Grey Phoenix

[St Oz]

"We're heading for the Pentagon, We're delivering top secret information, It's contents and our motive confidential."

[Democratic States of America]

"We're heading for the Pentagon, We're delivering top secret information, It's contents and our motive confidential."

"Hold on chopper J-N038"
the operator scans the flight records
"We have you on record J-N038. Please proceed to Pentagon Landing Pad A."

[St Oz]

The Ozians on board the helicopter all smiled, STIA was such a wonderful Administration. The chopper landed on the pad, the Disguised pilots stepped out carrying a folder which two men came to grab from them. There wasn't any cameras on the roof top. The Ozian SOSOT members came out of the helicopter looking like a usual escort but if the two men noticed they had Iseltovs they might of been screwed. When the men stopped and grabbed the package the two Ozians pulled out blades and slashed at their necks, decapitating them instantly.

Then Admivi Ali whispered, "Tuliev Tuluiev.."

They carried the bodies and concealed them with their heads. They walked into the roof door which had a cement stairway leading down. With silencers on their I-19c. The two with their blades wiped the blood and fit it in their leather scabbards. They walked silently down the stairs and using a map tracked their way to the offices of General. 

[Prydania]

Pershing popped open the cupola on his tank, surveying the landscape for the first time that day. Facing him was a Challenger 2 tank, bearing the red "V" which had become synonymous with Inglo-Scotia. The commander of the tank in turn raised his head up out of the tank, looking around briefly before his gaze came to rest on Pershing.

 The two men saluted.

Field Marshall Theriot lowered his arm after a brief salute. Pushing himself through the tank's hatch.
After climbing down the Challenger's access ladder he dusted himself off, straightened his uniform out, and noticed the gruffer General Pershing had come down from his machine to great him.

Taking his right fist to his left should he gave the Confederate commander the Commonwealth salute.
"Field Marshal Andrew Theriot, pleasure to be of assistants.
Switching to a lighthearted tone he continued, "now what kind of trouble have you mates gotten yourselves into?"

[Sovereign Dixie]

Pershing's face was covered in dust save for around his eyes, whre he'd been holing binoculars for most of the battle. His grey and khaki helmet bearing the 5 stars of General of The Armed Forces. Even at Theriot's impressive height, Pershing still was taller at 6'7, he smiled at Theriot, took out a cigarette and lit it, offering one to Theriot as he said...

 "Well, we decided to have a little Victorious Revolution of our own." His smile widened.

[Prydania]

Theriot politely turning down the cigarette.
"So you have" he replied grinning.
"Well it's the pleasure of the Commonwealth Armed Forces to assist you. Your cause showed solidarity with us doing the Erie business, and the Lord Protector never forgets an act of friendship."

[Sovereign Dixie]

 Pershing took a drag from his cigarette, exhaling slowly. It was the first one he'd had in almost 12 hours, he was determined to enjoy it for all it was worth.

 "Nor shall we forget this. You can take that to the bank." Pershing looked around, taking in the scene around them. The still flaming ruin of a DS M1 tank lay not even 20 yards away.

 "Looks like we gave those yankee bastards one hell of a repair bill. Words got it though that ol' Custer doesn't know when to quit, and he's heading up to Tennessee to make another stand near Iron City. I've already called HQ for supplies and some reinforcements, they should be here sometime tommorrow morning. In the meantime, Field Marshal, I say our boys have earned themselves a party tonight, whaddya say?"

[Prydania]

"I would say so General. All though I hope you've got a decent core of auxiliary troops to draw from. I'm afraid this is all I have on hand. The rest of our expeditionary force is locked up in naval power."
The Field Marshall grabbed his wireless.
"Captain-General Fox, come in."
"Yes sir?"
"Give our boys the night off. Set up a temporary camp arrangement."
"Yes sir."

"Sorry about that General, I like to get the formalities out of the way.
Could I interest you in a drink or two in my HQ, as soon as it's pitched of course."

[Sovereign Dixie]

"Now you're talking my language!" Pershing said with a smile, withdrawing a silver flask from the pocket of his grey dustcoat. He turned around, yelling toward the tank from which he'd climbed out. "Marty!! Marty you son of a bitch, get out here!"

 MacKenzie's head popped out of the tank. 'Sir?"

 "Get on the comm and let the boys know to set up shop here for the night. There's beer in the supply trucks, after they set up camp, tell 'em to help themselves, as long as they share with our Inglo-Scotian friends here."

"Yes sir." MacKenzie saluted.

"The poor bastard, got his tank blown out from underneath him about an hour ago, he'd have more holes than a fucking sieve if I hadn't picked him up. All the better though, at least I didn't have to keep yelling orders to him over the comm. And to answer your question, Field Marshal, yes, I hear tell we have neigh on a hundred thousand  coming up, most are former national guardsmen, so they're not the best trained, but they'll work, I suspect."

[Prydania]

"Never underestimate one's sense of patriotism. When the buggers on the other side start firing, patriotism, the promise of a cause, even a basic instinct to survive, can more then compensate for a lack of training.
Two years of trench warfare across Liverpool taught me that."

-------------------------------------------------------------
Almost as soon as the announcement to set up camp was made the Inglo-Scotian troops shed the heavier aspects of their uniform, down to boots, simple black slacks, a black collared shirt, and a grey undershirt.

Private Alan Ritchie had grabbed a football (ooc: soccer ball) and had started up a game.
"We're blacks mates!" he yelled, tossing the ball to Niel Cunningham, the captain of the other team.
"Shed those issues boys, you're greys" he added.

"Take the flag's colours, we'll beat you down to worse then we beat those Yanks today!" Cunningham yelled back, as he and his team shed their black shirts, keeping their grey undershirts on.

Cunningham dropped the ball, passing it up to a private who was playing striker, only to have it intercepted by Ritchie, who blasted it into the make-shift goal.
"WOOOO!" he yelled at the top of his lungs.
"You'll see me in New BU's green and blue once this war is over!" he yelled out.
"Pfft" Cunningham scuffed, turning to see three Confederate soldiers, watching the proceedings in what looked to be a mixture of confusion and curiosity.
"What's up mates?" Cunningham asked.
"Never seen a game of footy before?"

[Sovereign Dixie]

 Pershing reflected on the Field Marshal's words for a moment before nodding. "Yes, I suppose you have something there." He took his helmet off, running a hand through scraggily hair in dire need of washing. He took a drink from the flask, and sighed. "You and I have seen alot, hell, one look at either one of us old bastards and a body can tell that much. But these boys, heh..." He took another sip, passing the bottle over to Theriot. "Have a snort if you want, it's Kentucky's finest whiskey. But yeah, these boys, hell, half of 'em never even had a blow job probably. And in the morning, we're going to be heading out. We're going to march the living shit out of them, And when we finally catch up with Custer, he's gonna be dug in. Yes sir, dug in really good. then our comm links will light up like goddamn christmas trees, orders pouring in, 'Attack! Attack!'."

 Pershing took a drag from a cigarette, his eyes seemed to trail off into the distance as he went on. "And these boys, these kids, who two weeks ago, were worrying about how to beat a video game, get into college, hell, if they're like me, worrying about how in the hell they're going to get laid." He laughed softly. "And those orders will be sent up, and our boys are going to charge up, and in the end, I know that pansy ass son of a bitch Custer is going to regret the day his daddy dicked his momma, but the thought of how many of those poor boys are gonna have to die first.... is something that I hope I myself have seldom and spare occasion to contemplate.'

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 The three Confederate soldiers had been eyeing the IS troops for a few moments, actually. When asked if they knew about "footy" They truthfully hadn't the slightest clue as to what to say in response. Private Justin Tilton was the first to break the silence, answering with somewhat of an embarassed grin.

 "Well, um, yeah, I've seen it a few times, I reckon, just never for more than a few minutes and always on TV. Never found much in it, to be honest, but, as my daddy used to say, there's a first time for everything."

 Private First Class Dennis Lane was the next to chime in. "Yeah, ain't a ball made yet I can't kick the shit out of."

 Hearing the young private's arrogance, Corporal Richard Rousseau, challenged him in a noticable cajun accent. 'And exactly how many balls might you have kicked private?

 PFC Lane laughed, "Well, counting that son of a bitch in Atlanta, two."

 The Inglo Scotian soldier laughed, and kicked the ball towards Lane, who kicked at it resolutely, and straightaway thereafter, fell resolutely on his posterior.....

[Prydania]

"I have to say, back across the pound your alcohol is the butt of a lot of jokes, but this whiskey is pretty damn good. We'll have to get some Beaconsfield Gin in you sooner or later" Theriot remarked.
"But..." he went on, "you've hit the nail right on the bloody head. Most of these boys have no idea what's what. I've served in both Imperial khaki and Commonwealth black. I've seen things that would make half of my men beg to go home if I told 'em. The Revolution was brutal though. Trench warfare, right across the bloody country!
Imagine, your next objective being a community Rec Centre, or your front line going right through a poor bloke's lawn. Brutal, bloody business.
Then the government romanticizes the whole thing, and you have kids wantin' to serve the Commonwealth and Parliament just like their fathers and older brothers."
Theriot took an other sip of whiskey.
"Some of 'em will die, true enough. I delivered my fair share of eulogies after the Revolution, and I'll do the same after this outing. The best thing to do is to just believe in your cause. Then you know that their lives weren't cut short in vain."

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Cunningham couldn't help but laugh.
"Sorry mate, no hard feelings" he said, helping Private Lane up.

"So what do you blokes play here in the colonies?" Private Ritchie asked.

[Sovereign Dixie]

Pershing nodded. "That's what it comes down to, in the end, isn't it? The price of freedom. Here's hoping we don't spend over our limit."

Lightening the mood, Pershing asked, "So what's all this I hear about y'all having tea makers in your tanks?"

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 Lane laughed as Cunningham helped him up.

 "No worries, hell, I shoulda seen that comin' a mile away."

 Tilton had laughed so hard tears had begun to run from his eyes.

 "Well, a few of us probably do play what you call football, we call it soccer. But it's no where near as popular here, hell, I hadn't even heard of it until a couple of years ago. We also have a sport called football, but you'd probably think of it as being closer to rugby. I used to be a quarterback in high school, 'till I fucked up my elbow. And the poor corporal over here, all he can play is a fiddle, but he does it damn fine."

[Prydania]

Theriot chuckled.
"Kings become Emperors, Emperors fall, Commonwealths are declared, nobles are executed, society is turned upside down, but the one constant is that we take our tea very seriously. An Inglo-Scotian who scoffs out on afternoon tea might as well salute the stars and stripes and call himself a Yankee.
All though I can see you wouldn't need any use for it here. But try spending a rainy Manchester or Liverpool summer without a daily cup of Earl Grey to sooth the soul. You'll go 6's & 7's before July rolls around."
Pershing shot him a confused look.
"My mistake chap. 6's & 7's, that's when they have to haul you off to the loony bin."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Yes, we've seen your football, interesting game, but if you ask me you have your names mixed up" Private George Alexander remarked.
"I mean with football football you actually use your feet."
"Eh, enough of the sports" Cunningham said.
"If we're marching after the Demies tomorrow I don't need a broken ankle because Ritchie here can't do a proper slide tackle."
"Fuck off twit" Richie shouted back.
"My grandpa could beat you at a game of Golden Goal and the man's practically sharing a bed with King Death these days."
"Any rate" Cunningham went on, ignoring his comrade's boastfulness, "football should probably be saved for when we win, or at least when we have Uncle Sam on the ropes. Until then, would you southern gents care for a round of Durham's finest ale?" 

[Sovereign Dixie]

Pershing, by now feeling the whiskey, laughed. "Hell, my six shoulda been sevened a long time ago then. For that matter, I dont think any of us would be here, if we were all there." He looked at his watch, "Fuck, time flies when you're celebrating. Tomorrow, we march on Iron City, Way I figure it, we call in what air support we can, try an' soften 'em up a bit, then I'll move around to the left, coming in from the north, hopefully, we can catch the son of a bitch with his knickers down. You move in however you see fit, I'm usually the type to almost micromanage things like this, but in this case, I trust your judgement implicitly."

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 Rousseau nodded, "Yeah, to be honest, I never knew why we called it football either, but hell, we didn't name it, we just play it."

 Private Lane however, eager to forget his damaged pride and derrier, was quick to announce the groups acceptance of the Inglish beer offering.

 "Sounds damn good to me. In fact, we'll meet your ale and raise you a couple kegs of our own!"

 The ale flowed freely, later on Rousseau taking out a fiddle (OOC:violin, for those no familiar with the term) and played until his arms felt like rubber. The men drank to freedom, the men drank to brotherhood, to the Commonwealth and the Confederacy, and the men drank until they vomited. The yankee army was only a few miles across the Tennessee border, but as far as Pershing and Theriot's armies were concerned, Custer may as well have been halfway to Daedalus.

 "I think