This Blog will describe non-canon aspects of the United Republic of the March of War, or more specifically people whose stories are never tolled in the March of War game itself.
Again, as the stories provided here are non-canon, do not depend on these stories as credible pieces of information and reference. The stories here will update... Infrequently, if you catch my drift...
The first chapter tells the story of a group of Indian Hunters/mercenaries suppressing a group of Junta inspired Indian Rebels in the middle of the desert. (Updated Note: Due to the nature of the characters presented, there may be some politically incorrect views that are bound to offend. The opinions characters express do not in any way represent that of the author or ISOTX. I apologize again if you have been offended by the work, and I promise that future work will not be so blatantly xenophobic in nature. Thank you. )
Chapter 1: Indian Hunters
Bernard, surrounded by environmental hazards, lied on the sands, taking his position on an inconspicuous hill. A camouflaged blanket covered his body, making him practically invisible at a prolonged distance. Next to him, crouched Thomas with his binoculars, trying to spot potential targets. However, the sandstorm curtained all of the five senses of these men, and left them in a near fatal state of oblivion.
Nevada’s desert was an unforgiving place. A typical day at the desert was as hot as the sun itself, while at night the desert became a dry winter. Water was hard to come by, and the desolate wasteland was devoid of life. For Indian hunters with limited supplies, this sense of helplessness led them into inner frenzy, hoping for some comfort from what seemed to be unpredictable variables.
Before the War in 1812, it was said that this depressing landscape used to be strange paradise for desert critters and plants, but the war between the US army and British Royal Marines had poisoned the sand, and killed all the fauna in the area. Even now, thirteen decades after the war had reached its conclusions, this area was still considered by many to be poisonous; an area that was to be forever unpaved by the greedy mankind which murdered its spirit. The irony was never forgotten amongst his fellow hunters at how the Latin Junta had used the same techniques as the US Federal army.
Wind blew all around the empty wasteland. Unlike most winds, the desert wind had a certain hard texture within it; While most winds bring either a cold breeze, or a hard suffocating taste, the desert sandstorm was pure fire, burning the backs and the skins of those in the mercy of the shelterless lands. The wind was debilitating, and knocked the tired off their feet with its mighty sprint, making sure that such weak men would never be able to stand up again.
“Thomas, I can’t see shit at the moment, and the sand that is somehow getting into my eyes just isn’t helping. You faring any better?”
“I am afraid not, thanks to this god damned sand storm. Just stand by, and we’ll start firing when master Dorian gives us the signal.”
“But we have been here for at least three hours, just lying here, hoping for the same thing we have just expressed. I think it would be a better Idea if we moved a little closer to the designated coordinates. Then, at least we will have basic awareness on what is going on.”
“But that will detract on our ambush on Howling Coyote and his Indian savages. Think, Bernard. If we stay in our position, we will at least be at a place which master Dorian expects us to be.”
“But we need to move Thomas. For all we know, there could be Indians surrounding us right now. We need to at least mobilize to a position where we could see Dorian’s form in this godforsaken wasteland.”
“But will blowing our cover be worth it, my dear Bernard? We all know that Dorian can take care of himself, better than both of us combined. Technically, We are in more danger than he is, and the sandstorm is helping us as much as it is hindering us. In a situation in which we are visually impaired, do you think the Indians will have any chance of detecting us, in the middle of a desert ridge, camouflaged, and in cover? Think about it Bernard. At the moment, we are not in danger, but a stalemate, whether we like it or not.”
“I get your point Tom, but the thing is, we probably won’t get another shot at a pre-emptive strike against those bastards. If we want to continue our business as Indian hunters, we need to kill Howling Coyote’s right hand man. To make this opportunity, we have waited for 3 months. This is it, or, thats what my heart is telling me.”
“I guess you are right to a certain extent, Bernard. This is, after all, my last bounty. I might as well make it a successful one.”
Bernard tried to stand, but realized that the strength of the turbulence was much too great to dash to the designated point. Covering their faces like the African raiders, Bernard and Thomas crawled through the desert sand, afraid that the wind might blow them off to the dry, distant abyss of no return and slow death. Even this was extremely difficult, because the sand was still able to blind their eyes, and the men had no free hand among them to brush the sand off. Bernard felt a sudden pang of fear, when he realized that firearms were poor in weathers like this, as these fragile weapons were often bound to become jammed. It was no wonder how several desert nations, despite having adequate money to buy guns, stuck to bows and arrows. And, in the events in which he had to clean his shotgun, it would take at least 20 minutes to get it into working condition. While this amount of time was a trivial matter while in a safe position, it was an eternity in a firefight, where five seconds were often all it took to make a difference between life and death.
Bernard wasn’t sure whether or not his trench gun was in adequate condition to deal with the Indians, and probably neither was Thomas, but, having no choice, they pressed on, hoping that it was better to take the risk, than not do so, and leave Dorian without reinforcements.
By the time they reached the highest hill in the desert, Bernard was able to see Dorian on his horse, and, just as he had expected, surrounded by Indians. Dorian, as if he knew Bernard was near him, gave Bernard a grin at his general location, and made a gesture to stand by for the signal. Bernard couldn’t see whether or not his target was one of the Indians surrounding Dorian, but he aimed his gun, and adjusted it to the unforeseen amount of wind speed, and hoped for the best. Thomas also cocked his blunderbuss on one hand, and kept the binoculars on the other, surveying whether or not there were other auxiliary Indian raiders.
Due to the distance between him and Dorian (which Bernard approximated as around 200 foot), Bernard could hear nothing of which Dorian and the Indians said, but he could guess that the Indians were demanding all the water Dorian had. It was understandable in a way. In the desert, and, especially in this wasteland, water was extremely valuable.
More valuable than guns, bullets and gold, at the very least.
In this area, the sole control of a lake or a source of water meant respect to its inhabitants. The obedience a water mogul can get from the sole ownership of water was more than the amount a general or a governor could even dream of. For this detachment of Howling Coyote’s men, water was essential for continuous operation and survival. It was probably only natural that they robbed the water of wandering travelers.
After around ninety seconds, Dorian unmounted from his horse and gave a special hand gesture; a gesture that signaled the authorization of gunfire. Bernard used Dorian’s performance to get closer to the red Indians, and opened fire. The slug on his shotgun was swayed by the wind more than Bernard had ever imagined possible, and instead of getting a clear shot on the chest of the savage around four feet south of Dorian, the bullet swerved to hit the ankle of another raider, at least six feet away from the designated target.
Thomas had by then abandoned his binoculars and had brandished his grenade launcher, the same type that was used by the Junta Jungle Warriors. It took forever for it to reload, but the splinters that flew off to all directions led to ill-fortuned Indians to howl as Bernard took aim at the general directions of the screams.
Dorian, at the moment the bullet hit the unfortunate Indian, purposefully fell from his horse, and made it dash into the empty desert, creating a distraction and confusion among the ranks of the victims. He took out two of his revolvers, and made a clean shot on two of the Indians’ necks, messily decapitating the heads of the casualties, which neatly fell in front of the kneeling corpses.
Then, Dorian made a dive on another Indian, and punctured his head with his revolver, instantly ending his life. With the pistol, he shot another raider on the stomach. The shot was not fatal, but did its job, and the casualty laid on his own pool of blood, squirming for something Bernard could not hear. After killing three indians with the implanted revolver, Dorian pried the bloodied revolver out of the dead man’s skull, and threw it for the sake of distraction.
Such cheap tricks only lasted for a short period of time, but it was long enough for Dorian to draw yet another pistol from his coat, and unloaded it, forcing the remaining Indians to take cover.
Two battle hardened Indians were keen to notice this brief moment of weakness, and charged with their tomahawks, but quickly met their end with quick shots on their chest, from a place in which the Indian archers constantly shot in vague directions. Knowing that the Indians had no chance of hitting him at such a distance, Bernard kept pulling the trigger.
Sharpshooting was not a word for this type of engagement. In this weather, Bernard was far from accurate, and it was impossible to adjust to the wind. Like the Indian archers, Bernard was gambling with each shot, which only seemed to hit one fourth of a time. His former military superiors would have called this an incredible feat of marksmanship, but for Bernard, it wasn’t enough. He was wasting precious shells for such limited effectiveness, while his mentor was cutting down the Indian raiders like butter in the heat of battle, while he was under far safer conditions, Dorian being the biggest threat against the ambushed tribesmen, and for Bernard and Thomas, a source for diversion.
But the more Bernard pulled the trigger, the more did things seem not to add up. After unloading so many rounds upon them, how did the Indians not notice the general vicinity of him and Thomas? Although these Indians were currently being slaughtered by Dorian, Howling Coyote’s raiding parties were notorious for being extremely competent, and quick to counteract at any situation. This could only mean one thing, and it meant that a counter ambush was being established against Thomas and him. Bernard tried to predict favorable routes in which the ambush party could have taken to pounce on them. But, by the time he aimed his Remington at the best possible position, it was already too late.
At the route in which Bernard predicted, there were disappearing traces of footprints, which led to his position.
He heard a short grunt from Thomas, and felt liquid spraying all over his body. It felt like rainfall, but it was highly unlikely for it to be so, as rain was always accompanied by grey clouds.
Bernard felt a sudden sensation of revelation, turned his body, and stared in horror. His comrade Thomas was butchered like an animal, and half of his face was split by an axe. His grey hair was splattered with blood, and his eyeballs dangled from its sockets.
Above Thomas, stood a proud Indian warrior, extremely joyous over taking revenge for his fallen comrades, and ready to do the same to Bernard as well.
Instinctively, Bernard blew a hole in the Indian warrior, then took his machete, stabbing and slashing at the bastard until the his abdomen was carved clean out. It was only after finally killing Thomas’ killer that Bernard came to realize that the savage had managed to put a rather deep gash upon his left arm, and he could feel it throbbing with pain,his arm dangled from the trauma. With his good right arm, Bernard bandaged his left arm, and made sure that the blood stopped. As this procedure was done nearly immediately after the injury was sustained, not too much blood had been lost, but Bernard felt his mind become slightly hazy. After one final check that the bleeding had completely stooped, Bernard allowed himself to lose consciousness, trying to forget what had happened to his spotter. ...
When Bernard had regained conscious, he realized that the sand was hydrated with the blood of dozens of men; one of which was his dear friend Thomas, and tried to quickly come in terms with his partner’s demise.
There were no survivors among the hostiles, and the wetwork was done. Next to him, stood Bernard’s mentor Dorian, who stared at the bloodshed, with eyes that forgot the sensation of tears perhaps decades before.
For Bernard, a death of a comrade was not something uncommon, but it was still a stinging and agonizing sensation. From his eyes, droplets of tears reluctantly oozed out, and he cried, as if he were a child again. Dorian stared at the remains of Thomas, covered the body with his own coat, and left one of his revolvers on top of Thomas’s body. He took off his hat and put it on his chest, paying final respects for a comrade who fought with him for over three decades.
This was the closest thing a member of the Indian Hunters were allowed to have as a burial.
Dorian, cold hearted as always when it came to business, expressed that he would need a replacement for Thomas, and some money to pay respects to Thomas’ wife and children.
After that was done, a contract had turned up for all Indian Hunters suppressing rebellious Indians near the Canadian and Latin American borders.
At the sight of the contract, Bernard frowned. This was not a contract, but a call of action, a conscription to be exact. The Federal Army was struggling against the rising forces of the African warlords, and the Federal Army was in desperate need for desert combat specialists with decent experience in close quarters combat. They were to arrive at the New England port in two weeks.
From now on, Bernard’s shotgun would fire at even more diminutive black men and would carve out the innards of those blasted primates.