery, though, dispelled any notion of peace. Ross ordered his tank, as well as the rest of the platoon, to button up and prepare for an attack. The interior was less cramped than the old M47, though that wasn't saying much. The dim dome lights buzzed as Ross slammed the hatch down, locking it in place just in case they needed to start moving. The shells began to pound down around them and the platoon, prompting Ross to get on the radio and relay the attack on his position to command. Each shellburst rocked the tank and produced a hollow echoing, with a handful landing uncomfortably close.
"Platoon commander, be advised, Kirchner's HQ is ordering all units to assist Taborans in any way, over."
He frowned, muttering under his breath as he checked his periscope. A wave of Taboran infantry had begun advancing at his platoon. "Sergeant, open fire!" he ordered, to which Sgt. Brooks immediately replied with in the form of sending out high explosive shells at the incoming Taborans. "Command, all due respect, is the General fucking drunk? We're taking heavy artillery fire from Taboran rebels, and I am currently under attack by Taboran infantry!"
"Orders stand, Lieutenant. Unofficially, do what you have to. Out."
Well, that settled it. Ross switched channels, informing his platoon that, for now, the orders were to repel the assault by any means necessary. For the moment, it looked like a basic WWI-style infantry and artillery assault. They could easily sustain this defense, as long as nothing unexpected showed up. Sgt. Brooks and Corporal Murray, their loader, fired round after round of HE as fast as time and target considerations allowed.
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Markus Wilding
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Re: Ballad About American Boys
June 19th, 1963
Tabora, Kingdom of Tabora
0639 hours local time
The firefight against the waves of Taboran infantry had dragged on all night, and combined with the regimental guns and their own tanks, the field before them was little more than a land of pockmarks, massive craters dotting the ground that made navigation difficult. When Ross dared to poke his head out without his gas mask, he could smell the rank scent of death, the iron odor of blood that persisted even hours after the bleeding had stopped. Both of these smells mixed with the fumes of explosives and used gunpowder, the latter of which filled his tank each time he shut the hatch. The ventilation system did little to help, more just making the air a little bit less stuffy from time to time rather than actually evacuating any fumes.
"All units, be advised," the command radio sputtered. "Uh, Major wants an advance into the city to happen ASAP. We're looking for the dope that decided to fight us and the Victorians, over."
"Any word on how he wants that done?" Ross asked, already preparing his platoon to move out.
"Uh, negative. He just wants it."
Ross sighed, giving the order to move. Naturally, the question of what exactly they were supposed to do arose.
"Listen up," he said, growing tired of the constant questions he didn't have answers to. "Major wants it done, we're getting it done. We're going to go into Tabora and engage the rebels."
"Major's walking us into an ambush," one of his platoon sergeants said. "This is a bad fuckin' idea, LT."
"Seriously, we should just shoot ourselves and save the Taborans the trouble."
"Quite frankly, gentlemen, I'm not hearing the sort of aggression I'd like," Ross reminded them. "Keep scanning."
Slowly, they navigated around the holes from the day's combat, heading ever closer for the city of Tabora. With the rebels so quickly organizing, there was no telling at this point who would and wouldn't be hostile. Anybody, even the people waking up and going about their days, could be threats. Anybody could be hiding an anti-tank grenade under their clothing. Ross saw shadows and threats around every corner. Outdated they were, even crude anti-tank weapons could seriously damage something on his tank.
He'd been in-country for all of a week, and Ross already hated Tabora.
Tabora, Kingdom of Tabora
0639 hours local time
The firefight against the waves of Taboran infantry had dragged on all night, and combined with the regimental guns and their own tanks, the field before them was little more than a land of pockmarks, massive craters dotting the ground that made navigation difficult. When Ross dared to poke his head out without his gas mask, he could smell the rank scent of death, the iron odor of blood that persisted even hours after the bleeding had stopped. Both of these smells mixed with the fumes of explosives and used gunpowder, the latter of which filled his tank each time he shut the hatch. The ventilation system did little to help, more just making the air a little bit less stuffy from time to time rather than actually evacuating any fumes.
"All units, be advised," the command radio sputtered. "Uh, Major wants an advance into the city to happen ASAP. We're looking for the dope that decided to fight us and the Victorians, over."
"Any word on how he wants that done?" Ross asked, already preparing his platoon to move out.
"Uh, negative. He just wants it."
Ross sighed, giving the order to move. Naturally, the question of what exactly they were supposed to do arose.
"Listen up," he said, growing tired of the constant questions he didn't have answers to. "Major wants it done, we're getting it done. We're going to go into Tabora and engage the rebels."
"Major's walking us into an ambush," one of his platoon sergeants said. "This is a bad fuckin' idea, LT."
"Seriously, we should just shoot ourselves and save the Taborans the trouble."
"Quite frankly, gentlemen, I'm not hearing the sort of aggression I'd like," Ross reminded them. "Keep scanning."
Slowly, they navigated around the holes from the day's combat, heading ever closer for the city of Tabora. With the rebels so quickly organizing, there was no telling at this point who would and wouldn't be hostile. Anybody, even the people waking up and going about their days, could be threats. Anybody could be hiding an anti-tank grenade under their clothing. Ross saw shadows and threats around every corner. Outdated they were, even crude anti-tank weapons could seriously damage something on his tank.
He'd been in-country for all of a week, and Ross already hated Tabora.