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Chapter 4 - Against the Maginot I

Oktober 24, 1939+ Western Front, near Metz

Once again, dawn came - but this time, it came louder. Bells clanged across the staging area, calling men to life. Steam boilers hissed and then shrieked as they awakened from their night's rest, hauling carts, shells, and rations to where the front demanded them most. Diesel engines roared awake in unison - the sleeping iron beasts of Germania rising from their makeshift hangars, guided by ground crews waving red signal paddles through the mist.

Even the tents trembled in the frenzy. Men scrambled from their bunks, boots half-laced, uniforms wrinkled but worn with pride. Helmets were strapped on, rifles cleaned and slung tight as they fell into formation, shoulder-to-shoulder on rows once marked by white paint - now nearly swallowed by mud and frost.

Elias stood among them, shoulder-to-shoulder with Henrik and the rest of their squad. Sergeant Weber faced them, arms crossed, eyes locked on men standing at attention, keeping them in line.

To their left, a column of tanks and tracked transports lined up, their exhausts spewing white plumes into the air. Beyond them, a series of bipedal walkers clanked into formation, each one casting long shadows through the fog. And further still, at the rear, the great artillery pieces - the pride of Kaiserreich's artillery corps, were being dragged into position, their steel barrels protruding from fox holes.

The air was tense, not just with smoke and oil, but with something that couldn't be seen: anticipation. Every man knew what awaited beyond Metz. The Maginot Line - a fortress meant to hold Germania itself should he dare tread.

To their front stood the pride of House Hohensturm, Each machine bore its own mark - crimson stripes, silver crests, and armored plating polished to a dull gleam. They stood apart from the Army's regulation grey, proud and mighty, their machines symbols of both nobility and power. At their head was Countess Wilhelmina von Hohensturm, her mech's engine idling with a sound more like breathing than machinery. Her detachment will be the tip of the spear.

Elias exhaled slowly, his gloved fingers brushing the wrench at his belt - his father's old one, still stained faintly with oil. Beside him, Henrik muttered something about the cold, his voice half-lost beneath the rumble of engines. No one answered.

At long last, the commandant of the 23rd Armored Regiment stepped onto the makeshift stage - a platform of steel crates and wooden planks laid beside an out of place fuel truck, parked in front of the entire regiment. His long grey coat billowed lightly in the morning wind, the fabric darkened here and there by soot. Medals lined his chest like shards of light, each one catching the faint glint of the rising sun. The silver accents of his officer's cap glimmered beneath the encroaching daylight, haloed by the haze of exhaust still hanging in the air.

The soldiers straightened instinctively. Even the mechs seemed to pause, waiting for his words.

"Sons of Germania, you stand proud today, heeding the call of the Empire in its darkest hour! For a decade we have endured humiliation - the theft, the extortion, and the slow bleed of what was rightfully ours - all under the guise of peace, all at the hands of the Gallic Republic! They stripped us of our honor, our land, our machines - and yet, here we stand, rebuilt from the ashes they left behind!" 

Everyone locked their eyes on the officer, internalizing the words they are consuming.

"Today, that ends. The Gallic bastion before us - their so-called Maginot Line - stands not as a shield of courage, but as a monument to their cowardice. They believed walls and concrete could stop the march of progress - could halt the engines of Germania!

But look around you! Look at what your hands have built! Mechs from iron mined with the unyielding resolve of your forefathers, forged with the fires that your fathers have created, powered by the sweat of our people, born from the forges they tried to silence!

You are not mere soldiers - you are the sons of the fatherland! The blood of builders and innovators flows in your veins. Every piston that roars, every spark that lights the dawn, carries the will of our Empire forward!

Today, we strike not for conquest, but for reclamation! For every field taken, every brother lost, every dream buried beneath their arrogance! Let them hear the thunder of our engines and know that Germania has awoken once more!"

The men erupted in cheers - battlecries, even.

The sound of whistle cuts through the air.

This regiment, along with two others have began their march against the Maginot.

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