[Academy Story] Fighting in Starbov

[Walneria]

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Ideal backstory:

In around 1940-1945, Walneria was invaded by a foreign power, quickly gaining foothold in many cities. The foreign occupiers were ensured, that the people will welcome them, as their government are tyrants and they would love to enjoy a faint of democracy. The opposite was true - people actively resisted even after the army had to abandon the first line of defense and left behind only few stocks with weaponry prepaired for partisans. The city of Starbov was one of the many cities laying in the occupation zone, until it was reclaimed in a counteroffensive 5 months later.

Many foreign soldiers, realizing that they have been lied to, eventually layed down their arms and many stayed in Walneria as "political" refugees after the peace deal was signed. Michael, the hero of this short story, is one of those cases. His son later became the MEP for Starbov region.

As the sun settled, it was clear, that the situation in Starbov is shockingly grim.

Two days have elapsed since the first enemy transporters crossed the river using the old bridge and occupied the city centre, and the number of destroyed building by paranoid soldiers as well as partisans was getting bigger every hour.

Michael was one of the occupiers. He was not fond of entering another country, and the government that sent him to the first wave was despised in his family for long time, but yet, he was sitting on a tank in a hostile territory and looks given by the people walking around him reminded him about the sad truth, that he is not welcome here and that he would be one of the first people to be shot by a revolutionary firing squad just when the local resistance gets a chance.

He was dehydrated, hungry and tired. His head felt heavy and his feet were covered in blisters. His platoon, as well as many other platoons, were expected to be welcomed by the people and be offered food, water and maybe some alcohol, but the opposite was truth: No local would get close to them, the supply lines were crumbeling under the weight of the army and locals closed the pipes, poisoned the local well and hid all the food. Alcohol, which was promised by them by the political commissars was either used in Molotov cocktails, used to desinfect partisan wounds or was simply hidden away. He hasn't drunk for over two days and the supply corps managed to send their way only a single truck filled with mostly empty barrels of water. He tried relieving his left leg by shifting the centre of gravity more to the right, but his right leg quickly protested and sent a set of strong painful impulses.

A young mother with her young sun quickly walked around the city square, looking on Michael and his comrades with a "I would strangle you using a phone line if I had a chance" look. Her son looked too tired, as he didn't have the stamina of his mother and was slowing down. Being tired, the kid looked on the soldier. He probably knew the soldiers of their own army really well, just like many other people in the area, and walked to them, screaming something in a strange accent that Michael could not understand.

"Zys! Zys! Bité!" the kid said, being amused by the different uniform of the soldier. Michael shook his hand and layed a hand on his ear, then again shook his head. The kid realized, that he is probably articulating wrong, so he said "Zys! Ssokoláda!". That finally brought Michael to the conclusion, that Walnerian soldiers possibly gave sweets like chocolate to the children as a kind symbol of unity and humanity. He reached into his pocked and pulled out a single bubble gum.

He lowered the hand and offered the bubble gum, which the child happily accepted. The mom looked somewhat shocked, but they turned around and started walking away. Only few steps away, however, the mother slapped his son's hand, so the bubble gum dropped on the dirty pavement. "Zí sint okupante", she explained and quickly dragged the kid away. Michael was stunned by the hatred that can not be crossed, but he understood perfectly. He probably wouldn't behave much better if Walnerians walked into his town. He was slowly considering the probability and severity of a punishment he could recieve if he shot that woman, but then decided, that it would help nothing.

His friend knocked him on the back and pointed on one of the third window on the second floor of a old hotel. Few minutes ago, the transparent with with the text "Danke fyr bezazunk!" (thanks for the occupation). "See, somebody wants us here!" said his friend. Michael replied: "Bezazunk means 'occupation', not 'liberation'. It is probably a provocation." The night is going to be sleepless, just like the night before. Hopefully, the supplies will catch up, else they would have to turn around and face consequences from the leadership.

Maybe the only winning move was not to play? If so, Michael is not going to play, just like many others on both sides.