The war room in Edinburgh

[Greywall]

When: Spring 1930
Where: Edinburgh capital of the UKUG

The phone would ring oddly, each one of the 12 telephones had some kind of distinct bell or ring. They all link to various offices and branches of the military, some to early detection networks, the Royal Airforce and the one lone red phone at the middle of the room went to the Taoiseach. Gilbert Martin reached over with his scrawny hand and answered the ringing phone in annoyance as his heavier set counterpart across from him ignored it. "War room, Martin speaking." he would nod and respond shortly before hanging up. "Bloody hell, you could answer one fuckin' phone ya know." He peered over the divide at the main desk, but it was in vain, Phillip Grantham simply took his check and went home doing as little as he could. Gilbert rolled his eyes back and walked over to a large map of the Gaelian islands placing a yellow pin in the channel, "Galra again?" Gilbert was startled to even hear a voice in the room with him and he turned around asking for clarification. "Command is pretty set, that we're to war the spiders eventually. Down South, near our colonies. But that's not the first time Galra has probed our waters, might wanna consider them." Gilbert walked back to his seat now amused at the sudden verbal interaction he was receiving, for days maybe weeks this fatass would sit there smoke his cigarettes, eat lunch and never answer the damn phones. And here he was espousing potential war politics. "What makes you think Galra? Got some kind of, insight I'm lacking?" Gilbert said almost mockingly. But even with the poor tone Phillip just grinned and pulled a rolled cigarette out of his front uniform pocket and began lighting it, after taking a drag and letting the smoke exhale he said "I've been down here for twelve years, you what a... three maybe two I don't know. Don't care. Peace time this room is empty, but when war comes, and it will you an me will have to explain what high command missed. And I'm saying, it's not Kumosenkan, but Galra who will be the next fight." Gilbert pursed his lips annoyed, he received this post and was rather happy to have gotten it initially but now wondered what good a war room was during a long peace. "why Galra? you haven't answered that bit." Gilbert began typing up his report for records on what the Red Fox squadron found in the channel, "They're surrounded. Simple eh? Look at the map behind me. It's Reseria. You have us, Lusatia, and those fuckin' Seleucidenians. All wrapped nicely around Galra, all right there threatening it. The Royal Airforce alone could cripple its industrial capacity and the armies of Lusatia are legendary they could cut across the North and seize vital areas...and those Selly's? Mass wave assaults til the Galra run out of ammo. No, if I am a betting man, I start preparing for a big fucking showdown. We're on a powder keg, and I don't know who gonna get blown to kingdom come but know this ya skinny git if we aren't ready...we're fucked." Phillip finished his cigarette and put it the ash tray nearby. "Now, finish your report. And I'm gonna draw up to the Admirals of the Royal fleet why they should keep some fuckin' ships in the north due to this...eh, probing. Spiders been keeping in their lane, Ashi aren't a threat, and the damn Neverra keep the South in check. Who does that leave?" Gilbert was focused on his report, but he felt Phillip's eyes on him, the wooden screams of the chair Phillip had basically rooted himself in cried out as he stood up and slowly popped his back for some relief. "I'm gonna make some tea, when you're done, you and I are gonna run some naval scenarios to give to the Royal Navy in the event Galra not Kumo hits us." Phillip went into the next room, a small kitchen and began making some tea. Gilbert was now looking at the map of Reseria, Phillip wasn't wrong, the Entente might have kept Galra in check but it also validated why they needed a massive military and why they probably needed to be assertive. "If...if this is such a ticking time bomb. Why don't we avoid it?" Gilbert asked, Phillip didn't turn toward him still focused on the tea, "We don't gain anything from this war, or do they?" he kept asking now wanting a response, he got one finally when Phillip sighed and said "I don't think the United Kingdom will pull the trigger, or Lusatia. But. I don't know about this Shah Seleucidenia has." Silence filled the room only to be broken by the tea kettle going off, Phillip removed it from the stove eye and turned off the stove. He poured two cups and brought one over the to Gilbert, "calm down, drink. we're here to figure hypotheticals not reality. Because really, war could still come from Kumosenkan like command thinks. So lets do our best to make sure all angles are covered, yes?" he raised his cup  to reassure his colleague and Gilbert finally took a drink. "Finish your report. Then lets get to work." 

[Greywall]

Where: Faroe countryside
When: spring 1930

The train rolled against the rain pouring against it, it’s rhythmic beating soothing to listen as it beat against the coach. Several passengers had began to fall asleep save one, Kurt Barlow was stared blankly out his window lost in the rolling country that passed by. He stood out in his brown uniform as the lone soldier heading to the isolated military base in Northern Faroe. The whistle blew indicating they were close to the station, a Royal conductor came in and announced, “we’ve arrived at Bree, please be ready to depart. Next stop is Wintleson.” Several of the snoozing passengers stirred and began getting ready as the train came to a slow stop at a small train station. Kurt stood up and grabbed a large military duffel bag above him in the cargo storage rack. He made his way among others off the coach an onto the platform. He looked at the green painted engine as the local crews prepped it for the next leg of its trip, the green paint unique to faroe was still strange to him as all the locomotives in Alba had blue paint. Truth be told, Kurt had never left his small town in Alba and never really wanted to leave, but he needed a job and the military was an easy to obtain job with pay an benefits that would help in the years as he got older. He walked down past the locomotive to an off ramp and saw a motorized staol powered Kubelwagen driven by another soldier.



Kurt walked over and saluted the driver, “private first class Barlow! Reporting!” The driver seemed amused and nonchalantly saluted back, “at ease mate. I’m no officer. Hop in.” Barlow put his bag in the back seat and sat in the passenger seat before the Kubelwagen began driving off. “I’m private Derry, Francis Derry. And this is the lovely town of Bree, take a look it’s your world outside of base. There’s a pub. A. Pub. One. Small market store, something that resembles a movie theater and oddly enough a snazzy little bank.” Kurt looked around and the town was driven through rather quickly, it was one of those small Gaelian towns in the country that catered to farmers and rural workers. “Your accent, you’re from Cricon?” Kurt asked trying to keep the conversation rolling, “correct, came up here years ago with my paw, I joined up when no one was hiring. Odd that is, jobs seem to be drying up lately in the green island.” The Kubelwagen winded on backroads and after what seemed like an hour approached a decently sized military base in the countryside. They approached a guard house and were quickly seen in. Compared to the town, the base was vibrant and active with several soldiers running drills. They pulled up to a building at the center and parked, “this is the main office, head on in and look for sergeant Kilroy. Welcome to the 121st mate.” Kurt took his bag from the back and left the Kubelwagen, Derry wasted no time to drive off and out it away.




As Kurt walked in the office was clearly busy with the sound of telephones and typewriters filling the building. The front desk gave him some paperwork and pointed him to an office, on the door read Captain Ferriday and inside were two men in military attire. “Private first class Barlow, reporting” said Kurt as he saluted them. They were more serious than Derry and saluted him back, “captain Ferriday, this is sergeant Kilroy. You must be the Alban they’re sending us.” They both took a seat and the captain waved his hand to one of the two chairs in front of his desk for Kurt to sit down. “You’ll be assigned to Kilroy and his squad. You’ll be in Able bunk, you need to meet the weapons-master and get your weapon, you are to get up with the unit and run drills. You’ll be given a four day leave after two weeks, I expect you to carpool with others if you intend to spend it in town. No, you cannot drive to another town. Don’t ask. You take orders from sergeant Kilroy, me, or the other officers. You’ll receive pay monthly, I suggest you get an account. Holding onto cash is restricted on base. Questions?” Kurt shook his head saying “sir no sir”. The captain then stood up, “then report to the bunk assigned to you, and head to the weapons-master. Dismissed.” They saluted and Kurt left the office.

Kurt walked to the bunk house labeled Able, inside was empty as his unit was running drills. He dropped his bag at the bunk assigned with his name and made his way back outside toward a large set of warehouses. Inside hundreds of firearms and even some tanks. He walked over to a check in desk labeled crudely ‘weapons-master’ “private first class Barlow, here for my equipment.” The woman behind the desk didn’t respond and immediately like a machine went to grabbing some items underneath, “this is your backpack, shovel, some survival gear, canteen, and knife.” She then walked over to a wall on the left where several rifles and revolvers were hung on and studied them for a number assigned to Kurt. She grabbed one rifle and revolver bringing them over, “this is your mark V rifle, it first a five round clip. You are responsible for cleaning it and making it presentable. It’s new, so do not FUCK UP THIS RIFLE.” Her harsh tone at the end stunned Kurt slightly as she handed him the rifle, the weight of it made it all real now. He was a real soldier of the Royal army now. “This is a Wimbledon single action revolver. Cunts here call it a Wimbly or webly. It fires these rounds and is your side arm, don’t be an Elerian cowboy and shooting from the hip I will break YOUR FUCKING FINGERS.” Kurt slowly grabbed the revolver and the rounds to put them away, the weapons-master then pointed annoyed to the shooting range, “grab some rifle rounds and fire off your mark V. You are to fire at least 30 rounds to accurately test it. Come back if you need help. NEED. Private. Not want.” Before Kurt could respond she slapped a book on the counter, opened it and began reading huffing at another green soldier she had to make sure didn’t break her equipment. Kurt walked over to a ammo dump grabbing serval clips of rifle ammo and went to the range, basic training taught him how to use the rifle but this was his rifle and he intended to take care of it. And not suffer the wrath of the weapons-master. At the range he inserted the clip and began firing at the target range, at first missing completely until he adjusted the iron sight to his liking and began nailing the targets down range. As he went to load another clip he paused and thought to himself, ‘finally, made it.’ And began firing again.

[Greywall]

When: Spring 1930
Where: Western Zedon 


"Absolutely not!" the sound of the combination wrench slapping the cold hard concrete floor rang through the garage, Bandile Firash was consumed in anger and sadness at the news his son brought him. His only son was joining the Royal Army, something he could not tolerate, "our people have lived in peace under the damn Celts for centuries as they take what they want from us and lord over us as their own. And you joined the damn army!?" he walked away from the car he was working on and slumped into an old wooden propping himself on the nearby desk, his elbow pushing away work orders that had piled up. His son Jelani stood there calm but clearly affected by his father's outburst, still clenching to the letter accepting his enrollment. "I know you don't like the Celts, but a lot of my friends are Celts father and they're joining up. And I want to go with them, if the Kumo invade our home...then our people will suffer." The deafening silence of the garage was crushing the two men, Bandile was trying to hold back tears as his only son told him of his intentions. Bandile like many natives of Zedon resented Gaelian rule, but the younger generations were growing up mixing and befriending them more than any generation before and the fear of losing who they were as a people resonated strongly. But Bandile couldn't ignore the bravery of his son, wanting to serve and defend the homeland, the Kumo were indeed a real threat to Zedon and for Bandile maybe that was enough. "When....I....When I lo- shit....When I lost your mother, I thought I would never heal. Maybe I haven't, she thought like you  we're all united now in this new world, our people have tried to shake off the shackles of the Gaelians and they just do not budge. But. Please, come home." Bandile finally looked up to his son his eyes despite being wiped wet from the tears he couldn't hold back, "where will you be stationed?" he tried to push through the conversation as Jelani responded, "Gorick, on the Northern Coast. I take a train in two days with my friends up there for basic training and then we get assigned." Bandile stood up and walked over to his son, "I don't like it, not one bit, I don't know if I ever will. I'm sure some of the elders will talk, my son wearing a brown Gaelian military uniform...but damn them. Because you have shown me our people are still brave. And kind. I never met them but your friends must be good people...for Gaelians." he laughed at the last bit but now was struggling, "Please write?" Jelani was now tearing up, "dammit dad of course." They both hugged for what seemed like an hour Bandile's fears of losing his only son serving people he could never really accept, but his wife told him to let go of his prejudices years ago and for his son and only his son he would do that. "Now" they both stepped outside of Bandile's shop, "I am going to feed you, like a king til you go!" Jelani bashfully laughed telling his dad to stop, "NO SIR, I don't know what they eat. So i'll feed you all the Zedon food we can grab. Now go enjoy your time. I got three more damn cars to fix and i'll be home." Bandile began to walk back into his garage when he stopped in his tracks at his son's words "thank you." Bandile went over the wrench he threw and picked it up, "Your great grandfather fought them, and died. I just don't know if I can ever forgive them. But. You make sure they treat you right." Jelani nodded and began to walk over to his Royce coupe and drove off to meet his friends, alone Bandile stared at the concrete floor and whispered quietly to himself a prayer that his son be safe.

Jelani speed across the small town to meet his friends at a local pub, the town like several across Zedon was mixed in native and Gaelian people, the last century had seen the two groups become closer but there remained few who despised Gaelians as colonizers and imperialist. Jelani's own great grandfather fought in the failed 1895 uprising that saw Zedon rebels slaughtered by the Royal Army, it was the last rebellion to force Gaelians off Zedon and mainland Touli. While some resented the sheer brutality of the Royal Army's treatment of the rebels Jelani's generation were swept up in Gaelic culture and the flush of new technologies. Interracial marriages were commonplace now and it seemed further rebellion was unlikely. He pulled up the pub and jumped out, inside were several different people many muttering about their jobs and the new railway renovations being planned into Western Zedon. Jelani walked to a table of three men his age, two Gaelians and one of mixed Zedon/Gaelian origin. "J! Over here!" Jelani took a seat grinning, "So how it go?" Jelani grinded his teeth and just nodded, "figure as much, Bandy was always old school." 

Jelani didn't react, he was still coming down from the garage, "right...lets change subjects!" the middle one said, "soon we'll all be" he pointed his finger going from left to right around the table "private Jelani, private Gordon, private McCollister, private McVeigh." The four laughed at the idea, "you ever think we'd leave this po dunk town? I hear Gorick at least has a market." said McVeigh, "Fuck that, what about girls!? All the girls in our class moved to university or got hitched after graduation." the group laughed as a waitress approached their table "you lads ordering something? Can't be warming the oak if you don't buy." they all grinned at her and ordered various foods and drinks, except for Jelani. "Oy what's the deal!? The might the last time you get some pulled pork or lamb!" exclaimed Gordon. "Dad's cooking, wants me to eat as much Zedon food as I can before I leave." McVeigh rolled his eyes, his mother had said the same thing, "what they think we won't eat it still? We're still in Zedon...bloody country huge in'it?" McVeigh felt less inclined to his Zedon cultural heritage than some mixed kids but he loved his mother and Zedon family still. "Hear this train ride is two days, is that the rails being bad?" Gordon complained as the waitress brought their drinks, "fuck no! ever seen a map Gord? Zedon is fuckin' huge! we ought to see the damn train stop I suppose once to refill. Reason no one comes this far West." Jelani grabbed his pint of beer and raised it over the table making the others do the same, "No matter what lads, we're going to be Royal soldiers soon. Uniforms, fighting the bloody spiders and getting all the girls soon enough." they laughed and clinked their cheap tin mugs before downing the beer. They would soon be in service of the Royal Army in the height of a political powder keg they had no idea was occurring in the Northern part of the world. 

[Greywall]

Where: Marshall Island
When: Spring 1930


The ringing never stops, it's a relentless hell, Cavanaugh clasped his hands over both ears and slowly closed his eyes. Years of flying loud open cockpit planes had done a number on his hearing, he pressed harder. He was lost in the concentration of trying to control the hellish light ringing when soft thuds came, he lifted his hands and listened hearing the sounds of someone knocking on his door "sir! Commander Wilson lookin' for ye!". He stood up from the bed he was sitting on and began getting ready, putting on his uniform. The dark room was small but at least private, his squadron mates had to bunk together on base and at the end of the day all Cavanaugh wanted was...silence. He put on his leather jacket adorned with his rank and looked into a mirror to make sure he looked presentable. His eyes fell to a picture of his father, wearing a uniform of the Royal Army with four other men and a woman smiling in a tropical setting. It was Hawaii, his father was on the ground with 40 thousand other Gaelians fighting with Hawaiians in the hell that was the war between UKUG and Kumosenkan. His father got home but never spoke of the war, when he died of cancer, he gave Cavanaugh the photo and told him to never join the Army. 

"Love you dad", he exited the room into a small hallway before getting outside. Marshall airfield wasn't much, home to two squadrons with outdated fighters for patrols in the channel. He approached the main command office but couldn't notice the row of Bulldog fighters, "fuckin' finally" he said under his breath. He walked into Commander Wilson's office and saluted him, "At ease Cap. Take a seat, I sent your report in." Cavanaugh sat down now showing some eager energy as he leaned forward, "and?" Commander Wilson looked at him with no expression "and what? Command thinks it was a simple fuck up, Galra flew too far in. Big deal, the real threat is South son." Wilson stood up and went to a filing cabinet to retrieve something, Cavanaugh seemed at a loss "Sir, they were scouting us. Locating shipping lanes, I know of the situation if you jus-" Wilson snapped his fingers at his captain "not another word, the fuckin' man eating spiders are the threat not fuckin' Galra." He slapped a file and opened pointing to a line at the bottom of the page, "sign here, be done with it." Cavanaugh chewed his words as he signed the document to end and close what he reported. 

"Good, now onto better news. We're being upgraded. You're getting Bulldogs, quieter engines, better guns and they're bloody faster too. Those old Bristols probably museum shit I don't really care to be honest." Wilson stood up and went to the big window overseeing the airfield at the back of the office, "been here ten years, those old planes here the entire time. You see some bandits and suddenly...I'm not disregarding you captain. You're a good man, better pilot. But now is not the time." Wilson turned back to Cavanaugh as he sat back down in his chair, "Take the week off, Cobra squadron will cover your patrols." Cavanaugh laughed, "and do what? the ferry doesn't run for two weeks." Wilson began working on paperwork for the new fighters, "go into town, get a drink, fuck a woman a man i don't care. Just relax, eat but don't get fat need you to stay light you'll be flying the night patrol when you return. You're dismissed." Cavanaugh stood up and saluted Wilson who halfheartedly did so in return before going back to his paperwork. Cavanaugh walked outside, the cool spring air from the channel wrapping around him as he looked at his new fighters on the runway. Far in the distance he saw the Bristols being loaded up onto a truck to be taken to the dock, he walked over to one of the Bulldog fighters and looked it over. It had no paint, a clear sign it was indeed new, the larger engine was quieter and stronger than what he flew but even an experienced vet like him couldn't believe how big it was. He had been on Marshall for years but never really left the airfield, he ate, slept, and flew for three straight years. "The fuck am I gonna do in some village?"