Oktober 23, 1939+ Western Front, near Metz
Dawn came shrouded with clouds of smoke, steam, and frost. The valley near Metz was silent save for the humming engines of the Germanian vehicles arriving on station, a staging area hastily created for the mechs and support vehicles accompanying them. Beside it stood a tent city built for the arriving troops.
Soldiers and vehicles alike had carved a road-wide path into the soil with their boots, tires, tracks, and mech foot paddings. All bore the banner or the badge of the Germanian military and the 23rd Armored Regiment.
Among these fine, brave young men was Corporal Elias Rademacher, a tall, black-haired, sharp-eyed soldier assigned to the 23rd as part of its small infantry detachment. He carried a Mk14 Gewehr rifle slung over his back, wore soft-padded body armor, and kept his trusty Mk8 steel helmet close. Along with his essentials, he carried a cooking kit, bedroll, and first-aid pouch.
Today, he and his squad were aboard a steam-powered half-track, on the way to the staging ground. Their voices barely audible from the drowning sound of the loud steam engine sitting next to them.
The steam-pipe on top of the vehicle hissed as the vehicle roll to a stop in front of the staging area, Elias catching glimpse of the towering cranes, rows of tents and trucks, and mechs lined up in makeshift service hangars.
The driver twisted a knob on his dashboard, deafening his truck's loud engine, before slapping the side of his door a few times.
"Welcome to the front, boys, now get your assess off my truck, I ain't got all day for you!" He barked as wave his hand dismissively.
"Wait," A soldier sitting opposite of Elias spoke, "were you purposefully increasing the engine noise while we're on the way?" He asked as he yank his backpack off the floor.
Elias smirked faintly, glancing at the driver, who only gave a toothy grin beneath his soot-stained goggles.
"Helps drown out the whining," the driver replied, reaching over to shut a valve with a hiss. "Makes the trip quieter for me."
The men groaned in unison, slinging their gear over their shoulders as they stepped down from the truck. The ground was cold and damp, the soil packed hard by the constant traffic of machines and boots.
"Can you believe that guy?" the man asked Elias. "He can't even let us talk for crying out loud."
Elias glanced at the badge on his uniform - Steiner. "I'm sure it's because we had to climb a steep hill. That engine's already old," he said, adjusting the strap on his backpack. "Elias, by the way."
The man extended his hand with a faint grin. "Henrik Steiner," he replied. "Let's hope the rest of the front isn't as loud as that ride."
Elias shook his hand, giving a small chuckle. "Don't count on it."
The two men tailed their squad and passed through the checkpoint where they were immediately greeted by the thick stench of burnt oil, rubber, soil, and whatever else is keeping the makeshift base powered.
In front of them are lined up tents on muddy paths, squad numbers hastily painted in black on one side. To their right, engineers worked on a line of tanks, their armor plates still glistening with condensation. Small steam-powered cranes clanked and groaned as they lifted spare parts into place, while sparks flickered from welding torches cutting through the morning gloom.
To the left, sits the pride and joy of the 23rd Armored Regiment, the latest marvel of Germanian engineering, the PzKpfm I "Kafer" and II Fox, light, armored, agile, and powerful. Each unit equipped with a wireless radio, a remarkable feat in itself. While other countries use flags and lights to communicate, Germanian armored crews effortlessly coordinate thru the airwaves.
The mechs quickly garnered Elias' attention who stopped mid-walk to gaze in awe at the metal beasts that acts as the spearhead of the regiment.
Henrik whistles, looking in the same direction as Elias, "Pretty hot, ain't she?"
"Yeah-" Elias, who had been sizing up the Kafer since he stopped, finally dropped his gaze low enough to realize Henrik wasn't talking about the machine, but the woman standing beside it. She was speaking sharply to a pair of mechanics, one of whom was nervously wiping his hands on a rag as she gestured at the mech's leg.
She wore an officer's suit - a dark-grey overall with a red accent running from the shoulder down to the wrist, her belt neatly fastened with a brass insignia that gleamed faintly under the pale morning light. Her posture alone carried an air of command. The faint steam curling around her boots made her look almost ethereal.
Elias nudges Henrik's side, "She's nobility, keep it down. She eyes us, we're cooked," he warned, voice low.
"Ouch!" Henrik puts his hand on his side, "You're right...basing on the crest on her shoulder pad, she's from the house Hohenstrum...what the hell?"
His eyes narrowed as he stared. "I think that's Countess Wilhelmina von Hohensturm. What's she doing here?"
Elias blinked, still half-distracted by the sight of the towering mech behind her. "A Countess, here? Maybe she's inspecting her own regiment?"
His remark earned him a solid slap on the back. "No, numb nuts! You've been drooling over that mech so much you didn't even notice what the mechanics were wearing! Those are her mechanics. She's joining the fight!"
Elias looked again, this time catching the red-trimmed insignias on the engineers' sleeves — the same crest as the Countess. His brow furrowed. "You're right. If I remember correctly, nobles earn their ranks by merit, yeah?"
Henrik grinned, shouldering his pack. "Yep, and it looks like we're going to see her every now and then for the rest of this battle."
The two walked off to find their tent. Behind them, Wilhelmina turned her head slightly, her eyes catching the pair for a brief moment before going back to what she was doing moments ago.
--
The path between the tents was a maze of mud and steam. Soldiers passed them by, carrying crates, rifles, and steaming mugs of coffee as officers shouted orders drowned beneath the hum of engines. Somewhere nearby, a mechanic tested a boiler, sending a sharp hiss through the camp, before cursing because it 'just wasn't right'
Elias and Henrik finally spotted their squad's tent - a dull green canvas marked with a hastily painted "B-3." Inside, the air was damp and thick.
"About time you two showed up," came a familiar voice. It was Sergeant Weber, their squad leader, hunched over a field map spread across a wooden crate. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing grease-stained forearms. "Thought you got lost in the fog."
Henrik dropped his pack with a thud. "Almost did, Sarge. Got distracted by Hotness Countess and her shiny toys."
Weber shot him a look. "You mean the nobles' pet project out there? Yeah, I've heard. Command's been whispering about her arrival all week. House Hohensturm's finest, they say." He tapped the map with a finger. "Let's just hope her fancy walking tanks hold up when the shells start flying."
Elias sat down on his cot, setting his rifle beside him. "Aren't her machines the same as the rest of the regiment?"
Weber glanced up, tired eyes meeting his. "Nope. Hohensturm's got something the rest of our coffin riders don't - mounted mortars and something they're calling a 'Rokket.' They say it's like a mortar, but horizontal or some bullshit."
Elias nodded slightly, intrigued but silent.
Henrik followed up, "We storming the front, Sarge?"
Weber fixed his gaze on Henrik. "That's the word. The brass wants a statement - says the Maginot won't hold against modern steel." He smirked faintly. "Guess we'll find out soon enough."
The tent fell quiet for a moment, the only sounds being distant engines and the whistle of steam outside.
Henrik leaned back, folding his arms behind his head. "Sounds like a bad plan and all that... well, here's to surviving long enough."
Outside, a column of mechanized transports rumbled past, their boilers hissing in rhythm. The machine's wake urged the tent walls to ripple, and the air filled with the deep hum of pistons straining under load.
The ground shuddered again as another walker passed, its heavy feet sinking into the soft earth.
Weber finally broke the silence, his voice low. "Hard to tell if that sound's comforting or not."
Henrik closed his eyes, listening to the steady pulse of machinery rolling into the distance. "I guess that depends to which side you're on"
The noise faded gradually, leaving behind only the faint whisper of steam and the soft creak of canvas.
Weber glanced toward the flap once more but didn't move. "It's about time to chow. You two get your fix and go to bed. We're most likely going to attack at dawn."
Elias and Henrik stood attention, sending Weber a salute as he exits the tent, leaving the map on the table and the two men alone in the tent.