1MAR99 - Day One of Arctic Training/Refresher

01 MARCH 1999 — 0400hrs
COP Charlie, Transylvania, Romania
LRRP Arctic Training / Pre‑Mission Preparation

Some time before 0400, McBride and Thrace start moving through the darkened hooch, boots whispering over cold plywood. Outside, the wind hasn’t let up. It claws at the walls and rattles the lantern hooks. Quietly, without words, they check on their charges. The Yukon stove in the corner is burning low, it's soft buzzing trying to lull the LRRP team back to sleep. Thrace turns it down, but not off. Even so, the steel sides begin their soft ticking as it cools down.

McBride moves among the group of sleeping soldiers just beginning to wake, tapping on the foot, those who haven’t begun moving already. Quietly, but with urgency, he says,
"Alright folks, let’s get up and at it! Chow in 30 mikes. Get your gear on. Come on, everyone is going to need the hot meal. Welcome to the first day of your Arctic Combat Refresher Course!"

McBride wakes the replacements first — quiet, efficient, no bark unless someone needs it.

"Remember to draw your extra rations as you pass through the line. After chow, everyone will have an additional 30 minutes to finalize your individual and shared loadouts. The L.T. and I will then check over the loads. Then we will move as a group to the Ammo Point where anyone still needing an M16 pattern rifle will get one issued and everyone will draw their training loadout for ammunition before we begin movement for this evolution. Skis should be secured to the Ahkios for this movement. Snowshoes should be secured to your individual rucks. Make sure you have your repair kits and extra bindings on your person!"

McBride continues to give helpful tips and comments while everyone is getting ready for chow. LT Thrace also moves through the room, offering help, especially checking the footwear, as everyone is beginning to get their outer gear one. "Make sure you donn your bunny boots correctly. If you have any questions, ask. Embarrassment won’t kill you, but improperly worn gear can!"
By 0420, everyone is layering up: polypro, wool, pile, parka. Gloves warmed near the stove. Goggles defogged. The Arctic Gear Issue from yesterday — "finally packed away" — is now being worn for real. One thing those who have never worn this particular gear is how warm it is.

Once the section is fully dressed, McBride steps toward the door. "Bring all the rest of the gear, your rucks, the Ahkios, everything. It needs to start adjusting to the cold."

Then he steps outside into the predawn murk. The cold hits everyone like a slap as they walk out, dragging their gear. McBride waits, breath steaming, until the whole group forms up in front of Third Herd’s hooch. "Form up here. Line up the sleds by that wall." McBride points to the wall of their hooch.

Thrace emerges behind the last of the troops. She scans each sled and soldier with the same sharp, posture she held during the briefing. She checks straps, cinches, lashings, making sure nothing will come loose once they’re moving through the Carpathian foothills.
Satisfied, she gives McBride a single nod.

"Alright, everybody. Drop your rucks where you stand." He gives them a minute to do so. "Detail—" McBride starts, then lets the word die. No need for parade‑ground theatrics. Not today. Not for this mission.

He gestures instead. "Alright folks… let’s move out and get some chow."

No cadence. No shouting. Just the crunch of boots on frozen ground as the LRRP trainees move organically toward the chow hall — the overheated, steamy building already smelling of coffee and powdered eggs. The wind howls overhead, blowing snow skittering across the compound, but inside there will be warmth, light, and the first step toward the three‑day Arctic evaluation that CPT Adams laid out.

Aug 13, 2026 5:33 pm

Inside the chow hall, the change is instant and total—a full sensory whiplash after the biting cold outside.

The moment the LRRP section crosses the threshold, the place hits them like a steam room. Not just warm—wet, heavy, enveloping heat that clings to parkas and fogs goggles in seconds. The humidity rolls over them in a wave.

Goggles get pushed up. Parkas unzip. Layers get loosened, opened. Mittens doffed and let dangle from their lanyards like furry pendulums.
Nobody had been out in the cold for long—ten minutes, maybe—still a palpable, physical relief rippled through the group. It’s the kind of relief that makes shoulders drop, breath deepen, and faces relax without anyone consciously deciding to do it.

A haze of steam and kitchen humidity roils across the serving line. Snow and ice that had blown onto parkas melted almost instantly. The floor near the entrance already wet from melted snow from boots squeaking as soldiers step inside. The smells are stronger now, no longer carried in broken gusts through the wind. Coffee, sharp and biting, dominates everything. Fried meat, still impossible to identify but undeniably present. Burnt toast, crisp and comforting in its own way. Mămăligă, sweet corn smell, like hot cornbread. Oatmeal, thick and slightly sweet, bubbling in a steel pot. Eggs, warm, familiar.

Thrace pulls her goggles up and exhales, the fog on the lenses clearing slowly. She loosens her parka but doesn’t remove it. McBride unzips his layers halfway, letting the heat soak in but keeping his gear ready to go. The replacements react more visibly. One sighs out loud. Another closes his eyes for a moment, savoring the warmth. A third flexes his fingers, grateful to be out of the wind.

Clattering trays, hissing steam, food sizzling on the griddle, cooks shouting for more plates—the chow hall is loud. but the LRRP section moves through it with a kind of reverent focus. Breakfast isn’t just food; it’s the last guaranteed warmth before three days in the Carpathian cold.

And everyone knows it.

Everyone picks up a tray as they work their way down the line. Silverware, a melmac mug. A cook in what used to be a white apron and cook’s tunic stirs a serving tray of scrambled eggs. He looks up at the group and says, "Next." Shuffling forward, the cook slaps a large spoon of eggs onto the first tray. Another drops a couple of slices of meat that appear to be some kind of sausage.

Continuing down the line, each tray gets a large spoon of oatmeal, some cornmeal mush. A replacement blinks at it.
"What is that?" The cook answers in accented English, not looking up, "Mămăligă. Good for cold. Eat." From the back of the line, McBride calls out, "It’s cornmeal. It’ll stick to your ribs. Don’t complain." A step down the line, he adds, "Calories are calories."
The line continues… two slices of burnt toast. At the end, each person has an option to fill their mug with coffee or goat’s milk or both.

For most, the coffee is the real prize. It’s bitter, burnt, and strong enough to scour rust — but it’s hot. And in this cold, hot is everything.
Thrace takes her mug, wrapping both hands around it. She closes her eyes for half a second — not savoring the taste, but the heat. The warmth seeps into her hands, into her fingers, into her bones. She needs that warmth. She’ll be outside for the next three days.
McBride drinks his coffee like it’s a tactical decision. Slow. Controlled. He doesn’t flinch at the taste. Both eat quickly, but not hurriedly.

The replacements eat fast, shoveling food in like they’re afraid someone will take it away. The eggs are the real surprise. Everyone expected powdered eggs, but they were only half right. One of the cooks had managed to get his hands on a couple dozen real eggs and mixed them with the powdered ones. Once tasted, the eggs disappeared quickly from trays. One tries to drown his oatmeal in coffee. Another stares at his sausage patty like it might stare back.

Having finished her own breakfast, Thrace moves among them, checking how much they’re eating. Not what — how much. Calories matter. Cold kills the underfed. "Eat," she says to one soldier who’s picking at his tray. He nods and forces down a bite.
The room is loud — trays clattering, boots scraping, steam hissing. Breakfast isn’t comfort. It’s fuel. It’s the last hot meal they’ll see until they return. Thrace raises her voice just enough to carry.
"LRRP — form up outside. Ten minutes."
When the section finishes, Thrace stands near the exit, watching each soldier dump their tray, adjust their gear. She checks faces, looking for signs of cold stress, fear, or distraction.

McBride steps beside her. "They ate," he says quietly.
"Good," she replies. "They’ll need it."

Outside, the wind howls against the chow hall walls, reminding everyone what waits beyond the door.
The soldiers move, bellies full, hands warm, nerves tight.

Breakfast is over.

Aug 14, 2026 1:42 am

OOC:

more will follow, but feel free to post in between.

SSG Robert Simmons

Aug 16, 2026 6:27 pm

Simmons is awake before McBride reaches him.

The first few seconds are the usual inventory — where he is, why he is there, what comes next. Then the cold plywood under his boots and the faint ticking of the cooling Yukon stove bring everything back into focus.

"Yeah. I'm up."

He swings his legs over the side of the bunk and starts dressing without wasting motion. Polypro first, then wool but no pile (not yet he doesn't want to start sweating), checking each layer as it goes on. The temptation is to make everything tight against the cold, but he knows better. Circulation matters. So does staying dry.

His M16A2 remains close at hand while he works. Making sure the LSAW is applied to the bolt before slapping it back together.

When Thrace makes her warning about the bunny boots, Simmons glances down and gives his own a quick check before standing. "She's right," he says, mostly for the benefit of the newer soldiers nearby. "Cold-weather gear doesn't give a damn how long you've been in the Army. Wear it wrong and it'll hurt you just the same."

He shoulders his ruck long enough to make certain nothing has shifted overnight, then drops it again and works over the straps on his snowshoes. Repair kit. Spare bindings. his old wool gloves before donning his mittens, the his goggles. He runs the checklist from memory, then checks it again anyway. Outside, Simmons sets his ruck where directed and helps get the Ahkios lined against the hooch wall. He gives one of the lashings a hard tug before leaving it alone. He ensures his over white ruck cover, is covering his gear and ruck completely before leaving.

"Anything comes loose out there, we're the ones stopping to fix it," he remarks to whoever is beside him. "Better to find the bad knot here."

The walk to chow is short, but the cold is enough to make the sudden heat inside feel almost violent. Simmons doffs his mittens, pushes his goggles up immediately and opens his parka before the sweat can start. "Don't get too comfortable," he says with a faint grin as the replacements begin peeling things open. "We gotta go back outside.". He takes his coat off so he does not sweat in the chow hall.

At the serving line, he takes everything offered. Eggs, sausage, oatmeal, mămăligă and burnt toast. When the Romanian cook drops the cornmeal onto his tray, Simmons barely pauses—he’s seen it before during his time in his former company in the battalion and already knows it’s a common local supplement meant to stretch calories in the field. He gives it only a brief glance before moving on.

The cook gives him the same explanation he gave the others. Simmons nods. "Hot and edible. That's two points in its favor."

At the end of the line he fills his mug with coffee, then collects the additional field rations McBride told them to draw, checking what he has before moving on. Whatever the cooks or supply people hand him is going to be carried, so he makes sure nothing is missing before leaving the line. He finds a place at a table with Black, McCain, MacDonald, Bledsoe, and whichever of the replacements have room. The M16A2 stays with him rather than being leaned somewhere out of reach, settled where he can control it without interfering with anyone eating.

Simmons eats quickly, but not carelessly. The eggs cut up and then mixed in with the mămăligă. After a couple of bites in, he looks at the others, "Had this back in the Alpha company. It'll stick with you."

Then comes a long drink of coffee.

Simmons looks across the table at the newer faces. "Three days isn't long," he says. "But cold makes everything take longer. Putting up shelter. Melting water. Fixing gear. Taking a piss. Everything."

He takes another bite before continuing. "So don't wait until you're freezing to tell somebody you're cold. Don't wait until you're exhausted to say your load's wrong. And don't hide a hot spot on your foot because you're afraid somebody's gonna think you're soft."

He raises his coffee cup toward MacDonald and then generally around the table. "That goes for everybody. Me included."

Another mouthful. More coffee. Then Simmons looks toward McCain. "Rust, you taking odds on which one of us falls on his ass first once the skis come out?"

After breakfast Simmons fills his thermos with whatever coffee remains available, secures the day's additional rations with the rest of his load, puts his jacket and wool gloves on, then begins closing his layers again before reaching the door.

Before stepping outside, he looks around the table once more to see if anyone is hesitating or looks a bit lost. He will help them. Outside he says to the others (not Back nor Wolfe who are senior) "Anybody missing anything, now's the time. Once McBride and the L.T. start inspecting loads, I'd rather be drinking coffee than explaining why we're short a binding." He pulls his goggles back into place and adjusts his artic mittens.

Then, quieter: "Alright. Day one." And follows the others back into the wind.

Aug 16, 2026 8:14 pm

Rust had been in the deepest sleep, probably the deepest of his life. He would periodically mumble about birds, in broken Romanian in his sleep. Clinging onto Hillary in his sleep as he had grown accustomed to in the course of the last few months. When McBride came to wake him, the sound of his approaching stride roused Rust, fully instantly awake. Not bright eyed and bushy tailed, far from it. That wild eyed look of a man who had seen far too much death. "'pologies Staff Sar'nt." Rust mumbled as his still waking mind wrestled with the notion of safety. It had been far too long since he had known the word. Shaking it off Rust set his mind to applying his overwhites. Top to bottom. Setting himself up as he had taken to be the morning ritual for these last few months. Cold weather wasn't going to be what killed Rust. He kept his silence until the mess, where he thanked the cook for food in his broken Romanian, and South Floridian accent.

The silent invite, body language queues, the other warfighters did not seem to have a problem with Rust when he sat at the foot of the table. It groaned under his mass. Rust devoured his food methodically, but quickly. He finally broke his peace. "If'n ya can't finish somethin' I gotchu." The immense marine obviously needed every calorie he could get. He had polished his second tray off before most of the canteen had finished their first.

"Couldn't be me Staff Sar'nt. Gotta pack of Nat Sherman's to bet 'gainst your pick." Rust chuckled, in high spirits, it was the warmest night he had known in months. When Simmons suggested a bet he further lit up. He appreciated the Staff Sergeant making attempts to include him. "S'pose it could be me eatin' shit if I tried to fire that AT4 on skis tho'." Self-deprecating in a confident way. Rooster took jabs at himself giving the impression it was just how he showed affection.

When they assembled for final inspection McCain was applying a solid balm to the exposed parts of his face - sunscreen. After Simmons briefed them on the final inspection Rust stepped forward and volunteered. "If you ain't sure of your overwhites lemme help you. Been doin' this for months now." Reiterating what Simmons had said. Three months of daily practice was by no means expertise, but it was better than nothing. He wiggled all of his fingers as if presenting proof that the method worked.

SSG Robert Simmons

Aug 16, 2026 8:16 pm

OOC:

trying a little initiative

The Ammo Point is colder than the chow hall and considerably less welcoming. Crates, ammunition containers, weapons, issue paperwork and bundled soldiers compete for space while the section works its way through. Simmons waits until McBride and Thrace have the group organized before bringing Doctor and Ana forward.

He catches the attention of whoever is handling the rifle issue and finds the Company Armorer. He greets the armorer with an easy face, "Hey, we need your help. You are most likely expecting us. These two replacements need M16A2 rifles. They are Doc Cristea and Ana Kharchenko. They're with the LRRP section."

Simmons assists each of them with the unfamiliar weapon issue rather than doing it for them. Serial numbers are read off and Simmons does look over each of the rifles first to make sure they are not crap. He then shows each of them the basic function and makes sure it is cleared be fore handing it to them. He helps them with the supply form, 2062 form, and ensures the magazines they get are functional. He merely makes sure nothing gets missed.

When Doctor receives his rifle, Simmons gives it a brief look before nodding toward him. "Make sure you're happy with it before we walk away. You're carrying it for the next three days."

Then he turns toward Ana as hers is handed across. "Same goes for you."

Simmons waits while both familiarize themselves with the issued weapons. He doesn't hover.

After a moment he asks Doctor: "Anything about that rifle unfamiliar to you?"

Whatever the answer, Simmons accepts it without judgment.

Then to Ana: "How about you?"

He pauses, looking between them. "I'm not asking whether you've fired a rifle before. I'm asking whether there's anything about the one in your hands right now you don't understand." There's a difference, and Simmons wants them to understand it. He will go over the basics of the operation of the Rifle and how the sight wroks which is different than a Soviet Ak or a hunting rifle with a scope.
He asks LCPL McCain to help;
"Rust you Marines are excellent marksmen with this rifle, make sure they understand the sights and to set them up for basic battle sight zero.

"Out there isn't the place to discover you were too embarrassed to ask a question back here."

OOC:

meaning when they got chow and after chow when checking equipment

Once both appear satisfied, Simmons checks their slings and the way the rifles sit against all the extra winter clothing.

"Remember you've got about twice as much crap wrapped around you as you're used to. Something that feels fine standing here might become a pain in the ass once we're moving."

He gives Ana's equipment another look, then Doctor's.

Satisfied, he steps back. "Alright. Rifles are done."

Now comes the training ammunition.

Simmons waits for McBride to announce the section's load before drawing his own. He keeps Doctor and Ana nearby, making certain both receive whatever McBride has specified for the exercise rather than guessing or grabbing what everyone else appears to be carrying.

Aug 16, 2026 8:52 pm

PlebeianG Inactive for 1 months

Rust was armed to the teeth with six additional belts of ammo for The Pig. With the overwhites and the belts of brass he looked like some kind of Yeti.

"Some o'the nomenclature is a bit childish but pay attention, it could save yo'life. Watch my hands, do as I do."

Upon picking up the M16A2 Rust ejected and stowed the magazine, pulled the charging handle and closed the dust cover, making sure the rifle was clear. Then flipped the select fire switch to safe.

"This is yo' boogie blaster." He wagged his index finger so Ana and Christea could see. "Safety always comes first, we treat every firearm like it is loaded and ready to fire when we aren't absolutely sure." He turned the rifle to the high ready and opened the dust cover showing the carrier assembly and confirming it was unloaded. Closing the dust cover again he proceeds. "Select fire switch, remember 'red is dead.'" Toggling the select fire switch to semi, revealing red paint, then to burst, again revealing red paint. He toggled it back to safe.

Taking a firm grip of the rifle where the magwell met the barrel. "Hold it like so. 'Member this ain't a movie, you ain't an action star. Hold is straight n'level. Do not cant the rifle." Rust canted the rifle to demonstrate. "Now remember, 'tap, rack, bang.'" Retrieving the magazine he fed it to the magwell and gave it a smack, the magazine clicked into place. He racked the charging handle arming the weapon. Then lowered it to his shoulder at the ready. Pointing downrange he lays his cheek on the riser, lining his right eye with the rear sights. "Your good eye is for depth perception, the other is for target acquistion. It helps to hold your breath and steadily exhale when you depress the trigger. Boogie blaster gives a gentle squeeze, not a pull. We can discuss slap fire advantage later."

Ejecting the magazine he stowed it, pulled the charging handle, now the brass was ejected, he caught it and pressed it into the magazine. Then offered the M16 up. "One at a time, your turn."

OOC:

Suppose this requires a roll to teach. Rust is making it brief, we don't have time to do a full range day.

Rolls

Agility + Shooting - (1d10, 1d8)

1d10 : (10) = 10

1d8 : (4) = 4

Jason Black

Aug 17, 2026 7:33 pm

Jason was quietly prepared for the early rise in the morning. His sleep schedule, or lack thereof, molded rather efficiently to the needs of early Romanian mornings as of this deployment. Before he ended up with the 173d, he had many early mornings with his other work in country, so it was only natural to be awake.

He fluidly went through a kata-like motion of dancing through the preparatory measures before getting outside. He was ready to get chow, and get on with the Exercises. He recalled training with Olympic medallists that were in Allied NATO militaries, like Norway, for operations like skiing and shooting among other skills they practiced.

At least we're not in the Arctic Circle, Jason concluded.

Jason didn't have much to comment on the food. As much as it was calories, and something hot to push away the cold. He, already knew cold, knew Romania, and had the experience of a LRRP before, with much less support. A single meal meant much less to him than what the officers were pushing. Still, he didn't dismiss it; merely, the jet fuel coffee was valued much more highly than anything else he had. He cleaned his tray at a more deliberate pace than his peers, finding the corn mush to be particularly partial to his tastes; he'd grown used to the Romanian staple.

He nodded along to Simmons and Mcclain's talk, he didn't have much to add to their chatter, and soon Thrace was calling them to wrap it up and return to the chill outside. Jason used the last bit of time to get more coffee and to zip and button up before the cold waiting outside, before making his way out to the formation waiting to move onto the next phase.

Aug 19, 2026 12:02 am

dabaggins Inactive for 1 months

OOC:

Stupid computers / phones. Phone is not pulling emails right, computer shows nothing new in T2K forum. Fix email... Ah crap.

Ana grabs a smaller M4 rifle and listens to the Americans as they rattle on about cold and ice and snow and such.

Justin MacDonald

Aug 20, 2026 2:25 am

Justin was up before dawn and before most of the others, having never quite gotten the early rising out of his system. He dressed warm and stepped outside with the rest, feeling the urge to do something, but not having anything useful to do yet.

At the breakfast table, he was quiet, eating because he knew better than not to, though he was long past the time when he would have judged the quality of the food.

At the ammo point, he checked his own weapon like a good soldier, made sure his magazines were where they should be, and otherwise kept his grim thoughts to himself. None of this was getting him home. And he did not know if he would ever see home again.

Aug 20, 2026 5:34 am

Ana watches Rust as he preforms his drill with the weapon, "Tap, rack, bang?" She asks with a raised eyebrow as she fiddles with the unfamiliar NATO magazine pouches. "This passes for gun safety in America no?" A grin crosses her lips.

Last edited August 20, 2026 5:34 am

Aug 20, 2026 8:42 am

"Well..." Rust pulled a crayon from under his overwhites, the same blue one he had yesterday, tucking it into the crease of the right side of his mouth. "Reckon it does fer ASVAB waivers n'crayon munchers."

Aug 21, 2026 6:34 pm

The Combat Outpost’s Armory doesn’t appear to be much. It is similar in size to a small shipping container (seasoned soldiers would say "Conex" (pronounced Conn-x)), but build more like a bank vault. A "weather frame" semi enclosed "porch" has been built around the entrance and issue window. The door is closed when the group first arrives, but three raps on the door and the issuing window opens.

From behind the bars, steel grey eyes and a huge, out-of-regulation mustache stare out. There is a hooded work lamp off to one side with a ‘Ma-Deuce’ in the processed of being stripped down. Eyes narrow and the mustache twitches, then a dim light above the armory door comes on. It’s hooded and only dimly illuminates SGT McBride. Then a dim red light comes on inside the armory. A few blinks later and the face resolves, a stern face, a tapered buzz cut, a nose-straight and narrow with a scar across it.

"Sergeant Rourke," McBride says, greeting the company armorer.

"Sergeant McBride. Top told me to expect you this morning. I’ve got a couple of M16s and a half dozen M4s set aside just for you guys. And as a favor to Top, I’m issuing them on just a hand receipt. I’ll transfer the details to the 3161s later. Not exactly regulation, but field expediences take precedence."

McBride nods, "Sounds good. Only have a few getting weapons. Everyone else already have theirs and no deficiencies have been noted."

It’s Rourke’s turn to nod. "Sounds good, Sergeant. Have the first individual step up and we will get down to business."

The wind outside claws at the weather frame, rattling the corrugated panels. Inside the semi‑enclosed porch, the air smells of gun oil, cold steel, and old canvas — a different kind of warmth than the chow hall’s steam. The red light above the issue window throws long shadows across the snow‑dusted floor.

Rourke’s voice carries that gravelly authority of a man who’s spent too long around weapons and too little around people.
"First one up," he says, sliding a clipboard aside and reaching for a rifle rack just out of sight.

The first LRRP replacement steps forward, boots crunching on the frozen plywood. Rourke disappears for a moment, then reappears with an M16A2, its black finish dull under the red light. He checks the chamber, slaps the forward assist, taps the buttstock on the counter twice and passes it through the bars with practiced precision. Every rifle or carbine he issues goes through the same process.
"Serial number’s on the tag. Sign here."
The soldier signs, hands trembling slightly from the cold.

McBride watches the exchange, noting how Rourke’s movements are economical — no wasted motion, no chatter. Thrace stands just behind the line, eyes scanning faces, making sure everyone’s alert and squared away.
Each rifle comes out of the rack with a faint metallic click, followed by the soft scrape of a magazine being checked. The sound builds into a rhythm — click, scrape, tap, sign, next — the cadence of an armory at work.

When the last weapon is issued, Rourke leans back, wiping his hands on a rag that’s seen better days.

"That’s the lot. Even though I’m the NCOIC, ammo’s kept next door. Tell the ASP boys I said you’re cleared."

McBride nods. "Appreciate it, Sergeant."

Rourke’s mustache twitches — maybe a smile, maybe just habit.
"Keep ’em clean. The cold’ll eat your oil faster than you think."

McBride gives a short nod, then turns to the section.
"Alright, move to the ASP. Same order."
The group pivots, boots crunching again, the sound swallowed by the wind as they step back into the whiteout. Behind them, the red light flickers once and goes dark, leaving the Armory in shadow.

Aug 22, 2026 3:44 am

Rust had been thoroughly exploring the new to him M16. He muttured to the rifle. "Oh Lizzy, you ain't known much have you girl?" He whispered to "her" sliding the bolt in place with a satisfying click. "Don'chu worry girl. I'm gonna take the best care of you."

Taking a quick look around to make sure he wasn't being watched by anyone outside the team, Rust took a tube of white-out, and painted "Lioness Liz" on the barrel just above the Magwell. He took a moment to appreciate the cool colored steam as the substance cured. Then tucked away the whiteout and stood, yet another weapon in hand, looking like some kind of industrial punk angel of death as he gummed the crayon in his mouth.

Aug 22, 2026 5:25 am

PlebeianG Inactive for 1 months

SGT Rourke wasn’t exaggerating. The Ammunition Supply Point is literally right beside his Armory Pod. Command had commandeered a large dairy livestock barn. Originally a two-story affair, the upper floor had been reduced, many years ago, to where it housed only a small office and sleeping area. The stone first story and the small second floor were covered with thatch and, otherwise, seemed ordinary on the outside. That all changes once the Replacements step inside.

Several inside stalls were reinforced with smaller HESCO barriers. Just inside are a couple of desks and a table. Two office chairs and a smattering of aluminum chairs are found in the usual places, at the desks and around the table. A couple of soldiers dressed in level 3 ECWCS fleece, PFC Danny Laramie and PV2 Travis Hensley, are sitting at the table playing cards and drinking coffee.

The outside door opens and the replacements begin to step in, Laramie, looks over to see who’s letting in all the cold air and sees McBride step in first, followed by the rest of the section and finally, LT Thrace. Laramie says, "Mornin’ Sarn’t." That’s followed almost immediately by him calling the room to attention when he sees Thrace walk in and secure the door.

The moment Thrace secures the door behind her, the temperature shift is immediate. The barn‑turned‑ASP isn’t warm — not like the chow hall — but compared to the blizzard outside, the interior feels almost civilized. The stone walls hold just enough residual heat to take the bite out of the air, and the smell inside is unmistakable: gun oil, cold metal, old hay, and coffee.

Laramie snaps to attention so fast his chair skids backward and bumps a HESCO barrier. Hensley follows a half‑second later, nearly spilling his coffee in the process.

"Mornin’, ma’am," Laramie adds quickly, voice cracking just a little.
Thrace gives a curt nod, her expression unreadable. She steps forward, boots crunching on the thin layer of grit and old straw that still clings to the stone floor. McBride moves in beside her, scanning the room the way he always does — quietly, thoroughly, without seeming to move his eyes.

The reinforced stalls give the place a strange, bunker‑like feel. Each HESCO‑lined bay holds neatly stacked crates of ammunition: 5.56mm, 7.62mm, .50 cal cans, mortar rounds sealed in waxed cardboard, even a few wooden crates stenciled in Cyrillic — captured stock, repurposed.
A single overhead bulb casts a dim yellow cone of light over the desks. The rest of the barn is lit by small red lamps mounted above each stall, giving the interior a faint, almost submarine glow.

Laramie clears his throat. "ASP is ready for issue, Sergeant."

McBride nods once. "Good. We’ll keep it simple. Standard LRRP load."

Hensley steps forward, grabbing a clipboard from the desk. He’s young — too young for the frostbite scars on his knuckles — but he moves with the practiced efficiency of someone who’s been doing this for months.

"Alright, folks," Laramie says, voice steadier now. "Step up one at a time. We’ll get you your basic load."

He gestures toward the first stall. Inside, rows of bandoliers hang neatly from hooks, each one tagged and dated. Beneath them, ammo cans sit stacked three high. The first replacement steps forward. Hensley hands him a bandolier, then an ammo can.

"Two hundred rounds ball, forty tracer," Hensley says. "Magazines are in the can. Managed to get the first three mags loaded for everyone. Don’t lose the damn spoon or you’ll end up having to load every round by hand" (of course, he is speaking about the stripper clip guide that attaches to the top of the magazine. If anyone needs a picture for reference, just say so and I’ll post one in the equipment thread.)

Unlike the Armory, every member of the team has to cycle through this process.
The soldier nods, clutching the load awkwardly.

Thrace steps in, adjusting the soldier’s grip. "Carry it like you mean it," she says quietly. "You’ll be loading mags in a whiteout before noon."

The soldier swallows hard and nods again.

One by one, the replacements move through the line. The rhythm becomes steady:
Step up.
Bandolier.
Ammo can.
Tracer.
Next.

McBride watches each soldier, noting who handles the weight well and who fumbles. He doesn’t say anything — not yet — but he files it away for later. Laramie moves to the next stall, pulling down a crate lid. Inside are neatly packed smoke grenades, frags, and illumination rounds.
"Squad leaders only," he says, handing McBride a small pouch. "Top said you’d know what to do with these."

McBride takes the pouch without comment.

Thrace moves toward the back of the barn, checking the last stall. Inside are boxes of batteries, radio handsets, and cold‑weather lubricant — the kind that doesn’t freeze solid at −30°C. She picks up a bottle, checks the seal, and hands it to one of the replacements. "Your weapon will seize without this. Use it sparingly."

The soldier nods.

When the last of the section has received their load, Hensley closes his clipboard and exhales.
"That’s everyone, Sergeant."
McBride nods. "Appreciate it."

Thrace steps forward, her voice carrying just enough authority to cut through the barn’s stillness. "LRRP — stow your ammo and form up outside. Five minutes."

The replacements move quickly, the urgency settling into their bones. Outside, the wind howls against the barn walls, reminding everyone what waits beyond the door.

McBride looks at Thrace.
She looks back.
No words needed.
The real task is still ahead.

Jason Black

Aug 22, 2026 1:09 pm

Mephistophilis Inactive for 1 months

Jason's eyes widened at the load they were each given at the ASP. It was serious business, and he was not expecting so much availability and so much load for a recon patrol. He silently cursed how stingy previous loads had been, but then again, going out too heavy had its dangers, too, so he didn't curse too strongly.

With great and practiced efficiency, he packed and stowed away his share of his ammunition, he was ready to move out with the others to an expectant Thrace.

OOC:

This is all rifle ammunition, correct, no sidearm ammunition correct?

Dr Octavian Cristea

Aug 22, 2026 11:48 pm

Cristea allows himself to be instructed in the various layers, fastenings and peculiarities of the cold-weather equipment, accepting the advice with rather more grace than even he might have expected. Whatever his reservations about the expedition, he cannot fault the quality of what the Americans have provided.

At breakfast he regards the mămăligă for a moment before sniffing faintly. "It is no bulz, but I suppose it will do." Then, without the slightest embarrassment, he mixes in the eggs like everyone else.

The M16A2 he accepts with a careful nod. He has seen the rifle before, even handled one, but never actually fired it. He takes his time familiarising himself with the mechanism, working the action, changing a magazine and finding the selector. The sights prove less intuitive. He listens first to Simmons and then, with a patience that surprises everyone, allows Rooster to demonstrate.

Eventually satisfied that he at least understands what all the parts are intended to do, Cristea collects the ammunition issued and regards the quantity for a moment. He turns to whoever happens to be beside him: "Excellent. Now I can miss with three times as many bullets as before."

Aug 23, 2026 4:22 am

"Ahh, you are a natural at suppressin' fire Doc, my previous Doc called it 'retroactive abortion.'"

He decided some American gallows humor would hit considering their previous exchange in Russian. "Hilarious!" Rust snickered at the concept. It was so clinical, dry, and accurate.

Aug 23, 2026 4:37 am

"You’ll be fine," Anastasia said to Dr. Cristea, "I am sure the loud American will put vastly more ammunition through his weapon. Who knows he might even hit something." She adds with a ahrug.

Aug 23, 2026 5:17 am

"You're a riot." Rust chuckled when Anastasia clapped back. He pat the newly acquired M16. "Liz, don't listen to her nay sayin', you gon be a heart eater."

Aug 25, 2026 1:15 am

Thrace and McBride step back out into the cold and wait for everyone else to join them. It doesn’t take five minutes before the entire team is back out in the blizzard, moving back to the outside of third platoon’s hooch and their gear.
"Final checks. Everyone secure your ammo and other supplies and prepare to move out," McBride calls out.

OOC:

[GMs note: everyone make an INT+SURVIVAL or INT+TECH roll)

*corrected spelling to "or"

Aug 25, 2026 1:17 am

OOC:

Also, I need to know who is or had helped who. Thanks.

Aug 25, 2026 1:21 am

dabaggins Inactive for 1 months

OOC:

Rust is helping Simmons or whoever Simmons Orders him to help.

Rolls

Int + d4 - (1d10, 1d4)

1d10 : (7) = 7

1d4 : (3) = 3

Justin MacDonald

Aug 25, 2026 1:55 am

Justin accepted his ammunition without a word and wondered how long the supply would last if they got cut off and how quick command would be to hand out more if they were.

He noticed the others joking, but he knew any words he might have would only sour the mood. No reason to let his own dread spread.

He tried a faint smile anyway, though he wondered if it looked as false as it felt.

Aug 25, 2026 4:52 am

Ana stowed her magazines and spoon away carefully, slung her M4 then followed Thrace and McBride out into the ferocious teeth of a raging Transylvanian blizzard. "Bit breezy wot?" She says in a perfectly serviceable British accent as she pulls her balaclava down and wraps her scarf about her face.

Last edited August 25, 2026 4:53 am

Aug 25, 2026 6:41 am

OOC:

A couple of things to keep in mind when it comes to rolling dice for T2k v4:

First, there are no d4 skills. The lowest success number is 6, so for skill rolls, d6 is the lowest necessary.

Second, modifiers change which size die you roll, it does not change the number rolled (DM caveat: unless specified in advance by GM or with GM approval.

Third, receiving help gives a positive modifier to the die size (ie Bob has a skill of d6 in bullshit. Joe helps Bob bullshit. Bob rolls a d8 instead. If Lou also helps Bob, then he will roll a d10.)

Fourth, specialties that add a modifier are treated the same way as help.

Hope this helps

Aug 25, 2026 1:58 pm

Packratt66 says:

OOC:

[GMs note: everyone make an INT+SURVIVAL of INT+TECH roll)

OCC
Do you mean INT and SUR or INT and Tech?

I am asking bc I am confused by the 'of' and I think you may have meant 'or'

Aug 25, 2026 5:33 pm

OOC:

Does the boost help for every thing and is it reciprical? ie. Could I help the Dr. shoot his weapon and in return he could help me?

I'm thinking it's an "or" r and f are close on the keyboard and both words are spelt correctly.

Ah, sperate multiple different dice with a "," so 1d10, 1d6

Last edited August 25, 2026 5:36 pm

Rolls

INT + Survival - (1d101d6)

(17) + (3) = 20

That did not work - (1D10, 1d6)

1D10 : (5) = 5

1d6 : (3) = 3

Aug 25, 2026 5:53 pm

Emberskyes says:

OOC:

I'm thinking it's an "or" r and f are close on the keyboard and both words are spelt correctly.

OOC:

That was what I was thinking but I want to make sure ;-)

Aug 25, 2026 5:59 pm

dabaggins Inactive for 1 months

Muns says:

Packratt66 says:

OOC:

[GMs note: everyone make an INT+SURVIVAL of INT+TECH roll)

OCC
Do you mean INT and SUR or INT and Tech?

I am asking bc I am confused by the 'of' and I think you may have meant 'or'

or… or… not of… thanks for pointing it out

*Corrected

Justin MacDonald

Aug 25, 2026 6:01 pm

OOC:

Doing INT + TECH rolls

Rolls

INT + TECH - (1d8, 1d6)

1d8 : (5) = 5

1d6 : (6) = 6

SSG Robert Simmons

Aug 25, 2026 8:50 pm

OOC:

I repacked some of the previous dialog above into this post.

Simmons had stayed close to Cristea and Kharchenko through the weapons issue, just as he had intended after breakfast. At the Armory, once Sergeant Rourke explained that the rifles were going out on hand receipts with the details to be transferred to the 3161s later, Simmons gave the armorer an appreciative nod.

"Sergeant Rourke, these are the two I was worried about getting squared away — Doctor Cristea and Ana Kharchenko. Appreciate you having the A2s ready for us."

He did not try to take over Rourke's issue procedure. This was the armorer's house. Instead, Simmons stood beside the two replacements and helped each through the unfamiliar American process, making sure they read their own serial numbers from the tags, understood what they were acknowledging on the hand receipt, and received serviceable magazines with the rifles. When each weapon came across the counter, Simmons gave it a practiced look after Rourke's clearing procedure. Nothing dramatic — just an NCO making certain neither replacement was walking away with an obvious problem.

Cristea received his first. Simmons watched the doctor work carefully through the controls.

"Take your time, Doc. Make sure you're comfortable with it before we walk away. You're carrying that thing for the next three days."

Cristea clearly wasn't unfamiliar with firearms, but the M16A2 was another matter. When the doctor reached the sights and slowed down, Simmons nodded.

"Yeah. That's the part that's going to feel different. American service sights aren't a hunting scope and they aren't an AK notch. Don't chase the sight picture. Get the fundamentals first."

He pointed toward the rear sight without taking the rifle away from him, then looked over toward McCain. The Marine was already occupied communing with his newly issued rifle. Simmons watched him lovingly work the action and caught enough of the muttering to hear Lizzy. Then came the white-out.

Simmons stared for a moment.

"You know, McCain, somewhere there's an armorer who just woke up angry and doesn't know why."

After a beat, he gestured toward Cristea.

"When you're done naming your girlfriend, give Doc a hand with the A2 sights. Marines are supposed to be the experts on making these things hit something."

He looked back to Cristea.

"Rust can show you the sight settings and get you onto a sensible starting point. Actual zero comes when we can put rounds downrange — don't let him convince you there's Marine magic involved."

Once Cristea seemed satisfied, Simmons shifted his attention to Kharchenko.

"Ana, same deal. Anything about this one you don't understand?"

He watched her handle the rifle for a moment before looking between both replacements.

"And I'm not asking whether either of you has fired a rifle before. I'm asking whether there's anything about the rifle in your hands right now that you don't understand. Out there isn't the place to discover you were too embarrassed to ask back here."

With the rifles issued, Simmons checked how both slings rode over the additional layers of winter clothing.

"Remember, you've got about twice as much crap wrapped around you as you're used to. Something that feels fine standing here might be a pain in the ass after two kilometers."

He gave each setup one final look and stepped back.

"Alright. Rifles are done."

At the ASP, Simmons went through the line with everyone else. When Hensley announced two hundred rounds of ball and forty tracer, Simmons raised an eyebrow at the weight but said nothing initially. Black's expression caught his attention, and Jason didn't need to say anything. Simmons could read that look well enough.

As they began stowing ammunition, Simmons moved alongside him.

"Yeah, I was thinking the same thing. That's a healthy load for people supposedly learning to move quietly. But it's their training evolution. We'll carry what McBride tells us to carry."

He shifted one of the ammunition loads in his hands and watched Black efficiently stow his gear.

Simmons took his stripper-clip guide and placed it on his first magazine. He set the first M856 tracer stripper clip into the guide, turned the magazine against the table, and pushed the rounds from the stripper clip into the magazine with a sharp zip. He deftly repeated the process with the next stripper clip of ten M856 tracer rounds, bringing the magazine to twenty rounds of M856.

With the twenty rounds of M856 tracer loaded into one magazine, he did the same with the next magazine. He placed those two magazines in the pouch on his left side. The third magazine received thirty rounds of M855 ball, and he continued the process for all seven magazines. He placed each magazine into its pouch upside down. The length of 550 cord he had cut and burned earlier was already threaded through the bottom of each magazine as a loop to help with extraction from the pouch. When he was finished, he took the stripper guide and placed it in the camo band on his helmet to hold it in place so it would not be lost.

"Once we're moving, though, tell me if you think somebody's load is starting to interfere with movement. Weight's useful right up until it starts making decisions for you."

With Cristea and Kharchenko, Simmons paid more attention. He made sure both understood what Hensley meant by the stripper-clip guide rather than simply nodding along with unfamiliar American terminology.

"Keep track of that little bastard. Hensley wasn't joking. It'll save you a lot of frozen-finger work."

He also made certain neither simply stuffed the ammunition wherever there happened to be room.

"Don't bury everything at the bottom of your ruck. Think about what you can actually reach wearing mittens."

When Thrace passed out the cold-weather lubricant and warned everyone to use it sparingly, Simmons nodded toward both replacements. "Listen to the L.T. Cold changes the rules. More oil isn't necessarily better oil."

Then Cristea regarded his mountain of ammunition.

Mephistophilis says:

He turns to whoever happens to be beside him: "Excellent. Now I can miss with three times as many bullets as before."

Simmons gave him a sideways look, but before he could answer, Rust supplied his own particularly Marine description of suppressive fire. Simmons slowly turned toward McCain. "There are moments, Rust, when I genuinely wonder what your medical people taught you."

Ana immediately joined in.

Emberskyes says:

"You’ll be fine," Anastasia said to Dr. Cristea, "I am sure the loud American will put vastly more ammunition through his weapon. Who knows he might even hit something." She adds with a ahrug.

Simmons couldn't quite suppress the grin. "Careful, Ana. Encouragement only makes him worse." McCain patted his rifle and started talking to Liz again. Simmons stared at him. "McCain, if that rifle starts answering you, I'm taking both of you to Doc."

Then he pointed toward Cristea. "And Doc — missing is acceptable today. Just make sure you're missing in the same general direction as everybody else."

By the time Thrace ordered everyone outside, Simmons had his own ammunition stowed and had made one more pass over Cristea and Kharchenko. Rifles, magazines, ammunition, cold-weather lubricant — nothing obviously dangling or buried where it couldn't be reached.

When they reached Third Platoon's hooch and McBride called, "Final checks. Everyone secure your ammo and other supplies and prepare to move out," Simmons dropped beside his ruck and began working. He cinched his ammunition into place, checked the rifle sling against the bulk of his parka, then ran gloved hands over his ruck straps and snowshoe bindings. Repair kit, spare bindings, cold-weather gear, rations, ammunition.

Then Simmons looked toward Cristea and Kharchenko. "Doc. Ana. One last check."

He walked over but deliberately didn't begin moving their equipment for them. Instead, he pointed toward Cristea's load. "Talk me through it."

Then Ana's. "You too."

If either had made a mistake, Simmons would correct it. Otherwise, he wanted them checking themselves. That was the point. When they finished, Simmons gave both a nod. "Good. From here on out, neither of you is 'the replacement.' You're part of the section. Doc, if you see somebody starting to get stupid from cold, dehydration, exhaustion, whatever — don't wait for somebody to ask your opinion."

He turned toward Ana. "Same goes for you. You see something wrong, say something."

Simmons glanced toward McCain. "Even if the problem is a Marine talking to his rifle."

Then toward Black. "Jason, once we start moving, give the newer folks a second set of eyes when you can. If you see something in their loads I missed, call it."

Simmons returned to his own ruck, double checked it and waited for the sign from McBride or LT Thrace before he shouldered his ruck. He checked the nearest Ahkio lashings with one hard pull, then another.

Finally satisfied, he looked toward McBride. "Sergeant, Cristea and Kharchenko are squared away. Rifles issued, ammunition stowed, loads checked." Simmons pulled his goggles down over his eyes.

OOC:

If it wasn't clear, Simmons is helping the Doctor, he gave instructions to Rust to help Ana

Doing INT and TECH rolls

Last edited August 25, 2026 8:51 pm

Rolls

INT + TECH - (1d10, 1d8)

1d10 : (9) = 9

1d8 : (6) = 6

Aug 25, 2026 9:15 pm

Mephistophilis Inactive for 1 months

OOC:

Simmons Mags are 2x at 20 rounds Tracer & 10 rounds ball, 5 mags of all ball. Intent is to use tracer to direct fire for the rest the element. I maybe over thinking this like a leader where the leader directs fire for the platoon, squad or team at a target.
Then again maybe the GM has other plans........

Dr Octavian Cristea

Aug 25, 2026 10:31 pm

Dr Cristea does his best to make sense of the M16A2 sights, running through the drills with Rooster until he is satisfied he at least understands the principles involved. Likewise, when Simmons asks him to talk through his equipment, Cristea does so without any apparent embarrassment at being corrected. Medical bag accessible. Ammunition where he can reach it. Cold-weather gear arranged according to the advice he has been given rather than whatever seemed sensible to a civilian physician.

When Simmons finally seems satisfied, Cristea gives a small nod. 'Good. I am reassured that somebody here understands what I am carrying and why.' His gaze drifts briefly toward the marine, then back to Simmons. 'My principal specialty is psychiatry, Staff Sergeant, I have seen very little this morning to suggest that it will not prove the most heavily exercised branch of medicine on this expedition.'

A faint, wry smile. Then he shoulders the load and immediately looks rather less pleased with the whole arrangement.

Last edited August 25, 2026 10:34 pm

Rolls

Intelligence - (d12)

(7) = 7

Tech (Intelligence) + assistance from Simmons - (d8)

(7) = 7

Aug 26, 2026 12:09 am

Ana does her very best to keep up with Simmons, the M4 was clearly no AK, a weapon you could fix with a hammer. The M4 was more carefully constructed, lighter and a finer weapon in every aspect. It also was more complicated and fussy than what she was used to.

"It is an unfamiliar weapon sergeant but I do like it and will do my best to maintain and be worthy of it." Anastasia looks at Rust, "I will not name it though, that seems weird.’"

Aug 26, 2026 1:17 am

PlebeianG Inactive for 1 months

"Oh I didn't name it. See here in the serial number." Rust pointed to the engraved serial number. LI-N355L1Z. "Lioness Liz anyone can see..."

Rolls

Reroll that 1d4 - (1d6)

(4) = 4

Jason Black

Aug 26, 2026 1:35 am

OOC:

Helping Anastasia

Jason acknowledged Simmons request to help get another set of eyes on the Newbies' gear.

"Gotcha'," he said, as he gravitated toward Anastasia who had dared to equip herself with an M-4. In reality, it was the sensible choice for her profile and build. A carbine for a slighter form instead of the full-size M-16 that the others were picking up.

"M-4," Jason said, "Good choice, it's different than than your personal rifle, and the M-16. You can adjust the stock to fit your body a bit easier..." Jason began, pointing to show Anastasia and allowing her to manipulate the weapon, if she chose. "It allows for better close quarters combat situations otherwise, it is still familiar to the basic AR pattern in general. The railing is altered, too, for different hookups, a bit more modular, which is good for people in my line of business for example, which the M-16 just doesn't have."

Last edited August 26, 2026 1:38 am

Rolls

Intelligence + Survival - (1d10+1d10)

(6) + (3) = 9

Aug 27, 2026 5:57 pm