/wfg/ Writefag General: New Vegas Edition

God bless you for this

Thank you for your insight. Only went with example two due to my own poor eyesight. Will strive to improve my writing.

if it's about the default colour scheme of the board, I am a supporter of making "Tomorrow" the default because of best balance for contrast between background and text (both regular and greentext)

I mean I have several pieces of documentation from medical professionals (civilian and military-) stating my colour vision is perfect, but with the default colour scheme of this board greentext is painful to read

smol Lee bump

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Thanks, you crazy finn.

Any good books on espionage or especially on recruitment of spies? I want to become an armchair intelligence officer

That was everything I could have hoped for and more. Here's hoping they madlads actually go through with it.

>Thanks, you crazy crazy person.
you are repeating yourself, in any case: "no, thank YOU Mr/Mrs/Ms reader."

bump

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adorable Lee bump

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>be me
>gets shot in the head
>get dug up by a robot
>robot brings me to local doctor
>local doctor can't do anything because I got shot in the fucking head
>dies

Bump with a request for (more) recommendations on guerrilla warfare.
Thanks to the couple people who already have given me recommendations.

Also, I've said this again, but I think it's worth repeating, you guys should get an email chain going and put all your works together to get a collection of short stories published.
Just a suggestion anyway.

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I haven't read them, but RAND Corp had two that caught my eye when I was trolling Google for stuff on insurgencies, specifically crushing them.

Here they are:
rand.org/pubs/monographs/MG595.html
rand.org/pubs/monographs/MG964.html

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Shit, I'm a retard.

Thanks.

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bump

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Fry The Brain: The Art of Urban Sniping and its Role in Modern Guerrilla Warfare by John West is a good book that goes in depth in its namesake.

I remember a few years back the sticky had a “generally accepted waffengeist canon” section, but I can’t find it now. Anyone know what I’m referring to?

Like, which parts represent what body parts and how that scaled.

yeah the original sticky got removed by Pastebin because of some BS reason.

Tracked it dow useind desuarcive and wayback machine: pastebin.com/kW8095cw
web.archive.org/web/20170307174449/http://pastebin.com/5yG5C9ek

I've been working on something that I think you might like.

Michael Hansen

Five Years Front
a soldier's memoirs of the Great War

Für meine Kameraden

1964
Spring
Training

I was drafted into the Feldheer like so many other hopeful young men in the Spring of 1964.
To my 16-year-old self, alone away from home for the first time, the red brick buildings of the Adenauer Kaserne in Hannover might as well have been fairytale castles, brimming with the promise of adventure and glory.
There was no marvelling for long however, for as soon as we stepped off the train, a stocky Unterfeldwebel went to work, ordering us into formation in the courtyard.
"What a pathetic Sauhaufen! You want to be soldiers? If the Kaiser were to see you, he might lose confidence in the whole damn war effort! But not to worry, I will teach you. Now, Bewegung! In Formation antreten, marsch marsch," and on he went, talking and shouting non-stop, admonishing those who drew his ire and praising those who seemed to know what they were doing with backhanded compliments.
I tried not to draw his attention, getting into position as I was told and doing my best to take in as much as I could without visibly moving my head. There were other formations being assembled across from ours on the other side of the courtyard, and as I heard the train start to move again and leave the base's station, I couldn't help but shiver with excitement at my new life that was about to begin.
When our formation was finally satisfactory to the Unterfeld (who was still complaining about our apparent lack of discipline), we were marched off into one of the red brick buildings of Adenauer, which had seemed so imposing upon arrival but were now revealed to be simply barracks. Sleeping quarters for eight recruits per room on a long hallway, the walls decorated with photographs of war heroes who had gone through basic trainig at Adenauer and schematics of the weapons we would soon be familiarized with.

Set up in the entryway of the barracks were a few tables where we filled out the last of our paperwork, before being given our bedsheets by a bored-looking enlisted man and assigned a room. I remember being disappointed by the lack of ceremony, thinking of the bedsheet-man's nonchalanche almost as an insult. Weren't we the heroes of tomorrow, while he was just an old fart stuck on training duty?
It turned out that I shared my room with Egon, another recruit from Kassel I had met on the train, and six others I had not. We tidied our beds to our best efforts, we packed the belongings we had been allowed to bring into our lockers, and then, lacking orders on what to do, sat around the table that was one of the few pieces of furniture in the room to talk.
While the names of most these first Kameraden escape me now (except for Egon, with whom I would share much more joy and pain, and another dear friend whom I will introduce in a while), I clearly remember the following exchange:
One of the others, a boy from the Elsaß, suddenly got up and announced: "Well, lads, I will go look for the Unterfeld, to ask him about our orders."
We looked at him as if he had just announced that he would take a quick stroll to hell and back. "Are you out of your mind?," another hissed at him, grabbing his arm to prevent him from leaving. "Everyone knows how the NCOs are in basic training. If you go to ask him for something to do, you will have us all cleaning the toilets or worse for our stay here!"
Oh, how innocent we were then, to think that toilet duty could be the worst to befall us, so assured of victory that it wasn't a question for us wether it was reached, only that we would get there as comfortably yet with as much excitement as possible.
The Elsäßer looked at him as if he was crazy, but then relented and sat back down. Not a moment too soon, because the Unterfeld's voice came booming from the hallway as soon as his buttocks touched the chair.

"Dritte Kompanie, antreten! In front of your rooms, Marsch!"
We all jumped up, clambering over the chairs and each other as every one wanted to be the first outside. When we were lined up next to our doors on the hallway, recruits standing to attention from the window at the far end of the hallway to the door we entered through, the Unterfeld who had been marching up and down the hallway while we stumbled all around him, trying to get to our places without getting too close to him, closed the pocket watch he had been staring at the whole time and started shouting again.
"That was almost a whole minute to get to your positions! If you are that slow during a combat alarm, you die! Not only you, your whole Zug dies. Do you want to sabotage our war effort? Well, do you?"
A resounding "Nein, Herr Unterfeldwebel" from 160 throats came as the answer. The Unterfeld looked at us if he wasn't sure wether he should believe us or start assembling firing squads, but then he raised his voice again, flipped his watch back open and declared: "Back to your rooms, Jungs, We'll try that again right away."
The next half hour was spent running into and out of our rooms while the Unterfeld and two equally shout-happy Unteroffiziere screamed at us to get moving, stand still, go back to our rooms, marsch marsch. When we had finally reached a time he deemed satisfactory, we were allowed to return to our rooms. We had just sat down at our table again, sweating and complaining to each other about what a Schinder the Unterfeld was, when from the hallway came another shout: "Aaachtung! Stubenappell!"
Groaning, we got up again and took our old and by now familiar positions beside the door, while the Unterfeld and another NCO walked from room to room, inspecting how the recruits quartered there had made their beds, while the last of the trio infernale stood guard on the hallway and kept a watchful eye on us.

Infallibly, whenever they entered a room, there followed shouting and the crashing noises of personal belongings being thrown to the floor, before the NCOs and the recruits returned to the hallway. I remember staring at one recruit from the first room to be inspected who looked as if he was close to crying, and I remember the guard dog barking to keep our eyes straight ahead.
I spent the rest of the wait for our turn staring at a framed picture of Werner Hagelow, the hero of Ukraine at the wall opposite of me.
Finally our turn came. The Unterfeld walked past us into our room while we stood at attention like statues. "Eintreten!" came the bellowed order, and we followed him. The Unterfeld and his fellow NCO were already at work, checking every corner for dirt and bringing new disorder to our freshly made beds.
"What's this?" the Unterfeld asked one unlucky roommate, pointing towards a cobweb in a corner near the ceiling. The poor lad looked like he might have been frozen with fear, but finally he managed a reply: "A cobweb, Herr Unterfeldwebel."
This only managed to set the Unterfeld off even more. "Damn right, a cobweb," he shouted so loud that I could've sworn my teeth clattered. "And why is there a cobweb in your room, Schütze?" My companion looked even more shaken by this outburst than the rest of us. Still, he answered something to the effect of the room not having been cleaned properly. This quickly caught him a slap across the face from the Unterfeld.
"Are you saying that your predecessors didn't clean their rooms properly when they left? I don't think so! By the time we were through with them, they were real soldiers, with a sense for order and duty. Not one of them would tolerate such a dereliction in cleanliness. No, recruits," he added, now addressing all of us, "I think that you are the ones to blame. Your civilian laxitude has already begun to seep into the very walls of the building."

While he was speaking, the other NCO had been inspecting our lockers, and now he opened them to reveal their contents to the Unterfeld, whose eyes seemed to almost fall out of his skull.
"Who ordered you to stow your luggage?" He shrieked. "This isn't your appartment back home, you little shits. Here, we do things by the book." He started tearing bags and backpacks from the lockers, throwing them across the room. "These lockers are for your gear and nothing else! Is that understood?"
Eight voices shouting "Ja, Herr Unterfeldwebel!" answered. He turned as if to leave, but then turned around once more. The rage on his face had been replaced with a sort of peaceful calm, and he looked at us and the room as if he saw it for the first time.
"It looks like an artillery firing range in here," he said, no longer the crazed maniac from before, now reminding me more of a kindly teacher. "See to it that this mess is cleaned up by roll call this evening." With that, he was out of the door, his lackey following him.
We spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning up our room, cursing and complaining whenever we were sure that there were no training personnel nearby. Stealthy talks with other recruits revealed that the scene we had gotten the honor of participating in in our room had more or less in the same way occured in every room, and this only served to fuel our discontent.
After the evening roll call, during which we were split into training platoons and squads, each of us got issued a can of food from an iron ration as dinner before we were being given Dienstunterbrechung for the day.
While my roommates sat around the table talking to each other, I absentmindedly poked at the contents of my can with my fork and thought about how the day went. It had certainly been what I had expected, but at the same time it hadn't been at all. While I was still trying to wrap my head around this conundrum, Egon sat down beside me.

"Is everything all right?" he asked, genuine concern in his voice. I simply nodded. "I'm just thinking about the day," I explained. "Wondering how it will go on, you know?" Now it was Egon's turn to nod. "Better not to lose any sleep over it," he said, "We will find out soon enough."

comfy bump

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Of course, Egon had been right. We were woken early the next day by shouting and rapping on our door. We barely had time to get out of bed when the Unteroffizier who had accompained the Unterfeld the day before barged into our room. "Get yourselves dressed and your beds in order," he growled, "Roll call in 5 minutes." With that, he was back the way he came, undoubtedly to repeat the same in the next room.
The roll call came, and, as expected, not everyone managed to get there in time. While the Unteroffizier went back into our block to "motivate" the stragglers, the Unterfeld started the morning sports with us. Seeing how much power and energy this small, stocky man possessed was surreal. When we laid there panting, unable to do one more push-up or other exercise, he was infallibly still going at it, shouting at us all the time.
"Come on, just one more! That's my boy! You there! No stopping until I say so! God, you are a pathetic lot. Come on boys, just one more set." Still, we who had managed to get outside in time were the lucky ones, for while we walked off to take breakfast, the ones the Uffz had needed to whip downstairs were taken to run a few rounds along the base's outer wall. They later joined us in time to receive our equipment from the quartermaster, panting, hungry and with sweat-drenched clothes.
The Quartermaster's realm was another one of the red brick buildings we had already become familiar with, but while the barracks were divided into several rooms and hallways, his seemed to be just one endlessly stretching room in which everything a soldier could dream of seemed to be stored.
In short order, we recieved our personal equipment, which included many mundane things, such as underwear and socks, but also the coveted treasures we had all been looking forward to recieving: Helmets, field-gray parade uniforms and, most important of all, our weapon, the Mauser Automatikkarabiner 59.

I was as giddy as a boy on christmas morning when the clerk who was in charge of the weapons handed me the gun, but did my best to conceal it, as to not draw our Unterfeld's wrath. By the way my comrades reacted, I could tell that I wasn't the only one trying to suppress excited glee. Still, for the next hour an idiotic grin returned to our faces whenever we thought the attention of our supervisors elsewhere.
This feeling of excitement wasn't for long, however. During drill training, assembly and disassembly of the gun under all kinds of circumstances, from complete darkness to a simulated gas attack, the gun quickly turned from a promise of adventure and heroism into an universally disliked harbinger of routine and shouting instructors.
Our best efforts never seemed enough for our instructors, and their incessant shouting, kicking and slapping of recruits only served to further agitate us.
But no suffering lasts forever, and so on one sunny morning our company found itself marching out of the gates of the base through the outskirts of the city and into the surrounding countryside for our first combat training bivouac.
We had been taught the basics of infantry combat during our weapons training, and now it was time to put the theory to the test. Promising recruits had been made squad leaders, while our instructors played the role of officers and relayed orders that we were to act on and soldiers from the local Heimatschutz were to play our enemies.
Egon had been made leader of a squad that was made up from the boys from our barrack room, and while we were marching past the smoke-belching chimneys of the ever-working armament factories on the edge of town and into the sun-bathed fields and forests of the surrounding plains, I found myself in high spirits.
Without a doubt, we would impress our instructors just as we would our superiors once we got assigned our Stammeinheiten.

I found myself imagining marching not only to a training exercise, but on a great offensive, to finally break the stalemate and send Ivan running from the Reich. How glorious would it be to to break the enemy lines on a day like this, send him on his way with his tail behind his legs? In this moment I felt at peace, completely confident in our impending victory. The war was won already, and it was only a matter of time until the enemy would notice as well.
"Hansen! Abstände einhalten!" The shout from our Unterfeld ripped through my pleasant daydreams and brought me back to the present. I had been so absorbed into my fantasy, that I was almost stepping into the back of the feet of the man in front of me, and so I sheepishly corrected my pace.
"Rührt euch! Ein Lied!" Came another shout, and like one man we started singing the marching song that had been drilled into our heads since the first week of training:

"In der Ukraine, Sommer Neunundvierzig ... "

We finally made camp in a rich green wooded area belonging to the Hannover training area. By now it was midday, and we were all a bit winded from the long march. A few recruits were already taking off their packs and drinking, sitting down, talking and laughing, when our Unterfeldwebel, who had been curiously absent for the last stretch of the march, returned in a jeep driven by a Heimatschutzmann in full battle dress.
"Squad Leaders to me!" he ordered in his characteristically loud way, and soon the ten men who had the questionable privilege of having been chosen for this position crowded around his car, quietly talking to each other and taking notes.
"What do you think they are doing?" the Elsäßer, who sat next to me in the shadow of a scots pine, asked me. "Receiving orders, of course," I replied in the tone of know-it-alls everywhere. Sure enough, shortly afterward Egon shouted for us to now gather around him.

"Alright, guys, here it is. We have been ordered to dig trenches here to secure an assumed supply route. One squad will be split up in the area over there," he indicated the mostly flat area to our front, "at all times. As it is, we have the honor of going first. We will take our posts for three hours, after which we will work on the trenches for another three hours, followed by four hours rest."
Soon, Egon had taken another of our squadmates to scout out positions for our posts, and those of us that remained went over our gear once more. I felt a slight shiver of joyful anticipation. Surely, our instructors wouldn't wait long to send in the first enemy probing attack. I counted my rounds, all blanks of course, and then found myself recounting them. The others seemed to be just as nervous, readjusting their webbing or smoking a quick cigarette.
"Hansen, Schleier, mitkommen!" I had been so absorbed in my gear that I hadn't even heard Egon and his companion return. I quickly scrambled onto my feet and grabbed my gear. "Leave your pack," Egon advised me. "Remember what they told us, only light gear on the alarm post."
Somewhat embarassed, I left my backpack behind and soon found myself bounding from bush to ditch with the others, exposing ourselves as little as possible to the prying eyes we suspected everywhere. Finally, we arrived in a ditch between two fields, hidden from sight by a collection of bushes hanging overhead. Egon crouched down besides us, and ran us through all we needed to know.
"Listen Jungs, here it goes. Last night, the enemy made an airdrop near Celle and we are to contain them here to protect our supply lines until command can get some panzer units here to crush them. You are to stay in the alarmposten until relieved and alert the rest of the company in case of an attack via green flare shot by flaregun. To your left, about one hundred metres from here, by that old signpost, there'll be Graf and Burghardt in their post."

"To your right, in that bushgroup about eighty metres from your position, will be Gunther and I with the machine gun. Your main field of fire will be between those two trees at 10'o clock, at two hundred metres, and the small stream at 1'o clock, at aboout onehundred and fifty metres.
You are to open fire if you are spotted or the enemy advances within 200m of your post. If you spot enemy movement, I want you to report immediately via radio, or if the radio is unavailable, via a green flare shot up with the SigPi, as if they attacked you. I I'll leave the radio and flaregun with you. You'll be relieved in about three hours. The password is 'Winter? Rhine.' Got all that?"
My head was swimming with the flood of information I had just received, but to my relief Schleier had jutted down the bullet points on a piece of paper and ran them back at Egon, who nodded satisfied. "Make me proud, friends. You'll handle it." He gave us each a comradely slap on the back, and then he was off, to lead the next fireteam to their post.
The Elsäßer and I tried to make our post as comfortable as possible, but soon had to face the fact that this was as good as it would get. The ditch was mostly dried out by the summer sun, but a trickle of stinking rancid water remained at the bottom, and soon we were swarmed by stinging insects that were slavering at such a feast.
Still, we didn't let some mosquitos deter us. We were full of nervous enthusiasm, checking each rustle in the vegetation to our front with our binoculars. Yet each time we were disappointed when it turned out that the wind or a small animal had been responsible.
I looked over to the group of bushes were Egon had told us he had his position. I realized then that he hadn't told us what we were to do if the enemy attacked in force. Were we to remain here, selling our lives as dearly as possible, or was there some kind of signal that we would receive that would tell us to retreat towards the main line?

This lack of information left me no rest, despite the lack of enemy contact so far. My eyes flinched from our front to Egon's position and back, unsure wether I should try to reach him via radio, or if that would draw the anger of our Unterfeld on us or Egon. My hand was already wandering towards the radio, when Schleier spoke.
"Say, Hansen, what battle would you have liked to fight in?" The sudden question succeeded in distracting me, and my hand withdrew again.
"I think I would have liked to fight in Sewastopol," I answered without hesitation. "I mean, who wouldn't want to fight in the largest airborne operation of the war?" My father had often told me how in 1949 they had made that jump and fought tooth and nails all over the Krim for weeks, before finally linking up and taking the black sea port of Sewastopol. It had been a short lived victory, and in the following evacuation by u-boat almost as many paratroopers had been killed as on the day of the landing, but they had managed to make the harbor utterly useless to Ivan before pulling out.
When my father came home after the operation, seeing him scarred and one-armed had driven young me to crying fits.
"Who wouldn't want to fight in the largest airborne operation of the war? Try someone who values his life." Schleier's laugh pulled me back to the present. "Seriously, I bet you only picked Sewastopol because they make us sing that song everyday-"
"My father fought at Sewastopol," I interrupted him, somewhat harsher than intended, "and believe me, he paid the price for Blichner's blunder. Maybe you want to see his picture, to put things into perspective?"
I was already opening my pocket to pull out the family photograph we had made the week before I left for training. Schleier raised his hands apologetically, his eyes wide. "I am sorry, Hansen, I meant no offense."

I grunted something I don't remember and turned to face our front again, when he added "But if you allow it, I would like to see the picture."
Turning back, I handed it to him, and watched his expression change from one of careful scepticism to one resembling awe. I didn't need to take a look at the photograph to know what had impressed him so much; I had looked at it almost daily since I came to Hannover. It showed my family at home, Mother in her finest and only dress, my little sisters in their blue school uniforms, and my father and I. While I still wore my best civilian suit, father wore his old paratrooper's uniform, bedecked in a Feldwebel's insignia, the wound badge in gold, the iron crosses first and second class, the Crimean campaign shield visible on his upper sleeve.
Finally, Schleier handed me the photohraph back, and I pocketed it again, careful not to make any dog ears from the corners.
It seemed like he wasn't sure what he should say, so I decided to take that burden from him.
"So what about you, Schleier?" I asked, "What battle would you have liked to fight in?"
"The defense of the east," Schleier said in the tone of one who thinks that he has to convince others of his point. "Keeping Ivan off of German soil, really letting them pay for every metre."
"And you make fun of me for wanting to partake in a Himmelfahrtskommando? Have you read how many of our boys were killed until the front was stabilized?" Despite the harsh subject matter, I couldn't help but chuckle, a fact I today hate myself for.
Schleier gave me a look that spoke of anger and sadness. "But that makes it all the more important," he almost shouted. "If I have to die, I want it to matter! So what if we get wiped out, as long as we fought for a good cause!"
In that moment I had the feeling that I understood Schleier, who I hadn't really talked a lot to in our spare free time, better than anyone.

"I understand completely," I told, him raising my hands defensively. "It's how I would want to go as well."
A small grin returned to Schleier's face, and he visibly relaxed. "At least the Eiserne Division bled Ivan dry in the Baltics," he said, "That has got to count for something, right?"
"That has to count for something," I agreed, and that was the moment in which two people who weren't much more than strangers became friends.
There was no attack during our stint in the alarmposten.

And I guess that's where I'll leave it for today. Let me know what you think so far.

This is a nice start. It reads like something I would have expected of the World War generations, reflecting on their experience. I look forward to more.

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Bump

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There is a great deal to love about this picture.

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>Just modeled and wrote the backstory for one of the love interests in my dumb video game
>I have no idea if Olympic Shooting is even cool or attractive enough for people to at least try that romance route.
Help me Jow Forums and also what Gun do you think an Olympic Shooter would use and do people like Gilfs?

Being unhappy with how Parks's story ended I'm gonna be adding an epilogue of sorts to his arc.

Stand by, gentlemen.

Good to know that I managed the vibe I was going for then. I wanted to write something like a memoir for a fictional war.

It was our turn to rest, and I was sunken into a dreamless sleep after hard hours of work on the trenches, when our enemy decided to make himself known.
Shots rang out from the direction of the Postenkette, and shouting Squadleaders ran past my tent, blowing into whistles and shouting for their men.
A kick hit me in the side, and someone who had stumbled over me cursed, and then I was out of the tent, grabbing my rifle and giving Graf, who I shared the tent with, a hand to pull him out of the mess stumbling soldiers had made out of it.
Once we had our gear in hand, we ran crouched towards the meeting point Egon had made sure to instill into our heads before allowing us to go to bed. Finding it, however was a different matter in the dark and among other, similarily confused recruits.
I had just ducked under a branch that I could have sworn hadn't been there when there had still been light, when a hand grabbed my arm.
"Hansen, Graf, is that you?" When I answered in the affirmative, Egon let go of my arm. "Finally. You two are the last ones. Come on, into the trench." I grabbed Egons belt and Graf mine, so as to not lose each other in the darkness, as we made our way through the underbrush to the section of the trench that had been assigned to our squad.
"Halt! Wer da? Parole?" I recognized Burghardt's voice call out to us. "Winter," Egon replied and when Burghardt answered with "Rhein", we jumped down into the half-finished earthworks. Despite a day of work, the trench at our section was still more a ditch, too flat to stand decently in and without breastworks.
"Alright, spread out. Like I told you, guys, you better not have forgotten everything over a few hours of sleep." On Egon's command, I stumbled through our ditch-trench, trying to find my position.

Egon had insisted on giving us an Einweisung like he had done at the Alarmposten before allowing us our rest, and of course we had bitched and moaned about missing valuable sleep and made jokes about people who wanted to make a name for themselves, but now I was forced to acknowledge that Egon had done the right thing.
Reading the landscape in the dark, with sounds of combat from the front and shouted orders from other squads moving into position to our sides and behind us was a challenge, one that might as well have been impossible if we hadn't already been told what to look for.
Finally I found my position, next to Schleier who gave me a nod. "You kept me waiting." "I am moved," I replied, but my witticism suffered under my short breath, and made my friend chuckle nervously. We exchanged no more banter, instead focusing on what was going on to our front. The open field that stretched itself out to our front was shrouded in darkness, except for the areas which were illuminated by flares, which I presumed were shot up by our instructors, and bursts of automatic fire.
I tried to find a somewhat comfortable firing position, almost not daring to take my eye from the sight of my gun. Each burst of movement was followed by frantic staring for any changes in front of us.
"Aufpassen!" Egon's shout made me freeze up and interrupted my pitiful attempts. "The Postenkette is about to be overrun. They are going to fall back by fireteams towards our main line, so watch your fire. Remember, blanks can still do some damage at short ranges."
He had barely gotten the words out, when I saw two figures in a crouched run coming directly towards us and trained my rifle on them. "Schleier," I asked my friend in an odd tone that was neither shout nor whisper, "are those our boys?" "I think so," came the reply, "but I don't know wether the SIDAFS (which is what the reservists playing our enemies were called) have been issued any Russian gear or are using their own stuff."

I mumbled a curse, then shouted "Two unidentified riflemen at twelve o'clock, closing in fast!" At least now it wasn't just our problem anymore. "Hold fire," came a shout back, "that's a fireteam of second squad!" I turned to give the news to Schleier, who shut me up with a nod and a rasped "heard it.", and then I turned back towards the front ready to give our boys some covering fire should any enemies appear behind them.
More fireteams came running downrange towards different sections of our trenchline, while the firing behind them reached a crescendo. Severeal automatiks were out there, all firing wildly, at times drowned out by bursts of what could only have been machine gun fire. Finally, the bursts turned into one long continuos one, and then there was an eerie silence. The last flares glid to the ground, and darkness took the fields back.
"Zuhören, Jungs! I just got a call saying second squad's MG has been overrun while covering their retreat. That means we are a heavy weapon short. Stay sharp, and remember to call out your targets." To say that the news were not exactly encouraging would have been an understatement. Despite the whole situation being an exercise, I felt as if the whole Russian army was about to bear down on our little line of defense. I shot a look over to Schleier, and from the looks of it he felt it too.
"Seems like you are about to get your taste of defensive combat," I recall whispering. Without taking his eye from his rifle's sight, Schleier gave me the finger, but I made out what I thought was a small grin on his face.
Then came another burst of gunfire from our front,and I jerked my head back so quickly that it felt as if I had injured a nerve in my neck. There was wild shouting in our trench, which I finally identified as "In the ditch to our front, twohundred metres!" and almost acting on instinct, I picked up the cry, while at the same time trying to make out anything in the darkness in front of us.

From somewhere I heard Egon on the radio, shouting about illumination, and indeed, a few seconds later new flares flew from the woods besides us and up over the plain. Finally, I made out the enemy, who now, without the cover of darkness to protect him while moving in, started firing wildly towards our position. I tried to pick up a SIDAF in my sights whose fieldcapped head was the only visible part of him as he tried to duck into the ditch, and let loose the first shots I ever aimed at another human being.
The flash blinded me for a second, and when I could make out more than silhouettes again there was no sign of the soldier I had shot at. Despite the knowledge that the whole affair was merely an exercise, there was a feeling of triumph, and I once again started firing at a bush which I thought moved in a suspicious way, when there came several loud bangs accompained by small explosions between us and the enemy. Shouts of "Mortar! Take cover!" came down the line and were picked up by each soldier they passed.
We threw ourselves down on our bellys or backs, clutching our rifles and trying to fit as much of ourselves into our half-dug cover as we could while the sound of the training grenades outside kept going.
Another order came down the line: "Make ready for Sturmabwehrschießen!" I started clawing at my pouches, desperate to get a full magazine into my rifle, when, far to our left, the shooting started again. Shouting and bursts of automatic fire replaced the explosions of the "mortar attack" and rose to a stakkato, and over all the chaos I heard Egon order us back up. With a curse I abandoned my efforts to reload and propped myself back up on one knee.
Before I got the chance to pick up the fight again, however, there came the piercing noise of an NCO's whistle, followed by shouts of "Exercise's over! Übungsende!". All along our line recruits came climbing out of their positions, faces dirty and eyes wide from the adrenaline.

I was surprised to see several older men coming from the sides, equipped lightly and quietly joking amongst each other. It dawned on me that it were these men we had been fighting, and for just a moment I found myself wondering just how they had managed to get to us so quickly.
Those thoughts were put aside, however, when our Unterfeldwebel, flanked by two Uffzs on either side, made his way over.
"Alright, men, gather round. Weber, to me." We formed a half circle around the gathered NCOs, while one of the SIDAFs took his place next to the Unterfeld. This Weber fellow was a tall man in what seemed to be his thirties, dressed in an old summer camouflage uniform and wearing only a field cap on his head. He made no effort to remove his cigarette while he took his place, and to our silent astonishment, the Unterfeld seemed to take no offense at this.
"Everyone here? Finally. So, can anyone tell me what happened just now?" The Unterfeldwebel looked from one empty face to the next, while the Unteroffiziere stood there stonefaced and Weber seemed to repress a grin. "You there! What happened here?" The Unterfeldwebel pointed at a recruit who looked as if he was just about to collapse from exhaustion. "We were attacked by the enemy, Herr Unterfeldwebel."
Even through the darkness, the light of Weber's cigarette was enough to see the characteristic look of disbelieving rage on the face of the Unterfeld. "Oh, you were attacked? Is that it? Very good my boy, very good, never give too many details. You never know who might be listening!" He was almost shouting at the end, staring at the recruit with what seemed to be undisguised hatred. "Now, can any of you jokers tell me what happened here in detail? Or did you all sleep through the attack? That might at least explain your piss-poor performance."
I swallowed nervously. Had we really done that badly? Or was this just another tactic to get us to talk?

At least now there were some hands rising, and the Unterfeld pointed at another one of us. "You there," he said, "tell me. And pray that it doesn't make the headache your friend gave me any worse."
"There was an alarm, Sir. We manned our positions to defend ourselves until the forward positions had to fall back. We gave covering fire, and then the enemy used mortars. When I looked up again, I was already staring down the barrel of a gun."
My eyes had still not entirely adjusted to the darkness after the hail of flares that illuminated the surroundings just a few minutes ago, but by his voice I recognized the speaker as Roder, the leader of one of the other squads. He sounded a bit shaken, but he didn't avert his eyes from the Unterfeld, despite the latter's stare.
"That's right, Roder," the Unterfeld grumbled, "and do you know why that is? The enemy managed to break into your positions, because the outermost left squad apparently thought it unnecessary to cover their flanks. But that doesn't mean you are the only fuck-ups around here."
He turned and now fixed Egon with his icy stare. "Isn't that right, Schneider?" he asked, addressing Egon by his last name, "if I hadn't stopped the exercise when I did you and your buddies on the right would have been overrun as well. Do you have anything to say about that?"
I saw Egon swallow the lump that he indubitably felt in his throat.
"I think it's just that we weren't prepared for the intensity of the attack, Herr Unterfeldwebel. This is our first combat exercise on company level, and we are still learning how to work together between the squads. I think we weren't prepared for a complex attack involving flanking maneouvers and enemy artillery fire."
There came murmuring from the ranks of the assembled recruits and some shapes were clearly nodding in agreement with what my friend had said.

The Unterfeldwebel let his eyes wander over our formation, while Weber stood behind him, back leaned cooly against a tree and a grin on his face, the cigarette a stump between his lips.
"I take it that a lot of you think similar to Schneider here, isn't that right?" There were more murmurs, but now they sounded placatory and several recruits hit by the Unterfeld's gaze lowered their eyes. I am ashamed to admit that I was among them.
Suddenly, from among the chorus of murmurs and shuffling feet, came the voice of an unknown hero: "I just think it was unfair towards us."
Thinking back now, I am almost sure that there must have been a sound, or more likely a sudden absence of sound, as a company worth of recruits held their breath.
However, the outburst we all expected never came. Instead, the Unterfeld declared: "That's right. It was unfair, and you weren't prepared. But do you think a real enemy in the field wouldn't exploit any of your weaknesses? Artillery fire and flanking attacks are among the basics of warfare, and you need to expect the enemy to use them and others at any given time. I am going to be honest with you, Jungs. We didn't expect you to succeed this time, and just as we thought, you have failed. But you learn from failure, and it is better for you to make these experiences here rather than on the frontlines."
Once more there were murmurs, and once more the Unterfeld looked up and down the formation.
"Any questions?" None were asked, and so the Unterfeld ordered us to return to our positions. The squadleaders he called to him for a more indepth discussion, and so our squad minus Egon returned to the half-dug trench were we sat and went over the events of the attack for ourselves.
"So, was there really nobody who watched our flank?," Burghardt finally asked with the tone of a disappointed parent. We others looked at him like he had gone mad.

"I don't recall you looking somewhere other than the front either," Graf replied as he looked the accuser down, "in fact, I am pretty sure you didn't even look in my direction for even a second, and I was right beside you." Burghardt started sputtering some kind of rebuttal, but we weren't in the mood to let him get away so easily. "What?," I asked, feigning surprise, "but I thought you were the one on our outermost position. And now you accuse others of letting your guard down?"
There was a grumbling among my comrades as Burghardt's sputtering continued. It is possible that we would have come to blows that night, agitated and tired as we were, but a voice stopped us before the situation could escalate further.
"Just a little hint, Jungs," came a smoker's voice from behind us, "Don't go killing each other, leave that to the enemy. And if you are quiet, you might even hear him coming to cut your throat." Somehow, the old soldier Weber had managed to sneak up on us, and as we could see as we turned around, now he stood behind our position, hands in his pockets and a new cigarette lit between his lips illuminating an amused grin. "You should really be more careful, Jungs," he added, "The enemy is ruthless."
This somehow seemed to amuse him, because his grin grew wider as he jumped over our trench with a surprising agility and walked off into the night. For a while we stared after him, too shocked by his sudden appearance to continue our argument, watching as the glow of the cigarette grew weaker in the distance and finally disappeared completely.

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...Are you trying to bait me into posting in exchange for wawa?

no, is it working?

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No. Yes.

Weber strikes me as a veteran. In fact, as I think about it, I wouldn't be surprised if most of the Heimatschutz is comprised predominantly of old veterans from the war.

>parks scribbling dicks
>followed immediately by "that's just the tip"

That was a nice epilogue. Takes some of the sting out of Parks' death, and suggests that Don & Co. will make Matthews fucking pay for killing him.

bump because I'm about to post anyway.

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>Kyle walked off to the supply tent and started picking out supplies. He grabbed a couple gallons of water, a few MREs, a geiger counter, some extra ammo in clips to reload magazines, Extra batteries for flashlights, a rail mountable headlamp to go in front of the muffs, and a list of other things that might make someone remiss to think it would all be burned and buried afterward.
>In an hour the column would head out into the wilderness following known safe paths until the end of the trail, with a few miles to go still at the end of the path.
>Jim called Kyle forward.
>"So we're at the end of the safe zone... What do we do now?"
"The fuck do you think we do? We throw bolts and spray the ground with paint to carve a path."
>"And that's safe, right?"
"Yeah, I know it's been like two weeks and all, but you can't forget shit like that so fast. It'll take forever, and we might be out here for about a day or so, but we'll get there."
>"Yeah, but... That sucks." Jim remarked.
"Quit being a pussy, Jim." Kyle said before reaching into his bag of bolts and tossing them, leading the way forward by example.
>After hours passed and the miles did too, the afternoon greeted them to exacerbate the stench of a rotting corpse the likes of which they'd started smelling miles prior.
>The carcass was a behemoth to behold, leviathan in scale and at the right shoulder, had been blown asunder into the centeral chest cavity.
>Rotting flesh lined the streets, some charred and other raw, leaving craters, spatters and puddles where it'd impacted for about two thirds of a mile in any direction from the carcass.
>From under the damp cloth, the stench seemed to funnel directly into the nostrils, like some acrid form of burning sulfer, feces, bile and with a merciful note of molten pavement to prevent the smell from overwhelming and wringing the stomach like a rag.

>The various notes of rot, of bacteria reproducing on festering decay, of necrophages aerosolized and diffused by pustules bursting on the corpse make the composition of the air almost as acrid as anyone on the planet could stand, and would probably render the most seasoned mortician in the world hard pressed to keep his lunch down.
>The dust, at least, had settled, which was a welcomed condition among the ruins around the squirrel, for the small blessing it bestowed on them, in that they didn't have to wade through a veritable cloud of radioactive dusts made of innumerable compounds and elements.
>Kyle slowly approached the beast, tossing nuts at it to make sure his way was clear.
>swinging his pack to the ground in front of him, he withdrew three small jars, and swung his rifle to his back.
>He drew his knife, and to the wonderment of those watching, he started jamming it into the skin of the dead animal, and climbing its carcass toward the blast wound that'd been blown out of its shoulder.
>"Are you sure that's safe, cowboy?"
"Quit nagging and start collecting jars for yourselves." Kyle said as he climbed slowly onward to the wound.
>With a great deal of effort, Kyle reached the end of the wound, and began grabbing samples.
>With one jar, he took a sample of fur, with the second, a sample of subdermal tissue, and with the last, he took some blood.
>"How's it goin' up there, Young Buck?" Molly called to him.
"It's just peachy. I've got all my samples." Kyle called back. "You gonna climb up here?"
>"Nah, I'll settle for some ground tissue."
"Alright, everyone just make sure you're damn thorough about checking for anomalies before you just go slicing into grounded meat."

>"Man, this shit sucks." Andrew remarked.
"Think of the money and use your knife. For all we know this squirrel could be an anomaly in and of itself."
>"Jim, what do you think of it?" Emma called out for council.
>"It's a big fucking squirrel."
"Yup. Hard to believe this thing was chasing us a couple weeks ago. Come to think of it, hard to believe a creature as large as it ever lived." Kyle grunted out as he made his descent from the carcass. "It's fucking HUGE. Jim, Andrew, Charlie, sack the fuck up and climb on top of that thing. How else are you gonna get any samples?"
>"Well I was figuring on cutting through its skin and getting it that way." Andrew answered.
"Yeah no, that thing's got a good six inches thick of skin at least, go get you some exercise."
>Kyle looked on as the three shrugged and decided to climb the squirrel with some sense of pride that they'd decided to stop being bitches and climb the squirrel.

Guess nukes can btfo giant anomalous squirrels. I hope all this effort and risk is worth it.

why the hell is "left of bang" not on this list?

Cause I don't own it, lol.

I just added it.

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>Finally.
>After all these days, these weeks, we've captured her.
>M16A1 sits at the cusp of my grasp.
>One by one we'd captured the rogues. Some of them were in the remains of old buildings, out of commision. Others were in strange places, hidden beneath piers, docks, old structures... M16A1 however was out and about. Fighting.
>When I'd told her we had M4A1, she volunteered.
>"Boss, what do you want us to do with A1?"
"Put her in here for now. And one thing. It's paramount she isn't harmed. If so much as a hair on her head is disturbed, I'll have to turn her loose."
>"Right."
>I turned my chair away from the door, and Soon, a T-Doll walked in under her own power, not even so much as restrained by a pair of cuffs, Not that it'd do any good.
>"Have a seat here." a stoic T-Doll said, before the sound of a body hitting a chair puffed out.
>"What's the meaning of this? Why have you been rounding up my sisters?" she demanded.
>For a moment I contemplatedmy response before I said, as dispassionately as when I watched The lines fall.
"I had calculated that is was the only way to bring you to the table on... amicable terms? Relatively."
>"What do you want? I did my part! I'm done working for you!"
"Did you?" I asked. Flashes of events crawled through my mind. The mangled MP5's, the crushed IDW's, 416's perforated. The look of pain, and the chill as it overtook Kalina's face.
"I seem to recall they had always been more important. I can't fault you for that."
>What I could fault her for was running cover for the device.
"Always more important... Once I felt someone to be the most important one."
>"No... You can't be. You-"
"Died? A1?"
>I turned around to see her stoicism just breached by shock.
"You see, A1... I'm not mad that you betrayed my trust. I'm not mad that your stunt claimed my right eye and a quarter of my jaw, that MY FACE had to be grafted back on and made of metal... In fact, I'm not even mad that she is gone forever because of you. I simply must know... Why?"

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We were still shook when Egon returned and sat down on the edge of our trench. "Here's how it is," he explained, "There will be no further attacks this night. The instructors want us to go to sleep and get some rest for tomorrow." We who had been sitting in the trench for the last minutes looked at each other. Each face said the same thing: "I don't believe it". Gunther the machinegunner was the first to voice his opinion. "That's bullshit!" he exclaimed. "I bet that's another trick. They want to test our instincts, that's why they pretend there won't be any attack. They want to see wether we have enough sense to realize that this is still a combat situation. You guys go to sleep if you want to, I'll stay on watch."
"I agree," came Schleier's voice from besides me. "That's exactly what the Unterfeld would do. After what he said back there, and Weber acting like he did just now, I am sure they have something planned." "What was that about that Weber fellow?" Egon asked, and we brought him up to speed. He listened to our explanation, nodding at times. "Let me see what the other squadleaders think," he said, and with that he was gone again, vanished in the dark shrubbery. The rest of us, remotivated by the thought of an imminent new attack, returned to our posts in the trench, weapons at the ready and ears wide open. Every crack of a branch sounded like an enemy unit coming for us, and every sound of wind in the treetops drew nervous glances.
Finally, Egon returned, and had he not answered the password as quickly as he did, he might have caught a blank to the face that night. As it turned out, Weber hadn't pulled his stunt with the other squads, but a good portions of the recruits still shared my comrade's sentiment.
"We have decided to keep half our strength in the line at any given time," Egon explained. "That means sleeping in shifts. Who wants to go first?" No one raised a hand.

"I wouldn't mind staying here all night," I caught myself saying, "someone else can take my turn sleeping." "I won't be able to sleep anyway, I'll stay as well," added Graf. Thus it went on, until we had decided that we would all stay in the trench, and those overcome by sleep would be awoken by the others if push came to shove. Our earlier fight was forgotten, we were back to functioning as an unit.
The second night attack never came.

The next day saw us recruits, tired from a night spent staring into the dark, on the offensive against the enemy's landing zone.
This part of the exercise served to train us in the art of fire and maneouver, and more than one half asleep recruit took a fall when his feet got caught in rat holes or on branches.
Our instructors made it a point to treat these clumsy fools as if they were real casualties. It didn't take too long until we found ourselves carrying our "wounded" comrades back towards our campsite, cursing them almost as hard as the instructors, who took devilish delight in shouting at us to go faster and watch were we stepped, goddamnit, the wounded man's life depended on it.
By the time we were on our way back towards our base, we were all drenched in sweat and caked in dirt, but despite it all our spirits were high. There had been no punishments or even as much as angry shouting from our feared Unterfeldwebel for the last few hours, and in light of this we felt as if we had won the war already, and, perhaps even more important, his respect.
Of course, we were disabused of this notion rather quickly once we arrived back on base, but there remained a certain sense of elation that continued throughout the following days and couldn't be broken by even the most inane routine of cleaning our gear and whatever little punishments for perceived slights or mistakes our instructors dished out.

Our training continued in this manner, with an increasing amount of combat drills that served to introduce us to the basics of modern warfare. "What you learn here is only the foundation, lads. Once you are out there in the field, you'll have to build up on it, or you'll be six feet under in no time," a sympathetic NCO once told us. He was an old soldier and without doubt a veteran who knew what he was talking about, but in the carelessness of youth we dismissed his advice and laughed about it amongst ourselves in our barracks.
Weren't we prepared in a manner this old fart couldn't have imagined when he joined the army? The Russians would certainly run once faced with motivated and fresh troops such as ourselves.
It wasn't until our training ended and we were shipped off to the frontlines that we started to understand what the kindly instructor had been talking about.

bad feels ahead, gents.
Here comes the real shit. This is gonna be hard on our hero, isn't it?

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[Intelligence 1/10] hey guys what if we try shooting at the dam with enough mosin nagants to make it go down that way we can make the water flow and make the grass grow again!

Pretty good so far, I like the idea of a memoir passed down from generation to generation.
I'm interested in the history of the world as well, is this an alternative way things played out in our timeline or is this an alt universe with different factions?

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Ah. Walther. How I loved thee.
Nine weeks ago.
>The alarm had been blaring, abrading and stabbing at everyone's eardrums all morning.
>It seemed too unreal to live in the situation.
>I had become pent up, coiled in a rage that couldn't be remedied by less than combat.
>The alarm never went off without reason. And yet, like out of some dream, some nightmare beyond the madness of the battlefield, it went off all morning, with not a thing around to prompt it.
>Echelons had been lined and positioned in order to defend the base.
>"God, it never stops." Kalina groaned while AEK-999 sat, sipping on a cup of tea.
"I wish they'd attack us already. I know they're there. I just don't know where." I replied.
>For three hours, I'd been wound up tight, glaring at every possible entrance, turning to attack almost every gust of wind or puff of dust that sprang upward from the empty fields surrounding.
>As if in some never ending state that should only last a few seconds, fleeting like the a distortion at the edge of ones vision, the alarm continued to sound, and the alert continued, an answer to a question... which seemed to never come.

>Two hour passed as I checked and rechecked my rifle. My helmet was ready, and I kept away from windows to avoid giving some lucky T-Doll the shot of the day.
>And suddenly... It was on.
>Bursts started to ring out, then replies, then they started mingling together.
>As I ran from the office down to the Helicopter depot, where my echelons were deployed, I started hearing the desperate screams on the commlink.
>The time had only just begun before it'd already dwindled out.
>I arrived on the scene to see that there was no more time. The MP5 and its dummies lay mangled in a heap on ground near a helipad, a device came barreling near as Dolls shot at it, Being suppressed by a gray haired doll with an early M-16. IWS-2000, Negev, M2... they all fell like the last.
>Kaline screamed for FNC to get back when she was perforated.

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>Her eyes fell upon me as I thoughtlessly fired a magazine into the devices front as though it might have an effect of some sort.
>I took cover to reload when I saw the look in her eyes. The terror, agony and a growing distance that slowly took over her eyes as the shuddering gave way to stillness.
>There she was. The result of twenty some years of life lived, experiences garnered, and then drowned in a soup of what'd been perfectly functional organs and a loss of blood through her strewn guts.
>There she was, irreparable, irreversible, dead and soaked in her own fluids.
>Before the alarms she was talking about taking a vacation, visiting her mother and her siblings.
>In the seconds that'd passed, twenty dummies of all types had fallen.
>The FNC's came forward and brought to bare on the device and the T'dolls advancing with it with more temerity than fear.
>The Walther 2000's from some other commander's echelon were firing at a rate that seemed that of a machinegun, their superhuman reflexes Being flexed to their own limit.
>I Placed my sights on the gray haired doll and began firing long bursts. I was damn certain I'd hit too when it accelerated. When the front fired, the last thing I'd see was the flash.

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