Author's note: A de-anon from the LiveJournal kink meme.

A Game of Soldiers: Chapter 1

He closed his eyes and resisted the urge to roll his eyes or let out a long, frustrated sigh. Instead, he took a deep breath and tried his best to tune out the current conversation near him.

"Can you believe this shit?"

No, forget conversation. It was just plain whingeing.

"Who the fuck thought this was a good idea?"

Likely someone really, really important – or rather, several someones – with insignia featuring shiny crossed swords and batons, pips, stars or crowns who had more than just several whiffs of something really, really strong.

Theoretically, perhaps it was a sound idea. Think of it as an extension of the Eurocorps, said those high-ranking bastards as they sipped or chugged down their alcohol. Oh, what about NATO? Never mind, trying to fight wars together under NATO was a nightmare in logistics, data sharing and combat identification anyway. Might as well make it all EU, thinking that at least friendly fire would be drastically reduced. European troops, unlike that certain lot on the other side of the ocean, they reasoned, would not open fire thinking that just because the lads in combat gear right across the field waving at them did not speak any English, they were automatically the enemy.

Oh wait, and instead of just pooling a few of them lads in combat gear like the Eurocorps, why not try out an interesting experiment: create an all-new, all-European force altogether. Select troops from various European countries, toss them into a brigade and turn them into the best fighting force Europe had to offer – oh, and what a lovely piece of news that would make in the news pages, improving military cooperation, multilateral and bilateral ties and all those fancy bits.

Sound idea in theory, indeed.

In reality, starting the process was not a rosy picture as it was made out to the press in those official announcements and speeches. There was a lot of bitching and whingeing and the entire operation, oddly enough, had the feel of being bound together with twine and a few rolls of strong packing tape.

Standard weapons and equipment for everyone? Why of course, provided they're from my country. No, they ought to be from mine, your equipment is completely rubbish. How dare you! And so on. Then it was the issue of a standard language, ranks and other concerns on forming the new Brigade – even rations! – and whatever ridiculous crap anyone could think of in order to have more meetings just so they can get more of that free alcohol served afterward.

Surprisingly enough, the entire affair was sorted out far sooner than anyone expected – probably thanks to someone with a really loud voice and a monstrous temper – and somehow, here they were, a bunch of squaddies stuck in the middle of Europe trying their best not to kill each other.

"And what the hell kind of name is CBAB anyway?"

CBAB, or Combined Battle Advance Brigade. Not that they were actually at full brigade strength; it was still early days yet with the experimental force, but he supposed deciding on a brigade-sized force was meant to impress the public. A move not likely to succeed, not with that stupid acronym – and the Brigade's full name was not much better either, for it did not make much sense to him. He was not too sure what or where they were meant to advance to, for starters. Or perhaps the word 'advance' was meant to be ambitious or even hopeful; if things went well, there would be more people interested in joining the Brigade.

Right.

The whingeing went on.

"CBAB... Fuck! That acronym is fucking awful! It sounds like... like kebab! And I fucking hate kebabs!"

True, but he has heard that complaint more than enough for today. There was only so much he could take, especially after hearing that same line everyday for the past three months.

He silently thanked the fact that the powers that be decided on a rank system that he was familiar with and that English was also the command and working language of CBAB, with all personnel assigned to the Brigade required to be able to speak and understand it. He was not going to choke on his own tongue trying to pronounce Stabsgefreiter everytime he needed to yell at his corporal.

"Beilschmidt," he growled, "shut it or I swear to god I'll fucking shoot you myself."

Corporal Gilbert Beilschmidt scowled.

When he first met the German when the initial batch of men for the new Brigade came in, he knew that he must not have been the first one to wonder: who was the fool in the Bundeswehr that let Gilbert enlist in the first place anyway?

The German was a loud-mouthed fuckwit, but there were plenty of those in any military force, so that was not what bothered him. Rather, it was Gilbert's appearance. Tall, pale as fucking ghost, hair so platinum blond that people often thought the man was a geezer when they saw him from the back, not to mention those freakish red-purple eyes; a combination that had practically startled anyone at first glance. Still, the man was more than a decent squaddie, but he had to be, in order to be in the Brigade. The Heer's selection process had made certain of that.

"Shit, Sarge," the German grumbled, "but it's fucking true! How are people are supposed to take us seriously? Kebab. Kebabs!"

To hell with it, the sergeant decided. He rolled his eyes and then let out a sigh. "I know it sounds like kebab. We all know it sounds like kebab. And we all know that you hate kebabs, because you've fucking mentioned that fact a thousand times, so just shut it already!"

"It wasn't a thousand–"

"One thousand and ninety four, to be exact."

Gilbert blinked. "Whoa, West. You kept count? That is so cool!" he exclaimed, then punched the poor bastard sitting next to him on the arm.

The poor bastard was Gilbert's younger brother, Ludwig. Tall, blond, blue-eyed and built like a brick shithouse, Ludwig looked like a model for Third Reich propaganda posters.

Oh wait, the sergeant silently chided himself, he was not supposed to think of things like that nowadays. Not out loud, anyway.

Where was he? Oh yes, the two brothers. It was hard to believe that the two were related, unless you really looked up close; only then would you notice that they had some similar facial features – provided Gilbert's strangely-coloured eyes and boorish demeanour did not scare you off first. And bless the patron saint of stereotypes, the sergeant thought, for while Ludwig may be an anal retentive, law-abiding bookworm of a German brick shithouse, at least he was not a fuckwit like his brother.

Gilbert also insisted on calling his brother 'West' for some reason; the man had once explained why in one of his many inebriated moments, but no one could make any head nor tail out of the man's long-winded and slurred explanation. What they could understand out of the mess was that Gilbert had applied to join the Brigade because Ludwig had done so, and he certainly needed to keep an eye on his 'adorable little brother, who was so cute back when he was a kid', something which he was also fond of mentioning.

The sergeant, who once was assaulted with a display of Ludwig's childhood pictures and a detailed commentary during yet another one of Gilbert's drunken stupors, could not help but agree to the description. Ludwig on the other hand, had endured the outrageous and humiliating display of affection with the resigned patience of a saint – one of those stone ones found in churches, for a living one would have at least attempted to commit fratricide.

He had often wondered if Ludwig had applied to the Brigade just to get away from Gilbert. If that were the case, he pitied the younger man.

"Ve... where are we going again?" asked the youngest member of his lot. Feliciano Vargas. The sergeant pondered if the young man had asked the question just to change the subject and thus prevent an argument from starting, or because he really did not know their destination. Probably the latter. Feliciano was not really suited for the life of a squaddie, the sergeant opined; the young man was too gentle, too trusting, too jumpy. He was also most of the time, for lack of a more suitable phrase, a gutless pansy. Still, Feliciano – or Feli, as some of the others called him – was like the baby brother of the lot; he acted like the peacekeeper among the lads and did a much better job at it than the sergeant, whose idea of keeping peace was the old-fashioned method of a well-delivered sock to the jaw.

He was also a more than decent cook, much to the relief to the rest, who had previously suffered from the sergeant's culinary abominations, a yet-to-be-documented phenomenon; anyone would think it was impossible to make a complete mess of boil-in-the-bag rations, but make a mess the sergeant did. With the threat of being hung, drawn and quartered by his own men if he as much as thought of taking over cooking duties, the sergeant had to satisfy himself with setting the kettle to boil for a brew.

"A training exercise in the middle of nowhere!" announced the final member of the squad. Brown-haired and green-eyed, Antonio Fernandez Carriedo was cheerful to a fault, but thankfully he was a somewhat reliable man. The Spaniard seemed a bit dense though, but the sergeant thought that was more due to the confusion of language. At least, he hoped so.

"Fool's errand, more like it," Gilbert complained. Apparently Gilbert and Antonio were childhood friends and both men were more than pleased to see each other again in the Brigade.

"It's supposed to make good headlines in the newspapers, I think," Antonio commented.

Gilbert cackled. "Headlines? Yeah, it should be something like, 'The Kebabmen Attack–"

The sergeant shot him a warning glare.

"Never said a word," Gilbert said with obviously faked innocence, then smiled at the sergeant.

He snorted. "Yes Gilbert, we know it's a stupid acronym for a stupid name." There was a considerable pause before he added, "I like my name for the Brigade much better though."

"Oh? What's that, Sarge?"

"CBAB. Can't Be Arsed Brigade."

Gilbert howled in laughter, and so did the rest of the lads..

Sergeant Arthur Kirkland smiled, then laughed along with them.

Notes:

Eurocorps – a multi-national army corps based in Strasbourg. Basically I just 'borrowed' this concept and ran away with it.

Bundeswehr – Federal Defence Force; the armed forces of Germany

Heer – the German army