Re: Blood and Iron

Ash, soot, and the embers of a dying fire were all that remained of the scene. That and the bodies littered throughout its landscape. It was as if something apocalyptic had happened here. The reality? War…

For the last eight years, the Nation of Mexico had been embroiled in revolution, and the longer it went on the more unstable things became. It seemed every day now that an assassination of some kind occurred, which prompted an even more violent response from another warlord.

The reality was this wasn’t some organized civil war between government forces and revolutionaries. Warlords came and went, and the men fighting were loyal to them, not the banners they waved at any given moment.

Sure, it was painted in the light of a more traditional civil war, but this matter was far from simple. And now, a new banner was waving over the ashes of Vera Cruz, armed militiamen wearing black armbands with a skull, and a sombrero on its head were executing anyone who still had some breath left.

Not with a shot to the skull, but a bayonet to the heart. Ammunition wasn’t cheap, especially since it was mostly being imported across the sea by the German Reich. In the background was the leader of this latest war band: Colonel Rafael Olivares…

Part revolutionary, part cowboy, part factory worker. Olivares was a former officer of the Mexican Army who had spent the last 8 years of his life fighting for whoever he thought posed the greatest chance at order and stability within the region.

But as things continued to descend into chaos, and when Washington had reached its breaking point, he was quick to accept their offer as becoming their man in the field, their boots on the ground. Hell, even their puppet.

Because nothing else seemed to be working, and things were only getting worse with each passing day. The man’s face was concealed by a black tattered bandana, whose skull print on its onyx fabric had already begun to fade with wear.

Above his suit vest, which he wore without a blazer, and rolled sleeves was A brown leather bandolier over his chest, containing 7.92x57mm Mauser stripper clips—ammo his Winchester 1895 was chambered to fire..

It was a rifle reminiscent of a dying era.

While modern militaries had already begun transitioning to semi-automatic weapons, these guerillas reached into the past—choosing pragmatism over progress. They needed something reliable, rugged, and forgiving. The old days of the Wild West were long gone, but in Mexico—through the burning ruins of Veracruz—that spirit lived on in steel and smoke.

The rifle itself had been contracted from the Winchester company in the United States, re-chambered in the German standard-issue 7.92x57mm round. It was built for the Sons of Liberty—pro-Washington guerillas fighting a war not for territory, but for control over chaos.

These weapons were modified with more militant fittings, and with the ability to accept standard Mauser 98 stripper clips, of which Germany had an abundance of left over from their pre-war stockpiles.

Ammunition flooded the country in cardboard boxes, contained in five round clips, that were handed to the guerillas to use in the rifles that were brought down from the US border, and they had been used to great effect here in Veracruz.

Who exactly held the city before now didn’t really matter because nobody was on the side of the group calling themselves “Los Hijos de la Libertad ” otherwise known in English as “The Sons of Liberty.”

But to those who were forced to feel the sting of their wrath? They were simply known as “Los Calaveras Negros” — The Black Skulls. Due to their own custom banner and armbands, which was a nod to their secretive German trainers.

Olivares slung his rifle, and pulled his revolver out of its holster attached to his waistbelt, which contained small hooks for his speed loaders. Chambered in .45 ACP, this M1917 revolver was supplied to him by the US Army, and was the standard sidearm of the Black Skulls.

The man smoked a cigarette in his mouth as he ensured that all rounds were properly loaded before pulling back the hammer. As he took a drag from his cigarette, he looked over at the man next to him who, despite being dressed like a local seemed oddly out of place in the region.

Flawless white skin, golden hair and brows, and was not dressed like a guerilla but a businessman. He was an officer of the Werwolf Group, sent to Mexico to train and guide these men, and he had been doing so for months now.

Olivares took one look at the man, before asking in near Perfect German if he should interrogate the prisoner forced to kneel in front of him by his men before executing him.

“Are you sure I should put this feral dog down so soon? He might have valuable intelligence we could use to learn about the enemy…”

However, the German veteran simply scoffed and shook his head before looking over at the prisoner and choosing to speak in Spanish instead, so that the man knew exactly what they were discussing.

“interrogate him? And what would he tell us that we don’t already know? Every player, major or otherwise in the state of Mexico is now your enemy… The revolutionaries, and the would be dictators fighting for a dead government, one they killed with their stupidity.

You know where the enemy is; you know how many men they have, you simply need to take what is rightfully yours. Put this cur down already and let us move onto the next target, because all of this—every flame, every corpse—it’s just a message. Nothing more… Nothing less…”

Olivares remained silent as he took one last drag of his cigarette, staring directly at his handler before throwing it away.

And as he flicked the used up butt to the side, he pulled the trigger at the same time, blowing the brains of the prisoner out of the back of his skull, and leaving his body to be feasted upon by the carrions.

After which he shouted orders to his men.

“Grab what you can. We’re not staying long. Daylight won’t wait for us, and there are more men to kill yet!”

The Werwolf officer didn’t take a second glance at the pow who was executed right in front of him without the slightest care of the man who pulled the trigger, because this was the cost of business, and his business was war.

And at the end of the day, there was no secure business to be invested in than war… Because there was always one to fight somewhere at some time, so long as humans remained there would be war… And Veracruz was just the latest wreckage left in its senseless wake of violence…

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