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GWOT VI - Retreat Under Fire
Jan. 21st, 2020 08:03 pmGWOT VI - Retreat Under Fire
"It is a good plan to give the command of the rearguard to an officer of great coolness…" - Baron Henri de Jomini, 1870
"We have to go, _now_," emphasized the California sergeant.
Captain Somol considered this carefully, with his bloodsoaked clothing and empty hands.
"Sergeant. Your force is part of a UN deployment. I am a Captain in that deployment. We can do this two ways. I can take command with your help, or I can take command without it."
The sergeant took a deep breath.
"I don't have communications so I can't formally transfer command. Divided command will kill us all. So you tell me what you want, and I'll do it, unless it's stupid."
Unspoken: and if it's stupid, I'll kill you.
"Fair enough," Captain Somol agreed amiably. "Sergeant, we cannot outrun mechanized infantry on foot. What was your plan?"
"Cross the creek and get up into the rocks."
"A good start, but they'll have heavy weapons. How far out?"
"Their scouts are within ten minutes of here."
"We have to take them out. Sergeant, I need your men to conceal themselves amongst the dead. All of them. Let the surviving refugees keep moving, that's fine, but we stay here for the moment."
Two thoughts crossed the Sergeant's face, and Captain Somol could read them clear as a printed book.
That's a war crime. Perfidy.
We're surrounded by a war crime. Mass murder of noncombatants.
"Element gather around!" the sergeant called.
Captain Somol had to control his surprise.
Eight. Only eight. And two of them were women.
But also three refugees carrying rifles, and looking like they knew how.
"Listen up. We kill all the scouts or they kill all of us. No quarter. No mercy. Wait for them to dismount. Take them down."
One of the two women took a grenade from her pocket.
"Works for me," she said as she grimaced and spat.
It was the work of moments to set it up. So many hiding places. So many dead.
Captain Somol cleaned his hands on dead people's clothes. Someone thrust a rifle into his hands. He laid out two magazines quickly. He checked to make sure the whistle was still on its lanyard. It was.
"When I blow the whistle, or when they fire," he commanded.
###
The two armored trucks were a poor substitute for tanks, but they would have to do.
The Californians had dropped mortar fire on the Midlanders. They wouldn't find his force to be so puny.
One armored truck raced across the intersection while the other watched, scanning the hillside for binoculars. Looking for enemy scouts. Looking for laser designators, the glint of binoculars and optics.
Then the second dashed forward while the first watched. They had machine guns, but they also had something better. It would only take a moment to set it up, too.
"What the fuck?" the driver volunteered as he saw the piles of rags through his armored viewing-slit. They all knew what the piles of rags really were, but it was better to think of them that way.
"Shut up. Movement, on the hillside. Troops in the open, engage with co-ax."
The gunner brought the machine gun up to point at the struggling lines of people lurching up the hill. Started tapping out short bursts.
They went to ground, but some fell.
It was better to think of them as troops.
"Dismount, evens, by the numbers."
That meant half the scouts off the vehicles, leaving the dubious safety of the truck beds to make sure some refugee didn't have a concealed grenade.
A whistle blew.
The hull of the truck rocked, DING DING DING DING as men screamed and shot back.
The volume of fire was …
"AMBUSH!" roared the scout leader. He started to reach for the radio mike.
Suddenly he was upside down.
Pinned in the wreckage.
And his feet didn't hurt at all.
But his combat blouse was on fire.
Then he was on fire, as the gasoline leaked out all around him.
###
"Good work," the Captain called to his men, as the upside down truck burned merrily and some poor bastard screamed inside.
No one fired into the truck. No mercy.
They approached the downed enemy scouts slowly, shooting when they saw movement. No quarter.
The second truck was mostly intact, for values of missing two front tires and a dead engine.
"Sir. Javelin."
"Do you know how to fire one?"
"Yes."
"Gather up their weapons. _Now_ we move into the rocks."
One of the scout soldiers had already lifted up a fresh dead body. With infinite care, he laid the body back down on the object. Only then did he gently pull on the piece of fishing line tied to the pin.
"L shaped ambush, that side of the gulch. Get some of the shovels, start digging in."
One of the refugees wanted to go up the hill.
"We need you here. Your people need you here."
He started to shake his head and the Captain put his hand on his pistol.
"I simply must insist."
The refugee nodded, once, reluctantly slung his rifle and went to get a shovel.
The Captain took note.
"How can we get communications?"
"We're on a schedule. Ferret satellite. Next window is in eighty minutes."
"Get a burst transmission together. Advise your Major 18 of the change of command and the circumstances. Request artillery support. I can call the fire. Otherwise we will buy the refugees some time."
Which they will undoubtedly squander.
But after so much waiting and tension, Captain Somol was glad to finally be on the battlefield.
No more shaking hands with devils. No more compromises. No more smiles. No more "what can we do" hand gestures universal in every language.
And while his detachment lay among the bodies, notable only for their tracksuits instead of jeans, they _would_ be avenged.
He thought about gathering up their tags for grave registration. Decided against it. Some fundamentalist would take the collected tags off his own corpse and do something stupid with them.
He shot up a well-chosen finger in the direction of the onrushing fundamentalist militias.
And grinned.
"It is a good plan to give the command of the rearguard to an officer of great coolness…" - Baron Henri de Jomini, 1870
"We have to go, _now_," emphasized the California sergeant.
Captain Somol considered this carefully, with his bloodsoaked clothing and empty hands.
"Sergeant. Your force is part of a UN deployment. I am a Captain in that deployment. We can do this two ways. I can take command with your help, or I can take command without it."
The sergeant took a deep breath.
"I don't have communications so I can't formally transfer command. Divided command will kill us all. So you tell me what you want, and I'll do it, unless it's stupid."
Unspoken: and if it's stupid, I'll kill you.
"Fair enough," Captain Somol agreed amiably. "Sergeant, we cannot outrun mechanized infantry on foot. What was your plan?"
"Cross the creek and get up into the rocks."
"A good start, but they'll have heavy weapons. How far out?"
"Their scouts are within ten minutes of here."
"We have to take them out. Sergeant, I need your men to conceal themselves amongst the dead. All of them. Let the surviving refugees keep moving, that's fine, but we stay here for the moment."
Two thoughts crossed the Sergeant's face, and Captain Somol could read them clear as a printed book.
That's a war crime. Perfidy.
We're surrounded by a war crime. Mass murder of noncombatants.
"Element gather around!" the sergeant called.
Captain Somol had to control his surprise.
Eight. Only eight. And two of them were women.
But also three refugees carrying rifles, and looking like they knew how.
"Listen up. We kill all the scouts or they kill all of us. No quarter. No mercy. Wait for them to dismount. Take them down."
One of the two women took a grenade from her pocket.
"Works for me," she said as she grimaced and spat.
It was the work of moments to set it up. So many hiding places. So many dead.
Captain Somol cleaned his hands on dead people's clothes. Someone thrust a rifle into his hands. He laid out two magazines quickly. He checked to make sure the whistle was still on its lanyard. It was.
"When I blow the whistle, or when they fire," he commanded.
###
The two armored trucks were a poor substitute for tanks, but they would have to do.
The Californians had dropped mortar fire on the Midlanders. They wouldn't find his force to be so puny.
One armored truck raced across the intersection while the other watched, scanning the hillside for binoculars. Looking for enemy scouts. Looking for laser designators, the glint of binoculars and optics.
Then the second dashed forward while the first watched. They had machine guns, but they also had something better. It would only take a moment to set it up, too.
"What the fuck?" the driver volunteered as he saw the piles of rags through his armored viewing-slit. They all knew what the piles of rags really were, but it was better to think of them that way.
"Shut up. Movement, on the hillside. Troops in the open, engage with co-ax."
The gunner brought the machine gun up to point at the struggling lines of people lurching up the hill. Started tapping out short bursts.
They went to ground, but some fell.
It was better to think of them as troops.
"Dismount, evens, by the numbers."
That meant half the scouts off the vehicles, leaving the dubious safety of the truck beds to make sure some refugee didn't have a concealed grenade.
A whistle blew.
The hull of the truck rocked, DING DING DING DING as men screamed and shot back.
The volume of fire was …
"AMBUSH!" roared the scout leader. He started to reach for the radio mike.
Suddenly he was upside down.
Pinned in the wreckage.
And his feet didn't hurt at all.
But his combat blouse was on fire.
Then he was on fire, as the gasoline leaked out all around him.
###
"Good work," the Captain called to his men, as the upside down truck burned merrily and some poor bastard screamed inside.
No one fired into the truck. No mercy.
They approached the downed enemy scouts slowly, shooting when they saw movement. No quarter.
The second truck was mostly intact, for values of missing two front tires and a dead engine.
"Sir. Javelin."
"Do you know how to fire one?"
"Yes."
"Gather up their weapons. _Now_ we move into the rocks."
One of the scout soldiers had already lifted up a fresh dead body. With infinite care, he laid the body back down on the object. Only then did he gently pull on the piece of fishing line tied to the pin.
"L shaped ambush, that side of the gulch. Get some of the shovels, start digging in."
One of the refugees wanted to go up the hill.
"We need you here. Your people need you here."
He started to shake his head and the Captain put his hand on his pistol.
"I simply must insist."
The refugee nodded, once, reluctantly slung his rifle and went to get a shovel.
The Captain took note.
"How can we get communications?"
"We're on a schedule. Ferret satellite. Next window is in eighty minutes."
"Get a burst transmission together. Advise your Major 18 of the change of command and the circumstances. Request artillery support. I can call the fire. Otherwise we will buy the refugees some time."
Which they will undoubtedly squander.
But after so much waiting and tension, Captain Somol was glad to finally be on the battlefield.
No more shaking hands with devils. No more compromises. No more smiles. No more "what can we do" hand gestures universal in every language.
And while his detachment lay among the bodies, notable only for their tracksuits instead of jeans, they _would_ be avenged.
He thought about gathering up their tags for grave registration. Decided against it. Some fundamentalist would take the collected tags off his own corpse and do something stupid with them.
He shot up a well-chosen finger in the direction of the onrushing fundamentalist militias.
And grinned.
