11-21-2022, 07:03 PM
The Army of the Commonwealth has two representations in popular consciousness. The first, that of noble defenders of republicanism, is exemplified by figures such as Grand Marshal Paškievič and General-Lieutenant Alizar Novik. The second, that of corrupt, self-interested brutes in uniform, is given human form in General-Major Kipryjan Bohssa, commonly known as “Kalpi.”
One of many men hastily promoted to general in the wake of the Army’s purges, Bohssa has made a name for himself in Outer Vertansk and many other parts of Solavan. Kalpi only makes a vague pretense at safeguarding the Commonwealth, instead paying much more attention to the most essential thing in life: himself. Drugs, arms, and other contraband confiscated from the Prinssit mysteriously disappear while new luxuries find themselves in his office. This is not to say that the man isn’t popular, however. Bohssa, a hedonist at heart, generously rewards those under his care so long as they follow his instruction. Despite his uncouth behavior, Bohssa retains a crude, low-class charm. Many servicemen attempt to find themselves assigned to him, knowing they will be treated well, if nothing else.
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One Month Ago
The train screeched to a halt, rousing one Private Nikolajs Veiss from his slumber. He yawned loudly, peering outside to figure out his surroundings. The sunlight was blinding - it was night when they had departed from Loravia, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. Otherwise indistinguishable from the other stations they had passed by, only a sign reading “Fort Drevan” let him know he had reached his destination. If the Army of the Commonwealth were an animal, the railways would be its veins, ferrying men, materials, and vehicles across the four republics. Reaching underneath his seat to grab his duffel bag, Nikolajs hurried off the train to join a group of waiting soldiers. Vertanskan, Solavanian, and Loravian voices overlapped, drowning out his internal monologue and replacing it with a dull headache. Nikolajs wished he had paid more attention in school – while fluent in Vertanskan, he had only rudimentary knowledge of Solavanian. He tried to focus, catching brief snippets of the conversations around him.
“Best CO my brother ever had -”
“... had to bribe an official to get sent here.”
“It was either the prison or the army -”
“... three different mistresses.”
“Has anyone seen my magazine?”
Nikolajs wasn’t quite sure what was in store, as the slip he was given only said that he’d be serving under General-Major Bohssa on some base in Outer Vertansk - a region of Solavan with a significant Vertanskan minority. He wasn’t sure why he was shipped so far west, but he certainly wasn’t complaining. As with so many Loravian boys, upon turning 18, only two careers awaited him: it was either the plow or the rifle, and he chose the latter without hesitation. Every man in the Veiss family had served in the Army, and he had no intention of doing otherwise.
A shrill whistle sounded, making him wince. An officer barked orders, herding them through a checkpoint and arranging them in rows. Just as he began to wonder if this was a test or punishment of some kind, a stocky man in full dress uniform entered the courtyard. He was middle-aged and clean-shaven, with a square face and ruddy complexion, and looked akin to an uncle that told bawdy jokes at children’s birthday parties. The man nods after they salute, satisfied.
“At ease, lads. I’m General-Major Bohssa, the man you all will be answering to for the next year. Welcome to Fort Drevan and the 20th Motor Rifle Division - the Mongrel Rifles, as most know it. Wear that name with pride, as you are part of one of the oldest mixed divisions in the Army of the Commonwealth. I won’t tolerate any of you treating a fellow soldier worse than another just because he’s a fast-talking Solavanian, stuck-up Vertanskan, or some Loravian country bumpkin. We’ve even had a few Otikans around here, and they’re just as fine a soldier as the rest of you once they learn how to read and write.” Nikolajs bit the inside of his cheek, trying to keep himself from looking amused, with soldiers around him struggling similarly. Nobody wanted to risk drawing the ire of a superior for failing to maintain discipline.
“I was once standing in the very place you are, and my commanding officer told me much the same thing. His tree’s long been felled, but I intend to maintain this division’s heritage until I’m gone, too. With Dzieniva coming around, you’ll get a chance to partake in one of our oldest traditions. Every town and village in the area celebrates Green-Harvest Day, and we’ve helped with the festivities since the Mongrel Rifles first came here. You lot will help them gather the grain they’ll offer at the bonfire and ensure nobody tries to cause any trouble. Make a good impression, try and convince the local schoolboys to enlist, and if a girl happens to need a dance partner that evening, you might as well help with that, too.” He added with a wry smile.
General Bohssa clasped his hands behind his back, and the ear-piercing whistle sounded again. “Off you go, men. Drop your belongings off at the barracks, get settled in, and we’ll sort you out from there.” With that, he was gone, leaving the company of soldiers behind.
One of many men hastily promoted to general in the wake of the Army’s purges, Bohssa has made a name for himself in Outer Vertansk and many other parts of Solavan. Kalpi only makes a vague pretense at safeguarding the Commonwealth, instead paying much more attention to the most essential thing in life: himself. Drugs, arms, and other contraband confiscated from the Prinssit mysteriously disappear while new luxuries find themselves in his office. This is not to say that the man isn’t popular, however. Bohssa, a hedonist at heart, generously rewards those under his care so long as they follow his instruction. Despite his uncouth behavior, Bohssa retains a crude, low-class charm. Many servicemen attempt to find themselves assigned to him, knowing they will be treated well, if nothing else.
-------------------
One Month Ago
The train screeched to a halt, rousing one Private Nikolajs Veiss from his slumber. He yawned loudly, peering outside to figure out his surroundings. The sunlight was blinding - it was night when they had departed from Loravia, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. Otherwise indistinguishable from the other stations they had passed by, only a sign reading “Fort Drevan” let him know he had reached his destination. If the Army of the Commonwealth were an animal, the railways would be its veins, ferrying men, materials, and vehicles across the four republics. Reaching underneath his seat to grab his duffel bag, Nikolajs hurried off the train to join a group of waiting soldiers. Vertanskan, Solavanian, and Loravian voices overlapped, drowning out his internal monologue and replacing it with a dull headache. Nikolajs wished he had paid more attention in school – while fluent in Vertanskan, he had only rudimentary knowledge of Solavanian. He tried to focus, catching brief snippets of the conversations around him.
“Best CO my brother ever had -”
“... had to bribe an official to get sent here.”
“It was either the prison or the army -”
“... three different mistresses.”
“Has anyone seen my magazine?”
Nikolajs wasn’t quite sure what was in store, as the slip he was given only said that he’d be serving under General-Major Bohssa on some base in Outer Vertansk - a region of Solavan with a significant Vertanskan minority. He wasn’t sure why he was shipped so far west, but he certainly wasn’t complaining. As with so many Loravian boys, upon turning 18, only two careers awaited him: it was either the plow or the rifle, and he chose the latter without hesitation. Every man in the Veiss family had served in the Army, and he had no intention of doing otherwise.
A shrill whistle sounded, making him wince. An officer barked orders, herding them through a checkpoint and arranging them in rows. Just as he began to wonder if this was a test or punishment of some kind, a stocky man in full dress uniform entered the courtyard. He was middle-aged and clean-shaven, with a square face and ruddy complexion, and looked akin to an uncle that told bawdy jokes at children’s birthday parties. The man nods after they salute, satisfied.
“At ease, lads. I’m General-Major Bohssa, the man you all will be answering to for the next year. Welcome to Fort Drevan and the 20th Motor Rifle Division - the Mongrel Rifles, as most know it. Wear that name with pride, as you are part of one of the oldest mixed divisions in the Army of the Commonwealth. I won’t tolerate any of you treating a fellow soldier worse than another just because he’s a fast-talking Solavanian, stuck-up Vertanskan, or some Loravian country bumpkin. We’ve even had a few Otikans around here, and they’re just as fine a soldier as the rest of you once they learn how to read and write.” Nikolajs bit the inside of his cheek, trying to keep himself from looking amused, with soldiers around him struggling similarly. Nobody wanted to risk drawing the ire of a superior for failing to maintain discipline.
“I was once standing in the very place you are, and my commanding officer told me much the same thing. His tree’s long been felled, but I intend to maintain this division’s heritage until I’m gone, too. With Dzieniva coming around, you’ll get a chance to partake in one of our oldest traditions. Every town and village in the area celebrates Green-Harvest Day, and we’ve helped with the festivities since the Mongrel Rifles first came here. You lot will help them gather the grain they’ll offer at the bonfire and ensure nobody tries to cause any trouble. Make a good impression, try and convince the local schoolboys to enlist, and if a girl happens to need a dance partner that evening, you might as well help with that, too.” He added with a wry smile.
General Bohssa clasped his hands behind his back, and the ear-piercing whistle sounded again. “Off you go, men. Drop your belongings off at the barracks, get settled in, and we’ll sort you out from there.” With that, he was gone, leaving the company of soldiers behind.
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