Walking Through Hell (IC closed [M])

[Kach]

-The Entente of Ebon-
British Empire, Kingdom of France, Russian Empire, United States of America

-The Central Federation-
Germania, Autrian-Hungarian Empire, Kingdom of Italy, Ottoman Empire


The year is 1909.
The world's economy is booming as fresh access to raw resources from colonies drives innovation. The powers of Europe have formed alliances to protect their colonial interests in new territories. Uneasy peace exists between them; The Entente of Ebon and The Central Federation. Conflicting claims in Africa and Oceania have come to a head, and nations rally for volunteers to bolster their armies should war break out. Recruits with technical skills and education are in high demand to pilot huge war machines known as walkers.

You have completed months of classroom training leading up to this, the final test known as 'Walking through Hell', a gruelling week long live fire exercise where each unit's effectiveness is tested in combat before they are deployed to battle grounds. Your training class was loaded into transport truck and taken to the fields where your walkers rested.
The crews were divided into two teams. One group tasked with holding a line, and your group tasked with breaking through. Each crew was sent to their vehicle while the Commanders rallied for a briefing.

Your vehicle, Daisy has been your home away from home these last few months. You stand in front of Daisy, as you wait for Georgine Barnard, your vehicle's commander. Lieutenant Barnard is a a smart woman who is loved and hated within the squadron. She has built a reputation for doing what ever it takes to get the job done and not caring for some of the less flexible rules of the old guard.
She doesn't put up with crap, but still listens to the members of her crew and takes responsibility for those under her.

[TheBaron]

Trudging up to stand in front of his new commanding officer James snaps a salute and stands at attention. He has heard some rumors, but James learns long ago not to take much stock in the gossiping of soldiers. Glancing at his new comrades and he takes stock of them, they seem reliable but only time will tell. As he stands at attention, he takes stock of the weather, the skies are an appropriately grim shade of grey however despite the occasional drop of rain the sky seems content not to dump rain on them. James hopes it holds out until they can at least get inside the vehicle though he is sure conditions inside wouldn’t be much better, and it would only be a matter of time until they were soaked anyway.

As he stands in front of the vehicle that can only be described as a feat of modern military engineering James thinks about his own gear. He knows from checking earlier that all his gear including his specialist radio operator equipment was in order. James is tired but who among them isn’t these days. He wants to stretch a little more before getting into the vehicle to man the radio equipment behind the commander’s seat, but opts to remain at attention for now.

[Bullwark]

The truck pulls to a stop and Private Sam MacDougal hops down from the tailgate, laughing obnoxiously. The half-drunken Irishman flips the bird to the Lieutenant standing in the bed of the truck, eliciting laughter from the rest of the soldiers in the vehicle and a long-suffering shake of the Lieutenant's head. Sam stumbles over to the line of soldiers that will be his comrades in the coming conflict. He measures each of them with a lazy eye. He takes up his place at the end of the line and delivers a lazy salute to the commanding officer. His hands then plant themselves in his pockets as he looks around and proceeds to whistle the tune of "The Rising of the Moon". He casts a disparaging look on the vehicle he has been assigned to. It's the first time he's ever seen a Stomper. Today will be the fifth time he has ever stepped on a motorized vehicle, and the first time he has been inside one that is fully enclosed.

[Bullwark]

Sam can't help but look down the line. Disregarding military dress, he leans forward and inspects his comrades more closely. An unsettling scowl spreads across his face.
"You English, raven hair?" He growls. "Here's hopin' we don't get each other killed. New-bloods all, I gander. Wonder if ye've ever smelt the steam of a dying man's lung."
His sets down his ruck and squats beside it as he loosens its sinch-string. A single raindrop hits his right hand. He looks up at the grey wall of the sky and sighs. Out of the ruck he pulls a tattered blue poncho, a pipe, a box of matches, and a bag of tobacco. He stands up and takes off his blue workman's hat before putting on the poncho. The hat returns to his head before he situates the bloodstained women's scarf around his neck to rest on top of the poncho. Then begins the rather long ceremony of preparing and smoking the pipe.

[Kach]

Lieutenant Barnard, looks away from the other officers getting their briefing from the company Commander, Major Winters and frowns at the interruption looking over the man. She steps away from the briefing, map in hand as she offers a salute to the Sergeant. Her uniform is clean, pressed and regulation. A holstered revolver on a lanyard hangs on her belt. Her hair is put up in a tight bun topped with a black beret and binoculars. "You must be Sargeant Loxton, welcome to 5th Platoon." She offered a firm handshake and gestures to a vehicle parked about 70 meters away. "That's our can. Go get squared away and meet the troopers. And tell private MacDougal to get some god damn decorm before I shove my boot up his ass." The man sitting readying a pipe in the civilian blue poncho stood out among the sea of khaki uniforms and war craft.
She dismissed him with a half salute as she went back to her briefing.

[TheBaron]

Sargent Loxton stands at ease and sighs at the Private standing next to him. "You know MacDougal it would make your life easier if you just followed regulations. As you heard I am Sargent Loxton and to answer your earlier question I am indeed English, I can tell you are Irish." He grabs his gear and moves towards the vehicle. "Anyway, Private you heard the Lieutenant. Let's get our gear stowed and ourselves squared away and report back for more orders. I am sure the others will be arriving soon." He looks to the sky as he walks briskly to their 'can'. The rain is coming. He clambers into the vehicle and quickly stores his gear. Locating where he will be stationed, he drops a few personal effects he likes to keep near him, a journal with various documents and pictures tucked into it and his shoulder bag. He quickly runs a check on the radio, and everything appears to be in order. He sits at his station getting used to his new position.

[Bullwark]

"Ye can take 'regulation' and plant it in your ancestor's blood-soaked graves, kid." Sam bites past the mouthpiece of his pipe. He looks up at the sky. "Story of my life." He enters Daisy behind the sergeant. The poncho leaves his shoulders and is planted in the ruck. The interior of the 'can' can't be described as "vast" but it is far less cramped than the soldier expected. Casting an eye about the steel cocoon, he spies the familiar object he knows is associated with his position; the aft section of a cannon.
The seat of his station is rigid and small. Unbearable. Out comes the poncho, which is folded into a seat cushion. Sam runs his hand along the primers of the shells in the rack beside him. He smiles as he recognizes the designation for white phosphorous on one of the shells. "Glad to see you, my old Fenian friend."
Diving into his ruck sack again, Sam pulls out three bottles of whiskey, a pistol, two knives, the bag of tobacco, and two books. One book is sewn shut with a strip of black fabric. He arranges the items around his station, keeping all of them within arm's reach. He casts his eye about to see if there are any grenades on board. In almost a whisper, the lyrics of 'the Leaving of Liverpool' slip from his lips.