September 3, 1675. D+10, Istanbul
Account:
I followed one of the riflemen into the tunnel, the second brought up the rear. The tunnel was dark at first, but gradually began to become lighter due to small kerosene lamps that had been lit, and hung off the walls. The Stinger would be hard to use in these tight quarters, but I couldn’t sling it, and I sure as hell didn’t want to leave it.
Several times we passed small intersections, but we kept going forward, not risking a turn down a wrong path. The lead man had fixed a bayonet onto the end of his rifle. His fingers were slightly trembling. I reached out and patted his shoulder, calming him down. He looked back and I nodded to him. He swallowed and turned around, facing the end of the tunnel. We kept walking, and I noticed the tunnel seemed to be going upwards, in a slope.
We emerged at the top of the hill. Roman officers were standing around a table, one of them pointing at a large map with a wooden pointer. The three of us stared, wide eyed when we realized where we were. This was the Head Quarters of the Roman parachute division. The man with the pointer looked at us with a surprised look, like it was some kind of joke, but not in an arrogant way.
I pointed the Stinger at him. “Arrendersi.” I commanded. He put his hands up and laughed, the other Roman paratroopers doing the same.
“You do not need to try and speak my language, soldier.” He said in surprisingly good Scandinavian. He set the pointer down and pulled his pistol out of a holster. He tossed it to me. I caught it, giving him a questioning look.
“It’s a custom,” He explained, “For a surrendering Roman officer to give his personal weapon to the one who captures him.”
I thanked him and put the pistol on a small table, and watched him as he ordered the paratroopers to surrender. Once he had done so, he sat and his officers sat down, all of them turning over their pistols to us. They joked, as though the whole thing was funny, but I was surprised about how much respect they showed us.
“What is your rank, soldier?” The man asked me.
“Sergeant.”
His eyes widened slightly. “Really? I had thought you an officer. You look like you are one.”
The door to the bunker opened up before I could reply, and Captain Baldr, along with other officers entered. We had already hid our pistols, anticipating that our officers would make us turn them over if they saw them. We were ordered back to our squads, and after shaking hands with the other two, I discarded the Stinger and ammo and walked to where my squad was.
Soon after I found them, we went back to Istanbul with our prisoners, passing by a large column of marines on their way to take over the hill. Once we arrived at the city, our prisoners were put onto ships for mainland Scandinavia, where they would be either sent back home, or, if they wanted, the option of staying and becoming a citizen. This was a common practice with the Romans, as we discovered them to be a nice people, and were found to be very excited about being citizens in Scandinavia.
I went to the nearest post office, one that was non-military and mailed my collection of pistols home, along with some newly received combat pay. When I returned to my squad, I found them gearing up.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“The Captain came by. Told us to gear up and assemble at the docks.” Someone answered. I glanced around, and then grabbed my pack, helmet, ammo, and other gear. We walked to the docks, passing by other men going the same direction. We were ordered onto landing ships, and within the hour, we were steaming away from Istanbul, Cruisers and Destroyers flanking the transport craft. We were going back to Scandinavia itself.
…
I walked off the LSI into Trondheim, my legs stiff after two weeks onboard the ship. The MPs gathered us together and we marched heading through the streets, the woman throwing flowers to us as we went.
What the hell? I thought. Did they bring us away from the fighting just to parade us around the capitol? I waved back to the civilians, as did everyone else, many of whom had to be thinking the same thoughts I was. We turned down a road and marched through the front gates of The Fascist State Building, the home of Ragnar, and seat of the government. We stopped in the courtyard, standing at attention.
I adjusted my helmet, hoping I looked presentable. We were going to meet some powerful people. Two men walked out onto the balcony of the building, surveying us.
My God. It was Ragnar Lodbrok himself. He looked us over, and even from this distance, I could see the pried, the honor that he had permanently installed into the Scandinavian people, and those of her colonies. He stared at us, before speaking.
“You are here for a very important reason. This has been a terrible war. More Scandinavians have died in this war than in any other. The 14th Infantry Army has been fighting through all of it. It has, perhaps, the most impressive record of any unit in Scandinavia’s history. It is for this reason that I have these orders for you.” He paused. “I am ordering that, as of today, the 14th Infantry Army does not exist anymore.”
We stared at him in silenced shock. If a man at the back of the formation had coughed, I would have been able to hear him. Ragnar continued. “Take off your helmets, and your field jackets.”
We obeyed, still silent.
“Now, march inside.” He ordered. We stayed in ranks, and we moved forward, in a dazed shock. The front doors of the building opened up. We went inside. Ragnar’s voice sounded out. “You are now men of the Scandinavian 1st Guards Army; The most elite of Scandinavia’s fighting men.”
My eyes opened wide. I had heard of the Guards. They were made from units that had seen more combat than any other in their time. I was one of the most elite of the elite. I got into a line. When I got to the front, a man handed me a maroon beret, a new helmet, and a new field jacket. I thanked him and walked outside, putting on my beret and jacket, and buckling on my gear. The 1st Guards Army had been born.
A train load of Italian officers who were captured near Istanbul, many by Sergeant Leif Erickson.
Elite of the Elite: Men of the 1st Guards Army later, during the Istanbul campaign. Notice the new uniforms, and helmets.
Account:
I followed one of the riflemen into the tunnel, the second brought up the rear. The tunnel was dark at first, but gradually began to become lighter due to small kerosene lamps that had been lit, and hung off the walls. The Stinger would be hard to use in these tight quarters, but I couldn’t sling it, and I sure as hell didn’t want to leave it.
Several times we passed small intersections, but we kept going forward, not risking a turn down a wrong path. The lead man had fixed a bayonet onto the end of his rifle. His fingers were slightly trembling. I reached out and patted his shoulder, calming him down. He looked back and I nodded to him. He swallowed and turned around, facing the end of the tunnel. We kept walking, and I noticed the tunnel seemed to be going upwards, in a slope.
We emerged at the top of the hill. Roman officers were standing around a table, one of them pointing at a large map with a wooden pointer. The three of us stared, wide eyed when we realized where we were. This was the Head Quarters of the Roman parachute division. The man with the pointer looked at us with a surprised look, like it was some kind of joke, but not in an arrogant way.
I pointed the Stinger at him. “Arrendersi.” I commanded. He put his hands up and laughed, the other Roman paratroopers doing the same.
“You do not need to try and speak my language, soldier.” He said in surprisingly good Scandinavian. He set the pointer down and pulled his pistol out of a holster. He tossed it to me. I caught it, giving him a questioning look.
“It’s a custom,” He explained, “For a surrendering Roman officer to give his personal weapon to the one who captures him.”
I thanked him and put the pistol on a small table, and watched him as he ordered the paratroopers to surrender. Once he had done so, he sat and his officers sat down, all of them turning over their pistols to us. They joked, as though the whole thing was funny, but I was surprised about how much respect they showed us.
“What is your rank, soldier?” The man asked me.
“Sergeant.”
His eyes widened slightly. “Really? I had thought you an officer. You look like you are one.”
The door to the bunker opened up before I could reply, and Captain Baldr, along with other officers entered. We had already hid our pistols, anticipating that our officers would make us turn them over if they saw them. We were ordered back to our squads, and after shaking hands with the other two, I discarded the Stinger and ammo and walked to where my squad was.
Soon after I found them, we went back to Istanbul with our prisoners, passing by a large column of marines on their way to take over the hill. Once we arrived at the city, our prisoners were put onto ships for mainland Scandinavia, where they would be either sent back home, or, if they wanted, the option of staying and becoming a citizen. This was a common practice with the Romans, as we discovered them to be a nice people, and were found to be very excited about being citizens in Scandinavia.
I went to the nearest post office, one that was non-military and mailed my collection of pistols home, along with some newly received combat pay. When I returned to my squad, I found them gearing up.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“The Captain came by. Told us to gear up and assemble at the docks.” Someone answered. I glanced around, and then grabbed my pack, helmet, ammo, and other gear. We walked to the docks, passing by other men going the same direction. We were ordered onto landing ships, and within the hour, we were steaming away from Istanbul, Cruisers and Destroyers flanking the transport craft. We were going back to Scandinavia itself.
…
I walked off the LSI into Trondheim, my legs stiff after two weeks onboard the ship. The MPs gathered us together and we marched heading through the streets, the woman throwing flowers to us as we went.
What the hell? I thought. Did they bring us away from the fighting just to parade us around the capitol? I waved back to the civilians, as did everyone else, many of whom had to be thinking the same thoughts I was. We turned down a road and marched through the front gates of The Fascist State Building, the home of Ragnar, and seat of the government. We stopped in the courtyard, standing at attention.
I adjusted my helmet, hoping I looked presentable. We were going to meet some powerful people. Two men walked out onto the balcony of the building, surveying us.
My God. It was Ragnar Lodbrok himself. He looked us over, and even from this distance, I could see the pried, the honor that he had permanently installed into the Scandinavian people, and those of her colonies. He stared at us, before speaking.
“You are here for a very important reason. This has been a terrible war. More Scandinavians have died in this war than in any other. The 14th Infantry Army has been fighting through all of it. It has, perhaps, the most impressive record of any unit in Scandinavia’s history. It is for this reason that I have these orders for you.” He paused. “I am ordering that, as of today, the 14th Infantry Army does not exist anymore.”
We stared at him in silenced shock. If a man at the back of the formation had coughed, I would have been able to hear him. Ragnar continued. “Take off your helmets, and your field jackets.”
We obeyed, still silent.
“Now, march inside.” He ordered. We stayed in ranks, and we moved forward, in a dazed shock. The front doors of the building opened up. We went inside. Ragnar’s voice sounded out. “You are now men of the Scandinavian 1st Guards Army; The most elite of Scandinavia’s fighting men.”
My eyes opened wide. I had heard of the Guards. They were made from units that had seen more combat than any other in their time. I was one of the most elite of the elite. I got into a line. When I got to the front, a man handed me a maroon beret, a new helmet, and a new field jacket. I thanked him and walked outside, putting on my beret and jacket, and buckling on my gear. The 1st Guards Army had been born.
A train load of Italian officers who were captured near Istanbul, many by Sergeant Leif Erickson.
Elite of the Elite: Men of the 1st Guards Army later, during the Istanbul campaign. Notice the new uniforms, and helmets.
