- Dec 21, 2016

Community Highlights 10

Welcome back, Soldiers! It's the last highlights post of the year and the community creations are still going strong. We have new tactics, stories, memes, and even the return of weapon designs!

If for some reason you were not included here this time, and you'd like to see your creation in the next post, please PM me on Discord.

Note: We try our best to properly credit all community work, but once in a while we may make a mistake. Please let us know if anything is off and we'll make corrections as soon as possible. Thanks!

War Stories

Some new stories have popped up in the community!

Battle of Barrony Crossroads

War 12

by [PUG] Carefulrogue

Warden soldier #21435 PUG - K. Rogue L.Cpl.

It was quite a shock when our commander, over the shouting reports of artillery, said we were blitzing into the Heartlands. Why, he didn’t really explain, but claimed it would give us an edge. O.Cdt. had shrugged it off, and so had we. It couldn’t be much worse than the consistent grind up and down the deadland for the past few years. Border Thickets’ floor had begun to be replaced with brass and steel and was becoming increasingly difficult to fight over ‘cause of the divots from shells, mud from torn dirt and rain, and bodies of soldiers still left unburied. The battlefield kept degenerating, and little could really be done with what was left. If they found a way to push, well sure, why not?

Let’s start with the ‘not.’ We advanced into the Deadlands under the rain of shells, with specific regions to head to, to seek cover. If we were a quarter mile off, or the gunners a degree off, we’d probably lose some men, and from some of the echoes and screams heard that night, it probably had happened.

Before dawn rose, we had made it to the Salt Farm, stopping only long enough to seize the gun emplacements before continuing south along Cemetery Lane. Some field artillery pieces had already been set up, firing at the heavy emplaced guns, that cleared us out of the Dead Lands too many times to count. After that, it was straight down to the Foundation.

What was here before was questionable. Hard to tell when few of the buildings have signage, or roofing. Most of the buildings were already destroyed, maybe from our artillery, but much of it was older, easy to tell by the rounding of surfaces. I had wondered why they were destroyed, at least before Krazy began to shout orders.

My first assignment: logistics. Nice to be off the frontline for a while, peacefully producing everything we would need. Well, at least everything we would need to secure and get more.

80 rifles, 100 clips, 10 smgs, 20 magazines. Took a while to assemble, but all that was left was waiting. And there wasn’t a clear idea where I was supposed to go. Sgt. Urgh was supposed to come and pick me up, but for the hour I waited nothing came. I ended up riding out with a 82 DK truck, to the location where we were setting up an outpost, where we would collect salvage. Barrony Crossroads, I’ll never forget the name.

At first glance, PUG regiments appear chaotic. Dozens of rifles in various states of assembly were strewn about the outpost, overflowing boxes and bags. Packs of cigarettes could be found tucked into nooks, where the smoker could keep his store. Salvaged material, from old pots and pans, to deformed shells were ripped from a nearby field, that appeared as if the Colonials had used heavy equipment to shovel it all together as a dump site. PUG certainly was chaotic, but a tempo of order remained, especially when Colonial forces began to assault Barrony Crossroad.

We had first encountered them from the west, as we were digging foxholes and laying tarp over them for the infantry that would hide inside them. They weren’t very many, but after downing a few, and searching bodies, we discovered a few things.

Personal possessions that had writing, weren’t in English, it was some foreign language none of us spoke. Next, it was three letters off the end of a dog tag. “PoD” Each enemy soldier save a few had this tag. We had pulled out our own tags, and drew reference. We were dealing with another organized and well run group. It would be a hard fight.

Soon after the initial attack, as the squad prepared to move out, to resupply the outpost’s supply of medicine and equipment, an attack came from the east, from Greenfield Orchard. Twenty soldiers had come to free the Crossroad, and we were forced to respond, instead of resupplying, which we desperately needed.

For the next two days, the fighting lines shifted, sometimes over the road itself, and into the field, or up it’s length to the enemy emplacements. Mortars echoed and boomed in the night, and our supply truck and it’s driver, Urgh, struggled to keep supplies coming when being within a 100 ft of the base was a risk to one’s life. Last I saw, he was missing three fingers from his narrow escape from the most recently destroyed truck. HMG’s could be heard saturating the darkness with rounds, belts disappearing faster than fresh ones could be found or ordered. And as the battle continued, it got worse, and worse.

Eventually, the battle ended. No ground was gained for the enemy. Fresh soldiers had arrived and helped to secure the battleground by reinforcing the front with defensive placements. Empty rifles lay everywhere, ammo was a scarcity. Bodies were being identified and picked up to be hauled away for burial, or shipment to Colonial lands. Small pieces, pistols, hammers, etc, were being thrown into the piles of scrap, bit by bit, to be taken back for processing.

Krazy then raised the call for a rally, and the regiment set out for an assault on greenfield, the tattered remnant of our unit arranged in a loose formation marching towards another harrowing battle. I had hung back, tired and exhausted. I had scouted the south and east side, searching for openings, careful to avoid foxholes with jittery Colonial gunmen.

At least I had made it out alive. Of course, having had to crawl back across the battlefield, watching your own lifeblood escape did not encourage one to return. Command saw fit to send quite a bit of the wounded back across the Dead Lands, to Callahan’s Pass, where medics, of the higher quality that what we normally see, could treat us. Hell, there was rumor of actual medicine! Maybe this time PUG will secure some Penicillin for the Families.

And Then, the Storm Calmed Down

Chapter 1 – Prisoner

by [PUG] Kerim

Henry

He woke up just as the barrage and storm of cannons, machine guns, rifles and mortars started. Continuous shelling was taking place for the past five days. He didn’t get much sleep, like the rest of his war-mates, but he had to deal with what he had. He wasn’t special. He didn’t have outstanding abilities. He didn’t have the attributes anyone would assign to a soldier.

In reality, he had been a coward before all… this started. It was several years he saw his family. His old friends. His pet cat unoriginally nicknamed Kittie after they found it on the streets, abandoned. He even missed the sight of his college teacher, professor Backing, who wasn’t really the kindest of people when it came to teaching or just social interaction. And all of that now seemed like the best thing in the entire world. What he wouldn’t give to at least be back home for a minute. Hell, even a second would satisfy his needs!

Yet he didn’t have that. Not even ten minutes for himself. Time was a valuable commodity after all. Shouting broke up his regular morning train of thought as three men sprinted by, one of them on a portable stretcher. “Right, got to get moving, my post,” he thought to himself and started searching for his attire – a light grey and blue uniform with a pair of calf-high boots. But, for the love of all that was holy, he couldn’t find the clothing of his. The only thing he did have on himself were dirty socks, woolen shirt and his underwear that kept him fairly warm during the autumn warfare. He grunted something incoherent – surrounding the lack of basic supplies – and went to the provisional quartermaster.

As soon as he left the overcrowded barracks himself and two dozen others were sleeping in, his gaze found the sight that could be depressing to most, but just completely normal to veterans like himself. A hole in the mud, still smoking with an unblown projectile was calmly lounging in the ground, dug two feet deep. “Huh, Lord’s been looking after me this night,” crossed his mind and he couldn’t help but chuckle at the irony. Everyone that came to the battlefield had either two choices of fate – they either survived the first day only to commit suicide later or die in a headless charge at the enemy, or die as soon as they came by.

He got the latter option and still donned the rank of corporal he had got a couple of months back. Infantry rifleman, that was his proper designation, although he did everything else. Provisional distributor, psychologist, a caretaker and other untold professions he had to be competent of doing.

Many people broke down after a first hour of the battle or the first gunshot, first death, first injury. Once you got past that, you would be set. And he was the one that managed to scour past the cloud that hindered his instinct of survival and revealed its full potential.

But there was a disadvantage to staying alive that way. Every time he pulled the trigger, every time he used his sharpened shovel to take someone’s spinal cord out, every time he did something necessary for himself to stay alive, he lost something. And that something was creating a sizable void in both his body and psyche. He stayed alive on the outside, but on the inside he was just a former shell of what was formerly a man.

If people he once knew met him now, they wouldn’t be able to tell that this was Henry. No, no, far from that. Although he didn’t have many friends and his family members never saw him as a good son nor sibling, he liked to think back at his past in his nostalgic moments. It was fun, thinking about how his father used to slap him. It was fun, remembering Kittie being chased around by Pete (a family dog) and Gert (his sister). It was fun, thinking about all the stress he had to endure during his studies, which now seemed like the most of pettiest things.

And even the few proper good moments of happiness in his life he thought about. Those memories turned to a thing to hold onto in the dark. They kept him going, they kept him alive. They reminded him that he had a purpose in his life. He found himself truly gleeful when any of those came up. Whether that be on the battlefield, or in the barracks, or the medical bay. They lit his day up like child’s eyes on the Christmas eve.

But that was the past. He had to live in the present. And it wasn’t bright, instead, the clouds, fog and smoke were covering the once blue skies. A lightning hit a ground next to one of the artillery cannons, it was lucky no one was manning it at the moment. As a matter of fact, he could recall seeing those crewmen running past his barracks just a couple of minutes ago – with the wounded.

Once again, he had to snap out of his trance with a violent shake of his head. And a smack into a concrete building. Formerly, it probably was a very popular hotel in the area. The interiors, once luxurious and colorful, were now dim grey and unwelcoming. In the receptionist area, a small man with pointy nose and eyes was standing, serving a couple of soldiers that came by for their ammunition. Well, not really serving but instead yelling at them how much of a mongrel they could be for running out so quickly.

With a sigh, he stepped to the line and, after twenty minutes of mental pain, he stepped to the front. All for a pair of clothes. The quartermaster raised his brows at him and bursted into laughter, eyeing his boxers and the rest of his sleeping attire that he just strolled by in. Nevertheless, after a bit of bargaining and essentially bribing him with promise of giving him breakfast, he got his blouse, pants and boots. Immediately, he hopped into them and buckled up the belt so that the size larger trousers wouldn’t fall off.

It was time to head out. When he came outside once again, trickles of water started falling down on the ruptured land, dropping with a soothing sound. The artillery calmed down. Rifles got silent. It was dead quiet as an unsaid treaty got in place – sending men to the mud was already a deathwish but doing so in the rain? You would just be asking for loss of lives without getting any results.

His feet started wandering around the place, not really having anything to do because of his commanding officer falling in battle the evening before. He was a good soldier and a leader, that was for sure, but he was unlucky. His boot got stuck in the ground and made him trip over. Right onto a landmine. His torso fell fair and square onto the Devil’s tool and got blown upwards into hundreds of little bits. Blood spurted all over the squadmates of his that looked down at their lifeless commander and friend with shock, terror and awe. Some started crying, some just fell down on their knees with their mouths gaping, just as other dozens of their comrades blitzed past them to accomplish their goal – getting in the trenches.

That war wasn’t about not getting shot, blown up, ran over or torched on fire. It was about coming out of it with as much mentality and sanity intact as you could. And every ‘little’ thing like that kept chipping away on it until nothing was left. And when it disappeared, you could say bye bye to the physical form as well. Henry saw many friends of his commit gruesome acts on themselves because the conflict brought them to it. And those terrible things made him consider accompanying them in their actions.

What was the point of fighting anyways? None of the Warden soldiers knew. They just knew that they had to go. Go and shoot. Shoot and go. Dive into the trenches. Stab and slash their way through. And then, perhaps, they would get the luxury of resting for fifteen or twenty minutes before they would have to, completely exhausted, attack once again.

And yet, they still lived. Those that didn’t want to were the luckiest sons of bitches out there. It was as if bullets and mortar shells just decided to dodge them. Even the shrapnel was as if reflected by an invisible shield around them. And during the charges, when they decided to be in first line to hopefully end their misery by going off with a bang, they either tripped so that they survived the onslaught or simply pushed their way through with fury only desperation could offer.

And as he thought about that, he stumbled upon a corpse. Nothing too interesting, but he realized that he was already on the front, near the trenches, into which he almost fell. He couldn’t help but chuckle at how lost he could actually get in his thoughts, and scanned the horizon. Below him was muffled chatter of other men with their semi-automatic rifles in hand, though they were just leaning on them. No gunfights, no grenades, no gas. It was all so peaceful. So peaceful he started to laugh out quietly, with tears of joy rolling down his cheeks.

Of course, his comrades looked up at him and then at themselves, shaking their heads at the man before continuing their conversations – about things back home, politics, best beer or ale and other normal topics of discussion. It was as if the war just paused. A bird came flying by and sat down on the edge of their trenches, starting to peck the wood riddled with bullets as if it were searching for a tree to nest in.

They all were drenched with the rain but nobody minded it. And Henry’s tears and laughter eventually turned into a bright grin, watching the whole ordeal of land in front of himself. He could actually see the trenches of Colonials in the distance, with some even sitting outside of them, munching away on a loaf of bread or drinking anything they could gather.

He shook his head once more and stood up, turning around and strolling over back deeper into the camp their regiment found itself in. As he entered the barracks, he faceplanted over onto his hard mattress, letting out a sigh of content. No orders, no fighting. It was comfort he had been craving for so long. He laid there for what could be around twenty minutes, just gathering his thoughts together and letting his body rest up. Despite the fact that everything was calm then, he knew that once the storm ended, the fighting would start once again.

And it did. The strands of water eventually lost their intensity and their bombardment stopped. Instead, it was renewed with the other kind of bombs. The artillery pieces started going off once again on both sides, trying to target each other, some hitting far off in the camp and others landing in the no man’s land.

He struggled to get up but finally got his bearings, rushing over to the front door, bumping into another man. He had jet black hair and thick beard, looking down at the shorter man with a firm, cold stare.

“Specialist Henry Crick?” his deep, gravelly voice sounded through the bunk beds. Henry only meekly nodded, snapping into attention at the sight of lieutenant insignias on the male’s shoulders. “With me,” the officer commanded and started outside of the building, with Henry quickly pursuing him. He decided against asking him for his intentions, since angering a commissioner lead to two outcomes – either detainment and furthermore a possible execution, or his life becoming even more hellish than it already was.

After a while, with Henry’s mind rolling around the information he was given frantically and trying to judge what he could be asked to do dozens of times, they arrived at the command center. The lieutenant swiftly pushed the door in and entered the large-sized room. Formerly a nice farm house was now the base of all frontline operations and to men like Henry, it was forbidden to enter it under no circumstances. So he was genuinely surprised when he looked at the simple interior and five other males looking onto a big round table in the middle of the living room, with several maps stacked on top of each other, as if it were one big puzzle.

They were all chatting about something they regarded as “The Operation”, or “Final push”. None of the terms he knew, of course. “Good day, corporal.” one of the men finally greeted him, and Henry replied with a stern salute. They only laughed sorely, shaking their heads and beckoning him to step closer to the timber desk.

“Say, Crick, we got told that you’re one of the few that can speak the dogs’ language. Correct?” the same officer asked with a crude smile – referring to the language Colonials talked, unlike the ‘glorious’ Warden language. “Eh, well… a bi-, yes, yes I do speak it, sir major.” he stuttered out and only triggered another burst of laughter coming from the higher ups. “Alright then, good. In that case, I have a job for you. Come.” his hand did an over-the-top movement to follow him as he stepped out of the room.

They walked for a bit in mutual silence until they got outside of the house and to a barn. The high ranked soldier swung the doors open and what was inside was a fairly sized cage – with several men in the beige Colonial uniforms sitting inside. They shielded their eyes at the ray of light that came inside and looked away from it. “Look at these fools. They thought they could spy on us. And now, we are going to get information out of them. Your job is to communicate with them and translate what I tell you to.” the Warden chuckled at Henry cruelly, stepping to the bars.

One of the men turned their face to them, and it made Henry freeze – both physically and mentally. It was Frank.

Author’s note: This is the end of Chapter 1, I will continue the story eventually when I find myself in the mood. Hope you enjoyed the read!

Clan Propaganda