The Hansa is Hiring!

[Margrave]

A brief message would be sent to several news organizations, world leaders, and military analysts across the globe:


[quote] Citizens of the World,

Greetings. The Hanseatic Republic has decided to announce new job opportunities within Finland for current former military. Men and women are accepted; they must have no violent crime on their records, no sexual offenses, must have have completed an honorable term of service. *If Service-Member's Nation no longer exists, an endorsement from the local military authority is required* According to our internally released Non-Discrimination Act, interested persons will not be turned away for gender, race, or religious preferences. The Republic requires men and women of good, sound judgement, comfortable in their respective fields, and able to commit to no less than four years of honorable service to the Republic. For questions or registration, please contact the Hanseatic Defense Force Chief Commander, Diet Hall, Helsinki, Hanseatic Republic. On Behalf of the Hansa, I look forward to seeing our first recruits soon."

Signed,

Natalia Pons
Prime Minister of the Hanseatic Republic. [/quote]

[Captain Enema]

Denard turns the page in his hand and ponders. The recent massive downsizing of Legion's Armed Forces had left him without a job. He could have retained his position, but of late he's been bored. Rather than be bothered with the same life of birth and death in the heart of Africa he's chosen to look outside of Africa for a new position. He's not the youngest man to walk the fields, but he's far from being decrepit.

Inside his graying temples he has a lifetime of experience. Probably you could safely say he has two lifetimes, but only if you believe in reincarnation, which Denard doesn't. Hence, his willingness to settle for a mere lifetime of both honorable and dishonorable work in all corners of the globe. From the looks of the advertisement he might just be in for a fun filled adventure to yet another part of the globe..

"Good timing," he mutters as he folds the paper, takes another drag on his large cigar, and leaves a few notes on the table. Within the hour he's wheels up and in the air to investigate this possible opportunity.

[king of cochin]

The crisp cool air of Helsinki was a far cry different from the sweltering heat and humidity of Madras as Kaushik Nair stepped out from the Airport. The flight had been excruciatingly long though the cushioned seats, in flight refreshments and the cute air hostesses made it more pleasurable than most of the other flights Kaushik had taken over his past several years. At age 42 Kaushik still considered himself rather fit for any person his age and hence did not suffer much problems in acclimatizing himself to the new place. Hefting his large duffel bag, Kaushik boarded a bus to the city and started thinking about what prospects this new job would bring about.

Having served for nearly 20 years in the Royal Cochin Army, SFC Kaushik Nair had retired at the rank of E7, Sergeant First Class. A career infantry man Kaushik had enlisted in the army straight from school as a rookie 17 year old. After the grind of basic training he had been assigned to the 12th Infantry Regiment. Learning the time tested skills of an infantry soldier at the rough and occasionally brutal ministrations of the Drill Sergeants and a successions of Sergeant Majors of various Battalions, Private First Class Kaushik Nair found himself thoroughly enjoying the job. The passion which engulfed him led him to constantly improve himself and through the advice of his Company Major, Kaushik applied for Airborne Training. The jump boots and para decals of the 1st Airborne Division started to fade with years as he found himself lusting for more challenges. A stint in Royal Cochin Special Forces was the natural progression. Kaushik managed to pass through the grueling Selection Process of the RCSF and became a Commando in the 23rd Special Forces Regiment, the "Ghostmasters". At the end of his 20 year old service contract SFC Kaushik Nair considered himself a professional soldier however his request for continued service was not accepted. Retired from the force with a sizable severance amount, a comfortable pension and a host of amenities foe retired soldiers, Kaushik soon felt himself bored of the civilian life. Though he tried a few stints at some security companies and mining companies, he felt discomfited at the loss of barracks life. Having considered himself wedded to the army, at age 37 Kaushik was still a bachelor.

It was then that he saw the advertisement from Hanseatic Republic. Having ascertained there to be no conflict in loyalty as ascertained by the Ministry of External Affairs, Kaushik packed his bag for the hope of embarking on an interesting new avenue.

The city certainly is beautiful and he hoped for his own sake that the bordellos and bars in this city are also first rate. The terrain would take some using to but sure could be braved. As he entered the building said to be the recruitment office of the Hanseatic Defense Force he was in high spirits. Though expecting to see plenty of new faces, he was surprised to see a few very familiar faces. Several Cochin citizens were grouped towards one corner of the hall and Kaushik saw some familiar faces, some friendly, some not so friendly from his time in Royal Cochin Defense Forces and then some new faces.

This would definitely be an interesting start for this new job.

[Captain Enema]

As soon as he clears customs, Denard presents himself to the appropriate office with his resume in hand. He's a bit worried about some of the items on it and a bit proud of some of the others. His references are solid, at least three recognizable world leaders who can vouch for him. His expectations are quite low and in fact, Denard is wondering if his tired old bones can make it through boot camp one more time. Surely, a man of forty one in his physical condition could be able to do it.

If starting over as an infantryman is what it will take he's willing to give it a try. He examines his resume one more time and waits patiently for the proper person to make themselves avaliable to deal with him. He's already announced himself and his intentions to sign up with this outfit.

[quote]Robert E. Denard
Number 10 Denning Street
Port Sudan

[b]Objectives[/b]

To gain a position in a dynamic and growing organization that best utilizes my specific skill set.

[b]Education[/b]

Bachelor's of Arts in African History, New York City University
Masters of Science in International Relations, Hunter College

[b]Work History - recent to latest[/b]

Military Dictator of Legion
* Ensuring the security and prosperity of Legion.
* Quality assurance on Legion Military units.
* Inspecting Legion assests and negotiating treaties.

Sudanese Republic Senior General
* Leader of the Sudanese Defense Forces

Owner and Founder of Legion Security Providers
* Provided personal security for Asian leaders on a contractual basis.

Republic of Somal Military Dictator
* Leader and Founder of the Republic of Somal

Legion Senior Officer
* Leader and Founder of the African Legion

People to People Intern
* Volunteer internship with African Villagers that were massacred by Marxist Insurgents.

References:

Sarah Tintagyl
Dellion
[/quote]

[iamthey]

*Private*

Segments of the nostalgic Pacifican population left to join the foreign legion. Upon hearing of their departure Wellington quietly revoked their citizenship citing that all were violating the law by swearing fealty to the military of another nation.

Edited October 20, 2010 by iamthey

[Margrave]

*Hanseatic Defense Force Base "Temple", Helsinki, Finland*



The message had certainly done it's work. Gathered in a long, low ceiling room, several hundred recruits of varying age, race, and gender all gathered, all wearing the hastily issued black pants and white short sleeved shirts they'd received at HDFB Helsinki, where they had been processed and sifted for spies, convicted criminals, the very ill or the very pregnant. They had been assigned chairs, seemingly at random; in truth the order was directed very wisely, seating people together who did not belong to the same nation, folks who plain despised each other. The room was muggy, full of sweaty people old and young. The stage at the front was hidden by the black curtains, thick and moth-eaten in spots, but it gave an imposing air to the entire scene, a difficult task when considering the potential audience. In the midst of all the talking and confusion, a loud bell began to toll, each new ring louder, silencing even the most chatty of the recruits. As the final peal echoed away, the curtain drew back, and a harsh spotlight lit up the stage.


Stepping onto the stage was a man in a white dress uniform, flanked by two non-descript, black-armored soldiers, holding automatic weapons. An older man, wearing a stylized golden sword on both collars. Though graying, he had a soldierly bearing, with more menace in his soul than either of the guards at his back, his hawk-like features seemed to inspire a healthy fear even in some of the "fearless". Facing the crowd, he surveyed them silently for a moment, and then began to speak, a clear, deep voice that reached the back of the room without need for a microphone.


"You have all come for something."

He began to pace, surveying the crowd as he did so, searching for what only he could see. As he walked, he rapped the floor with a swagger stick, an ancient straight rod of hickory that could break a man's bones; he emphasized his points with jabs at the floor or the air. "You are all soldiers, warriors of one form or another. Al of you want to kill, or at least that's what you have told us by coming here. If you are anything less than a warrior, you will not be welcome here.


"The Hanseatic Republic, in its infinite wisdom, has called you from the four corners of the earth, to create a fighting force unlike any other in the world; and trust me, ladies and gentlemen, if you make it, you will be better than any army of Europe or Asia. I will MAKE you better, if I have to break you into bits and put you back together to do it. Throughout the period of training, I and those like me will burn out the weakness, pool your collective strengths, forge you into one unit that is willing to do what it takes to win. When the day comes that you are recognized; when the day comes that you stand in front of me wearing a dress uniform and awaiting my sonorous pronouncements of your achievements, you will not be a pretty tin soldier only good for the parade. You will not be like the useless armies of other nations who can only advance if the sun is shining, the chow is good, and the enemy weak-willled and unarmed! You will be no mere soldiers....you will be.."

He pointed behind him, to [url="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Flag_of_legion.svg"]a banner[/url] that was rapidly unfurling behind him.

"Legionnaire's."



He faced them full on, silent while other distinguished looking men, as well as a few middling and even a youngster or so stood to face them, all of them wearing uniforms that called back to glory days long past....That of the Hanseatic Marine Corps, and it's parent, the Camberlain Royal Marine Corps. With enthusiasm, the man spoke again, this time gesturing to the left and right of him.

"These men standing with me are warriors of renown, men of fame and ability. They, as I, remember the humiliation of Europe at the hands of the Francoists. They remember later, in the hard won Chinese Rebellion, and even later fighting for the Queen of Australia. But a few of us remember an even earlier time; the defense at Murmansk; the actions taken in the great Northern Conflict, before the first Hanseatic Republic was even conceived. I present to you your instructors, the last members of the old legends and the first generation to forge the new one; my fellow soldiers of the Sea...the Marines of the Hanseatic Commonwealth and the Kingdom of Camberlain. We will arm you with all of our shared experience; we will teach you all that can be taught, and you will teach us in turn, so that the Legion is always ready, always prepared, always the superior force on the battle field."

The doors directly at the side of the stage opened, as did the back door. Gesticulating fiercely, the Marine spoke again. "My name is General Waylander, and I am your Commanding Officer. Over the next three days, you will be trained, and we will sift through those who want to be here and those who don't. Those who have not the stomach will be given the chance to leave, but that will not be today. After that, we will formally begin training the Legion. Now, for all those here who have blue tags on their chairs, you will be exiting out the back, for those of you with black tags, you will be going into the side doors and standing by. Why are you still here? Move!"

The various instructors began shouting, ushering the troops out with colorful curses and gestures, where they would be formed out and prepared for training. For those few with the black tags, though, they were quietly instructed to enter the side room by the General. Denard and Kaushik would find black tags, and thus be ushered in, to what fate they were unsure.

[king of cochin]

It was only when the General ordered the people with black and blue tags to move that Karthik even noticed that his chair had some sort of a tag - a black tag. Sloppy. Very sloppy. Such a lapse in situational awareness would have gotten him killed in the "Ghostmasters" and most likely would do so in the Legion. Whatever training these Hanseatics threw his way he must do it with full effort. He was no longer the green recruit of 17 years, he was 42 years old, quite fit but even more important one who knew the value of discipline.

The trainers certainly looked formidable and the General seemed to have seen quite a few battlefield through the trigger hairs of a gun. His bag and civilian clothes had all been given for safekeeping at the recruitment office and now dressed in his new uniform, Kaushik Nair walked briskly towards the side doors as the drill officers cursed and shouted at the people to move faster. Well at least this is something which he was familiar albeit not having had to endure it for the past 15 years.

[Captain Enema]

Denard looks at his black tag and silently grumbles to himself about more organized chicken crap. He reminds himself the rah rah rah speeches and the busybody details are all part of the same intake process that units across the world use. He's done the same more times than he can remember in the African Legion. This new Legion strikes him as another variation of the same tried and test them of giving a group of men from disparate backgrounds a foundation.

Nationally formed units have their patriotism. The old French Foreign Legion had the motto, 'Legos Patria Nostros'. In simple English for those too stupid to know Latin, 'The Legion is our country'. A powerful saying for a powerful group of men who made their mark all over the world in service to their paymasters. The end result was a force that fought for each other first and then France second and since they fought so very well, the French were hardly in a position to ever complain about their loyalties.

The African Legion, Denard's true home, had its own colorful history. The brotherhood of fighting men that it has come to represent was forged the hard way, by fighting and dying. And dear god, did they do plenty of both over the years. It didn't matter where they were in the world, they did their jobs and did it to the best of their abilities. Failure to complete a mission was expected from time to time, failure to let down a brother Legionnaire is simply unacceptable.

Denard lets the colorful curses roll over his back. He does admit to himself that some of them are quite original. He's always believed a good drill instructor should be able to curse in at least three different African Tribal dialects for proper effect. He doesn't know much about this outfit, but he's curious, which is probably the only reason why he has entertained this idea. For now he tunes out the cursing and shouting and move into the side room wondering if this is going to be a spin on the old double blind trick he's seen trainers used before.

[Markus Wilding]

"Any Portuguese citizen found signing up for this will be tried for treason, no questions asked."

[Margrave]

The room the recruits entered was the absolute opposite of the one they’d just left; a sleek conference table dominated the center of a plushly carpeted room; the many chairs that surrounded it were comfortably stuffed, and the room was warm without the muggy dampness of the long meeting hall. As the “black tags” were all seated, a young officer (a 2ndLT, Hanseatic Coastal Defense) strode in, directing them to make themselves comfortable and encouraged them to smoke, drink coffee, and generally take their ease. Smiling, he saluted smartly and left the room, leaving the group to talk and wait.


*Some time later*




General Waylander strode imperiously through the double-doors, flanked by his fellow senior officers. Waving off the salutes and greetings, he sat at the head of the table and called for quiet. When he spoke, his demeanor had changed; the harshness seemed softened, somehow, but an edge of steel still rang out with each word.


“Gentlemen, Ladies,


I see before me the combined experience of the Age; all of you are known to be above and beyond proficient, with a talent for warfare and leadership. Look around you; understand that this room holds more combined ability and know-how than the Command Staff of most national armies. You are all carefully screened; out of nine hundred, there are only eighty six of you who merited further investment beyond entering the basic training program.” He emphasized it by looking around the room, giving special attention to Denard and Kaushik who had been seated right next to one another. “Let me be blunt, ladies and gents; you are no mere soldiers, and you will be the foundation I will rely on as we officially start training and readying the first generation of Legionnaires .


“Throughout the next four months, all of you will train. A select few of you are going to be doing additional, unofficial training, making up our Special Operations Command; I fully expect the entirety of your enthusiasm and energy to go into what I ask of you; it will be difficult, but it will be the highest service you can render us. Some of you will be given leadership billets within the training command to lend stability to our little program; some of you are going to be officially “forgotten” about, until the end, when I expect you to sign a piece of paper that says “Legion Officer” and take up command billets, leading our brethren into combat wherever we may go. I fully expect all of you to teach; be it to your fellow trainees or to our own instructors, so that we may pool our combined strengths and ideals together. I fully expect one Sergeant of the Legion to be wiser, more-tactically proficient, and more skilled at leadership than the self-proclaimed “Noble Generals” of some of these third-world monarchies. God help the world when we release our Lieutenants onto the field; through your experiences and wisdom you will help make this Legion the finest military expeditionary force in the world, able to go anywhere and do anything without hesitation. This organization will be a family; too many of those in this room and outside of it are disowned and brother-less in the world. The Republic may be ours to defend, but...

“ Legio Patria Nostra. The Legion is our Fatherland.”


With that, he smiled, and stood. “We will be meeting in four weeks time; you will tell me your lessons learned, your observations on the training, and receiving guidance from myself. Until then...”

A Marine next to him suddenly stood at attention, and called “Attention on Deck!”, causing the whole room to snap to the position. The General saluted them. “Carry on, ladies and gentlemen. And God have mercy on your souls, for outside of this room, I shall not.”


With that, he exited a side door, along with his Command Staff; the Black Tags would be escorted to their respective platoons with the instructions to get to know one another and their fellow trainees; all of them would be doing some after hours work, either teaching what they knew in their respective fields, or helping to formulate another section off the Legion, so that it could become the self-reliant fighting force the Hansa needed. For now, though, they would endure the first four weeks of nothing but physical conditioning, shooting, more conditioning, hiking, close order drill, basic fighting skills, and to sum it up a two week long field operation of island hopping, invading some of the small islands off the coast of Finland and generally shaping themselves into a fighting force.


Denard would be assigned to Golf Company, 1st Platoon, as second squad leader, while Kruishik would be in 2nd platoon as the Platoon Guide, the highest ranking recruit in a recruit platoon. Much would be demanded of them. Each were told to give false names; Denard especially; for the Legion was “for the Legion”, and it’s Drill Instructors must treat each recruit the same. That said, the force would be well lead...General Waylander was especially glad of their presence. Perhaps with such men, a new destiny, not just for the Hansa, but for all of Europe might be made....

[KaiserMelech Mikhail]

Four friends, Peter, Yuri, Lev, and Chernov, were looking at one of the posters found on the ground. All four men met the qualifications, having served their 18 month tours while fighting the rebels in Marscurian Pakistan. Since then, times had turned tough. All four were unemployed and lived in tar-paper shacks in the slums of Marscury. The promise of work was what pushed them to this. They debated for an hour, which turned to a day, which turned to a week, but in the end, they decided that their futures lay outside Marscurian Siberia. However, joining a foreign army would amount to no less than treason, so they had to plan this very carefully. They bought several tickets, and hid them in their luggage. They would make over half a dozen stops on their way to Hansa, and their travels would take days. At the Marscury Railyards, they found the starting line. The 5:15 train heading west would take them out of the nation. Security was minimal as they threw their bags on the overhead compartments and settled into their seats. Slowly the train pulled away from the station, and was heading out of Marscury. Passing through the wilderness, the four had time to think.

"We can never come back," Yuri said, "we'll be traitors."

"The train stops in Obluchye," Lev said, "We can still turn back."

"No," Peter said, "there is nothing for us back there. Our futures lie outside this wasteland." The four nodded in agreement, and there would be no further contesting the future of this plan. On and on, for over a week they traveled. The train crossed into Vauleyo-Buryatia, and they made their first stop at a little village not far from the border. They needed to wait for their train, which came and hour later. This scene was repeated 3 more times in Vauleyo-Buryatia until the group crossed into Slavorussia. It would be a further four stops until they reached the Hansa border. They were out of tickets and out of luck at the border, and once they moved through the procedures, they were on their own. Finally, they managed to hitch a ride with a farmer who happened to be heading to Helsinki. Getting off at the outskirts of the city, the men lifted their packs and trekked in. Tired, dirty and smelly, they pushed open the doors to the Diet building. They slammed the crumpled poster in front of the information desk worker. "Where can we find this," Peter said.

[Captain Enema]

Denard, now called Willie Mugabe, settles in with his squad. Any general who can't remember how to lead a squad isn't fit to be a squad leader in his books. Squads are made of men, those men have needs. They need to be fed, watered, and they need to be kept busy. To this end Denard puts his squad to work nearly immediately by giving their entire barracks a top to bottom scrubbing and field day. After they finish this task he gathers them outside in front of their barracks and gives them a bit of a speech.

With the men gathered out front thinking they were done for the day, Denard happily disabuses them of this notion. The true home of the Legionnaire isn't spit polishing his boots, it is getting those boots muddy out in the field. Denard tells his squad this as he sizes them up very carefully and he issues a set of very explicit instructions to make sure none of them drop out over something that can be easily avoided with proper planning and attention to detail.

First he tells them, "If you can't walk, you can't fight. Keep your feet as dry as possible. Pack extra socks and make sure your boots fit comfortably."

One of his men says, "Sir, my boots are killing my feet. They are too small."

"Fill them up with hot water, shove them full of paper, and this will stretch them out. If that doesn't work we'll figure out how to scam you a bigger pair out of the supply orderly," Denard replies.

Second he tells them, "Go through your rucks and take out everything. Lay it all out on the floor and examine each piece of equipment, and pack it away carefully. Don't put anything that is metal next to each other. I don't want us sounding like a rattling trash heap when we are out in the bush."

"Sir..."

"Shut up and pay attention Legionnaire. Noise is your enemy. When in the bush you don't talk, you don't smoke, you don't crash through the trees, you don't fart, you don't burp, you don't blast out to your damn ipod, and above all you make damn sure your rucksack is properly packed to reduce your noise signature," Denard intones.

"Yes sir," the men reply.

"Now, I'm only going to say this once. If you fail me in this manner I'm not even going to bother reporting you to anyone. I'm going to handle this myself and believe me when I say you really don't want to know that that means," Denard says as he glares at his men. As none of them have much in the way of a response he continues by saying, "Legionnaires never let another Legionnaire down. You fight for each other and you live for each other and god damn it some of us are going to die for each other. That's what being in the Legion is about. You live and die for the Legion. The Legion is your mother, father, and everything all rolled into one. You get into trouble you come see me first. You need money you come see me. You girlfriend broke your heart you come see me and I'll get you a pass to town to get your ashes hauled. This squad will rely on each other or the weak link that prevents us from relying on each other will be removed from the equation."

"Yes sir," the men reply as some of them get a bit nervous.

"Now, let's get all your crap out of your rucksacks. Let's get them properly stowed. Let's breakdown your weapons and check them over and let's make sure everyone has drawn the proper supplies from the supply orderly. Any questions?" Denard asks.

"No sir," the men respond.

"Good, as we are Legionnaires our first priority will be to see to our weapons. Break out your rifles and so forth and let's give them a good cleaning. Do this in fire teams and check each others weapons," Denard orders as he sits down with the men in his fire team and begins to disassemble his rifle as he makes small talk with the two other men to get to know them better. It is a leadership trick he learned long ago about learning the small details of his men lives.

By knowing about their families, pets, hobbies, and other personal details he is able to get a clear picture of the man in the uniform. As he does this Denard can't help but ponder how rusty he's gotten at some of the finer points of small unit leadership. He pointedly reminds himself to keep his instructions more explicit and directly to the point in the future. Not that the information he conveyed was invalid, it just came out in a jumble, which is something he's always tried to avoid in the name of clarity. 'Too much damn politicking,' he thinks to himself.

[Fizzydog]

Labrador immediately deleted the messages sent to the government and warned it's citizens against going to a foreing nation to sign up in their military. All flights to Hanseastic were canceled temporarily.

[Lestari]

In her time in the Republic of Wallonia, Valerie Belland--or, as she was now known, Annette Marchessault--had held the rank of Captain, serving in the Wallonian military for fifteen of her thirty-six years. She had led a platoon in the Second Army, under the command of Field Marshal Erich Walther von Model, when Wallonia had defeated the invading Burgundian army at Seraing, and she had participated in the subsequent invasion of Bornholme alongside English and African Legion troops. Valerie had been aware, however, that she was giving up that rank and reputation, as well as everything she had had in the Republic, to join the Hansa Republic's Legion.

It had been difficult at first to adjust to returning to being the recruit--several times Valerie had to grit her teeth and restrain herself from snapping back at the drill officers. That didn't last long, though. Soon, she was assigned to a squad--the squad of 'Willie Mugabe'; the name was probably fake, just as 'Annette Marchessault' was fake. Valerie was to be leading a fire team in Mugabe's squad; he had already given them orders to check their weapons and supplies. She had taken some time to look over her soldiers as they did this, formulating a basic opinion of them before she would see what they were actually capable of. Under her stern countenance, the soldiers did as they were told without complaint; Valerie herself proceeded to disassemble her rifle, checking every detail of every piece with a meticulous, well-trained eye.

[Margrave]

Drill Officer Klein was a fair man, by most standards. Having maintained the rank of Captain all these years, he was still one of the younger instructors; certainly the youngest Camberlain Marine still living. Having been made Gulf Company's Commanding Officer, he had inspected the company top to bottom, insuring that his fellow Instructors and the senior recruits were doing their best to whip this force into shape. Now though, he surveyed the last squad of First Platoon, led by one "Willie Mugabe" and respect slowly started to form in his opinion of them. Due to the relatively few DO's and the massive amount of recruits, the "Black Tag" recipients had been given various commanding positions to help make things flow more smoothly...and "Mugabe" was an example of why it was necessary. But for now....it was game time.



"Form up in Squad Order, you 'orrible sloppy lot! Stop prancing around like ponies and move! I better hear intensity in your voice when you speak! Move like you've got some kind of purpose in life!"

The squad formed up in short order, Mugabe standing at attention in the front. Having been the most pro-active squad leader so far, Klein was far from going easy on him...if Mugabe had the ability to perform, he would be [i]made [/i] to perform...to his very limit.


"My Name Is Drill Officer Captain Klein, and I am your Commanding Officer! You will say "Yes Sir", "No Sir", and "Aye Sir"! "AYE" indicates you understand the orders as I have given them? DO YOU UNDERSTAND?!?"

A great shout of "Aye, SIR!" went out from them, Mugabe seeming to relish the discipline and intensity. "Now, hear this! All of you must be expecting some kind of pat on the back, right? Good job, cleaning your scummy barracks and weapons? Not in this Legion, damn you! Because you were off gallivanting around, you missed the Company Formation! Your Platoon was missing a squad on DAY ONE!!! All of you are going to drop and push until I get tired, and guess what, THAT DOESN'T HAPPEN!"


*twenty minutes later*


He put them through their paces, carefully noting their physical strengths and witnesses; all the while keeping up the intensity, driving them to find their limits and carefully push past them. After awhile, he ordered them to stop, and formed them up, Mugabe again heading up their little formation. "The first lesson of the day is what, Recruits?"


A few of them tried to give an informed answer, but he cut them all off. "COMMUNICATION! Communication will save your life or end it; if you know what's going on, you will make an informed decision! In Fog Of War situations, this will be difficult, but you will still strive to know exactly what your fireteam, squad, platoon and company are doing AT ALL TIMES. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?" He paused, barely letting them get out the "Aye Sir!" before continuing.

"So you're my special squad, eh? Trying to outshine the whole goddamn company? Fine by me! Mugabe, front and center!"

Denard would stride purposefully to the Captain. Before he could say anything, Klein would speak, softly so that only he could hear.

[i]"The Black Tags have several people in this Company, I suggest you get to know them. You'll be reporting to myself along with the Platoon Guides and other Squad Leaders tonight; we have training to accomplish and we all need to be on the same sheet of music. Head back to Company HQ; this area is ours, and soon enough it'll be up to us not only to attack from it but defend it. That's all the hints you get for today, now get these people back to the Barracks, I want profiles on all these people ASAP. We're carving out a lingua franca for the legion, and I need to know the best basic language so I can recommend it to Higher HQ. Now put your game-face on; it's time to go back to work."[/i]

He spoke again, but louder. "-and I swear if I see these folks not ship-shape within the next forty eight hours, I will do exactly as I've said! Now, 'Squad Leader', get moving!"


With that, he scowled and watched Denard take charge. He liked the man and was looking forward to calling him a brother...but not until all of this had been said and done.




OOC: For everbody joining in at this point: Assume you've already gone through the events I've mentioned; you may roleplay your character in training, within the events I've described. Feel free to be another Squad Leader in the Platoon, a fire-team leader, or just a regular guy or gal making their way.

Edited October 24, 2010 by Margrave

[Captain Enema]

[quote]"The Black Tags have several people in this Company, I suggest you get to know them. You'll be reporting to myself along with the Platoon Guides and other Squad Leaders tonight; we have training to accomplish and we all need to be on the same sheet of music. Head back to Company HQ; this area is ours, and soon enough it'll be up to us not only to attack from it but defend it. That's all the hints you get for today, now get these people back to the Barracks, I want profiles on all these people ASAP. We're carving out a lingua franca for the legion, and I need to know the best basic language so I can recommend it to Higher HQ. Now put your game-face on; it's time to go back to work."
[/quote]

Denard nods, rips off his best salute, waits for it to be returned, and turns and faces the company. He gives them what he'd like to consider his best stern look and rips out a deep rumble from the bottom of his diaphragm that sends out an echoing boom of, "Platoon, return to barracks, DO NOT LET ME GET THERE FIRST GOD DAMN IT."

He gets a sea of hesitant looks from the platoon and he emphasizes his words by taking off at the fastest run his forty three year old bones could manage. Rather than run around the platoon, he makes a road right through the middle of them and takes the shortest path back to barracks. He doesn't even look back to see if they are following him, which some are, and some aren't. The point Denard is attempting to make that orders are meant to be followed immediately, not later on after pondering them for a bit.

With a glare that can melt steel he waits for his squad back at their barracks and he snarls at them as they straggle in. He asks, "What the hell, I'm forty three years old. If you can't beat my sorry behind back to barracks, what is the damn point?"

"You surprised us sir," one of his men replies.

"A bigger surprise is when you have a bayonet in your gut from a Marxist insurgent who also wants to cut off your nuts and shove them down your throat," Denard roars. To emphasize his point he grabs the offender by the collar, brings him in close, and hisses, "Fighting in a war isn't about making doing a lot of damn thinking. You let your training do the work. You train, you train, you train, and you train until everything we do in battle is your nature."

He pushes the malefactor back to his original position with a bit of annoyance and says, "From now on we have a full time sentry rotation on our barracks when we are in residence. We will expect to defend our barracks as if our lives depended on it. We will get used to operating short on sleep, we will be getting used to defending our mates when we are short on sleep. A rotation list will go up in a bit after I coordinate with the others. Until then I want you all to write down your name, your country of origin, your age, military experience, and the languages you speak on this notepad," as he fetches a notepad out of his locker and places it on a table.

Once he's concluded this bit of business he goes to find the Platoon guides and squad leaders who are labeled black tags. He just saw all of them in a room together before they were assigned to their positions so it shouldn't be too difficult to figure out who is who and have a word with them. As he walks through the rest of the barracks he makes critical notes in his mind on items to be rectified in the other squad bays.