GWOT VI - Completely Lacking In Ruth

GWOT VI - Completely Lacking In Ruth

Said England unto Pharaoh, "I must make a man of you,
That will stand upon his feet and play the game;
That will Maxim (1) his oppressor as a Christian ought to do,"
And she sent old Pharaoh Sergeant Whatisname.
It was not a Duke nor Earl, nor yet a Viscount --
It was not a big brass General that came;
But a man in khaki kit who could handle men a bit,
With his bedding labelled Sergeant Whatisname.

(1) A Maxim is a machine gun.

Rudyard Kipling, "The Pharoah and the Sergeant"
courtesy https://www.poetryloverspage.com/poets/kipling/pharaoh_and_sergeant.html

"To every man upon this earth Death cometh soon or late. And how can man die better Than facing fearful odds, For the ashes of his fathers, And the temples of his gods."

― Thomas Babington Macaulay, Lays of Ancient Rome


The California gun truck roared down the highway, towing behind it a trailer piled precariously high with boxes.

Two pickup trucks followed. Incongruously, both towed long flatbed trailers full of a mix of motorcycles and bicycles.

At some distance, as if reluctantly, a single motorcycle medic with the distinctive "Red Cross" markings followed. Under the laws of war, the medic could not take the lead in any situation where its protections might prevent combatant forces from being properly ambushed.

Seeing the cloud of dust from a distance, the token UN force - a detachment of Indian artillerymen without the artillery - promptly panicked and hid.

Their purpose was to guard the refugee detachment, for values of 'bear witness to whatever happens to them.'

The several thousand refugees behind them started to do the same, until the small convoy's enormous California flags could be seen.

As it pulled up, the gun truck sounded its siren, then activated its PA.

"This is Sergeant Hargrove, California Republic. I need all able bodied men and women to come to the front. Come to the front please."

Two of the motorcycles - but not the medic bike - were hastily unloaded and prepared for their riders. The two riders were in California Republic half-armor - crash helmets, torso protection and leggings for motorcycle riding. Nominal protection from fragments, no protection from bullets. They had radio headsets in their helmets connected to their backpack radios, whip antennae over their left shoulders. They left almost as quickly as they arrived, headed further east.

Scouts out. And hopefully some warning.

The UN soldiers and the leaders of the refugee encampment came out at about the same time.

Sergeant Joanne Hargrove ignored the former. They simply weren't a factor.

"Gather round," she called, not wanting to put this news out on the PA, but knowing that the only thing faster than speed of light is rumor in a refugee camp.

"The Christians burned Rodeo Gulch. Their militias are coming here to kill you all. No possible doubt. We're not going to let that happen."

The refugee leaders looked dubiously at the three vehicles. They all mounted machine guns.

Three vehicles, perhaps twenty people, against a sea of Christian militia fighters?

"But we need you to help yourselves. We have brought bicycles. We have brought rifles. We will fight alongside you. But the time for fighting has come."

The word started to spread, and some of the refugees simply broke and ran for the hills and gullies, following the streambeds that had served as both water supply and sewer.

Others pushed forward.

"Anyone who wants a rifle, line up here," she called, making a line in the dirt with her boot.

A team of six California Republic soldiers set up nearby, each one a station.

First the medic and a clerk, to give a rudimentary physical and take their names. Anyone with injuries or who couldn't march or lift a heavy bag, to be sent over to the side, to be given other tasks.

Then another clerk, to pass out armbands - brassards - that were simply a stenciled "G" on each side. The minimum uniform required by the laws of war. Make sure they put them on.

Then a soldier, to hand them an unloaded rifle. See if they knew what they were doing with one.

Another clerk, to record the serial number of the rifle against the person and issue them three magazines and one hundred rounds of ammunition. Chalk their name on a chalkboard and take a picture of them with their armbands and rifle.

A hard faced soldier on overwatch, to explain that anyone who loaded a rifle without authorization risked sudden death. Explanation provided by submachine gun.

The resulting cadre of armed refugees, assembled in blocks of ten, with one who looked like they knew how to hold a rifle given a California Republic ballcap, in lieu of any other identifier of rank, and the title of Corporal.

This was a bit much for the UN detachment sergeant, who tried to brace one of the California Republic soldiers who happened to be male and tall, but not in charge. He ignored his UN counterpart until the Indian sergeant pushed him, at which point he drew what looked like a knife from his belt and said, "Shut the fuck up, you lazy piece of shit."

Sergeant Hargrove noticed this.

"You've been talking to the wrong person. I'm in charge here. Is there something you'd like to say to me?"

The Indian sergeant blinked, and started over.

"This is a UN deployment! You can't simply go around arming refugees! It's just not done! You're depriving them of the protections of the laws of war! They now outnumber both your force and mine! Who knows what they will get into their heads to do!"

"Obviously they are no longer in need of your protection, then. You may stay or go, as you choose, but you have no power or authority here."

"We are a _United Nations_ peacekeeping detachment..." he began angrily, putting his hand near his pistol, and belatedly realized that the male soldier he had pushed earlier had attached the bayonet to his rifle, taken up a guard position, and was ready on the command to lunge.

He moved his hand. Carefully.

"So are we," Sergeant Hargrove said acidly. "A UN peacekeeping detachment. But we're also soldiers. And I don't know what the fuck you are, but whatever it is, go do it somewhere else. Thank you Private, only use force in self defense or defense of the refugees."

The Indian artillerymen gathered around their sergeant and their two high clearance but unarmed trucks. They glanced at each other warily. Glanced at the California Republic forces, as they set up an entire second set of stations for equipping and arming refugees.

"Indian forces. You might want to leave now. You might make it into town before dark," she called, to twist the knife.

Then she turned to address the erzatz troops.

"Attention! We don't have time to do this any other way. Each squad will form on and follow around a single California Republic soldier. We have the radios and the training. The soldier tells the Corporal what needs to be done. The Corporal tells the rest of the squad to do it.

"Scouts report that about three hundred militia are on the way here. The first batch of about sixty will be here in about an hour.

"There are now four hundred of you armed. In a fixed position, doing what you're told, you can fight them off, and save your families.

"If you don't do what you're told, we'll shoot you. If you run away, we'll shoot you if we don't bayonet you first.

"This is where you fight. This is where THEY die. And every minute you hold, your loved ones are safer.

"Each squad gets two shovels. Your soldier will instruct you where to start digging in. And if I were you, I'd dig like a motherfucker."

Two other, different squads were formed from the refugees. A smattering of people, mostly women, with some cloth and maybe some first aid skills, under the one California medic. No armbands - their bandages and being clustered a uniformed medic would have to do.

Some older men and younger women, who either hadn't lined up for a rifle or had been rejected as unfit, who started shooing the other refugees away from what was now a battlefield - helping carry those who couldn't move as well, and setting the example. Ushers, for lack of any better term.

Sergeant Hargrove went to each squad. Talked to them briefly - looking for people in better shape than others, people who nodded when she asked them a couple questions. Picked one out of each squad. Came up with her own squad, a personal team of ten. Issued each a bicycle.

"You're my personal reserve. That means you don't go anywhere until I tell you, but when I tell you, you go there. And most likely you will be following me. The bicycle is so you get there faster, if you're not actually being shot at. You'll be in the center at the back.

"Make sure your rifle has a sling from the box over there so you can cycle with it. And get yourself a belt if you don't have one, and a bayonet and shealth from the box over there.

"What I said to them, goes double for you. No matter what happens, no matter how bad it gets, you do what I tell you and only what I tell you."

Several California Republic soldiers spread out in pairs, each pair with either a machine gun or an anti-tank grenade launcher - the infamous and ubquitious RPG. Each pair was assigned a single unarmed, but brassarded, G to carry more ammunition.

The gun truck backed up so that it was partially concealed - defiladed - by some boulders. The other two vehicles were moved way back, behind the improvised defensive line and the shallow scraped trench that would have to serve as a first-aid station.

Three California snipers spread out among the ravine, streambed and rocks. Normally they would be in pairs. But not today, and untrained helpers would make their lives more difficult rather than easier.

All too soon, the hour was up.

The Indian soldiers looked at her, at the bigger dust cloud coming from the east. Looked at where the refugees had been, most of them now walking away, but some few taking turns digging, and sitting with their new rifles.

They got in their two trucks and drove away, leaving their own smaller dust trail.

In their cowardice, they would still serve the mission - making it look like some of the refugees were trying to escape.

The scouts roared back into view.

One motored next to the Sergeant, gave a verbal report.

"About eighty, four or five to a vehicle, about numbers twenty vehicles. All pickups. A couple have hard points. Don't appear to be armored."

The Sergeant raised her binoculars. Looked at the convoy, which was switching from line formation - convoy following each other - to abreast, running side-by-side to bring more firepower to bear.

"Did they fire on you?" she asked mildly.

The scout nodded.

"Take up an overwatch position. Report the outcome of this fight. You're authorized to withdraw if we're overrun."

She touched the radio mike at her throat.

"Snipers only, independent fire authorized. Everyone else check fire until three hundred yards."

She paused.

"When they get close, pick your target. Engine blocks on vehicles. Then men once their vehicles are disabled. But don't fire until your squad leader gives the OK."

She then looked to the man she'd put in charge of her own personal reserve.

"You all just watch. Don't even fire. Just watch, and learn."

The Christian militia vehicles became closer, very fast. About twenty five yards per second at fifty miles per hour.

One spun out in circles for no apparent reason, another flipped spectacularly and landed upside down. Sniper harvest.

Then, as they passed an invisible line, the combined California and refugee forces opened fire.

And everything turned to fire and smoke and chaos.

Short disciplined bursts from the machine gunners and the gun truck.

A single WHOOSH of an RPG team finding a worthy shot, a pickup truck with steel panels welded to front and sides and several antennas jutting from its roll cage.

And the crackle of independent fire from four hundred almost entirely untrained people with rifles. The broad side of a barn came to mind.

If one in fifty draftees hit anything, they would be doing well.

But mixed in with the refugees, the much deadlier Californians couldn't be picked out by the militia soldiers.

It was a slaughter.

The machine guns fell silent, for lack of targets.

The improvised medics came forward, to the Californian lines.

Sergeant Hargrove gathered her reserve squad.

"This part is called mop up. We walk forward. Each enemy fighter, we ask them to surrender. If they put their hands up, you don't kill them. You take their weapons, you let them do first aid on themselves, and you make them sit.

"But if they look like they're going to shoot, or they try to run away, then you kill them, and quick.

"Let's do it."

The mop up took longer than the fight. A few did try to run, and were shot.

But when they were done, they had a lot more rifles and about twenty enemy prisoners, half of them wounded.

The prisoners were hustled to the back of the formation and a squad with its single California soldier moved to watch them.

They were shocked, as only losing rookie troops in a sudden fight are.

Not a game. No second quarter for an extra life. No restarts, no respawns, no reboots. Shattered limbs for the lucky, shattered families for the rest.

Shocked more, that they hadn't been shot out of hand or worse.

One of them had a sergeant's stripes to go with the fatigues and crosses.

"Sergeant, you are lawful prisoners of war. You will keep your men under control and silent until we can remove you from the combat area. Your wounded will get the same treatment as my own. I am giving you the benefit of the doubt, that you were not coming here to commit another massacre."

Slowly and with infinite menace, she added.

"Don't make me change my mind, Sergeant."

The second force of enemy militia was much larger but more cautious. They had seen the wrecked trucks and the carnage, through their binoculars.

With luck they would think that the main California force was here.

Perhaps the entire militia reaction would change course and concentrate on this point.

Certainly she hoped so.

While they hesitated, the lull in battle served to keep digging foxholes, start on communication trenches, pass out captured grenades and ammunition, start filling water bottles and a couple of drums from the stream.

The Christian militia parked their vehicles in wide circles facing outward, over half a mile away.

They wouldn't be attacking mounted. Smarter than that.

But not smart enough to just go the fuck away.

They formed on foot in lines, with their sergeants blowing whistles and waving flags.

She did a rough count. At least five hundred. Much less than a thousand.

After another twenty minutes, which felt somehow like both an instant and forever, they started walking forward.

Singing, she realized.

With a crucifix banner held high in front, they walked forward in step, rifles at their hips. Not shooting.

A snatch of wind brought a little sound to her.

"Onward, Christian soldiers! Marching as to war, with the cross of Jesus going on before..."

She thought about it for a moment.

"Snipers check fire. Pick your targets, enemy leaders. Machine gun teams, break out tripods if you have them. You are authorized to open fire at eight hundred yards. RPG teams stand fast. Refugees, same as before, three hundred yards. And take cover if you please until you start firing."

The line stopped at about a thousand yards. Caught up to itself. In military terms, dressing the line.

Someone - enemy leader - said something with a bullhorn. More than a few words, less than a few sentences.

The Christian militia roared.

Half of them started walking forward.

The other half started running.

And the half-dozen California machine guns started stuttering, short bursts at long range.

Some of the attackers threw smoke grenades. Others took a knee, picked a range, and started shooting with scoped rifles. Hunting rifles, with their prey their fellow men.

"Snipers, engage enemy leaders only," she murmured into the throat mike. And moved her own position, reminding herself that she too was an initiate of the mysteries of death.

The enemy line crossed the otherwise tiny imperfections of terrain she had picked out as about three hundred yards.

Some of their vehicles started moving. They would bring their fire support forward at the same time the dismount line came into assault range.

This was the true meaning of the word 'assault rifle.' A light, portable rifle, easy to use for the average soldier, that could lay down a base of automatic and easily reloadable, but not sustainable, fire.

But most of the refugee-carried rifles - and even those of the attackers - were not assault rifles. They were semiautomatic rifles, infinite variations on the AR-15. Only effective at very close range, or when well aimed.

Another reason they'd only passed out a hundred rounds.

Now the difference in skill between the half-trained Christian militia and the mostly untrained refugees started to make itself felt.

Refugee troops started to fall, here and there, as if bored by a game they could not possibly win. Shot by militia who knew how.

Their Christian attackers fell as well, but not nearly as many, and they were more likely to stop to bandage a fellow soldier's wounds or pick a shooting position.

In a word, disciplined.

She could hear their singing clearly now. They roared over the gunfire.

"At the sign of triumph Satan's host doth flee; On, then, Christian soldiers, On to victory!"

But the refugee emergency militia did not flee. They died where they stood. They stood. They died.

But the defenders, as untrained as they were, and as horrible as the battlefield is, did not run.

They had hastily scraped holes, the illusion of cover to fight and hide and die in.

They also knew they had nowhere to go, if they did run - and that their California protectors would shoot any cowards in their backs.

And most of all, that they were between their familes and the advancing foe.

She sensed the wavering in the attackers. The line, not neatly dressed. Looks and glances, more men going to ground.

An RPG blew up a slowly advancing truck, but not before its machine gun had killed an entire refugee squad with its California soldier to boot.

She brought up her own weapon. An M-16 / M-203, a true assault rifle but with an underbarrel 40mm grenade launcher.

She fired a single grenade at the enemy bannerman, plodding forward despite all, as bannermen do. He blew up and the banner fell.

"Look around you, fools!" she shouted.

She could still hear singing.

"Like a mighty army moves the Church of God; Brothers, we are treading where the Saints have trod!"

But the singing voices were wavering.

"Fix bayonets!" she shouted over her shoulder, and her picked squad hastily fumbled to comply.

She thought about it. It was probably the wrong move.

But if she couldn't resist ... Neither. Could. They.

"Viva California!" she keyed her mike, while shouting.

"CALIFORNIA!" her troops roared.

"Attack!" she explained, for the benefit of her squad.

"Onward, Christian soldiers!" she heard weakly.

The California gun truck, parked all this time, blipped its siren and rolled slowly forward, white hot machine guns spitting out bursts.

"VIVA CALIFORNIA!" its PA system barked, over and over again.

She then gave the oldest command in the history of warfare.

"Follow me!"

And they did.

###

"In the greatest traditions of the California Republic, the scratch formation counterattacked and broke the second enemy charge. The Christian militia started to retreat in good order, but when charged with the bayonet, instead broke and ran. About twenty percent again survived to be taken prisoner.

"In the three hours before the next attack, Sergeant Hargrove made the best possible use of the time available ..."

GWOT VI: Decision

Two hundred odd survivors escaping Rodeo Gulch, with Captain Solon to call the fire and no hope without artillery support.

Four thousand refugees in greater danger, with a handful of California troops drafting refugees to fight and die. Likely the most efficient use of artillery, to save lives and break an army.

Or the original plan, which would save no lives today but make the war real for the people of Iowa in a way no mere battle could.

Put that way, it was obvious.

And I refused to be politically correct about it..

"Mortars, execute terror attacks to plan," I radioed.

GWOT VI: Bringing It Home

GWOT VI: Bringing It Home

"Few tactical activities require more teamwork than a hip-shoot. Everyone must know his job (drivers, gunners, computers, RATELOs) and do it automatically. If success depends on a leader shouting commands and directives to untrained personnel, the mission will fail." -- US Army FM [Field Manual] 7-90, "Tactical Employment of Mortars"

Two pickup trucks.

Both flying huge California Republic flags.

Neither towing a trailer - and just about every piece of California rolling stock has a trailer behind it.

The truck beds carefully leveled. Hydraulic jacks bolted to all four corners.

In the truck bed, carefully and lovingly placed, on a swivel mount.

A big long pipe, suitable for installation as a stove flue.

In every spare space, in the cabs of the trucks and the corners of the beds, and a bush rack fastened behind the hitch... hundreds of shells.

Multiple GPS and GLONASS units in the cab. Multiple tablets and laptops, and a satcom link. But also optical rangefinders and paper maps, for when the electronics fail or EMCON does not permit their use.

The driver has a tablet mount hooked up to a GPS receiver and a list of locations to drive to, much like a rideshare driver before the Firecracker.

But she's not sharing rides.

She's sharing love, and the whole squad with her.

She pulls up to the coordinates and parks. The crew, including her, jumps out.

They exchange few words.

About a hundred yards away - close enough to support each other, far enough for safety - the other mortar squad is doing the same things.

Jacking down the contact points. Setting up the aiming stakes. Verifying location. Setting range, bearing and charge. Verifying round.

A soldier glances a second time to be sure, reaches behind himself blind, takes the round that is placed into his hand, and "hangs" it. Drops it down the tube.

*CRUMP*

From there, it is just like an exercise. Hang, *CRUMP*, hang, *CRUMP*.

Each mortar truck fires ten rounds. Then, four of the five team members quickly take up the jacks and the aiming stakes, secure the mortar, and mount up.

The corporal, sitting in the front passenger side ("shotgun") is last to get on board. He is watching the target through binoculars.

Observation of the fall of shot, in the antiseptic terms of war.

###

A peaceful Sunday morning.

A sudden falling whistle.

And all the windows on the tiny town's Main Street shatter at once, spraying fragments. Few people are hurt, but those who are, are hurt badly. And in post-Firecracker Iowa where hospitals are few and transport times long, to be hurt badly is to die slowly.

The explosions keep tolling, one after another, with the ponderous inevitability of fate.

In three minutes:

-- The town's only gas station is on fire, having been gifted with over a third of the mortar barrage. The fuel clerk would not have been hurt if he had not run outside, thinking there had been a pump problem and that he needed to reach the emergency shut off. He was correct -- yet, he never did. No one did.

-- City Hall is also burning. It is empty but the town's records are destroyed, aside from electronic copies in town officials' homes and microfiche at the state capitol.

-- There is a huge but otherwise harmless hole in the lawn outside the County Courthouse. The mortar round, instead of hitting the building, inexplicably hit a statue instead.

-- The owner and two of his employees are desperately trying to put out the multiple fires in the hardware store. A fourth employee, who had been opening the register, is dead in a spreading pool of her own blood. The town's volunteer fire department rushes to help in time to save the store, but not most of the stock.

-- Both church buses have been destroyed.

-- Three of the four town school buses are inoperable due to shrapnel damage to hoses, tanks and tires, although they do not burn. The fourth has all but one tire flat. By the next day, Church militia has salvaged tires from all over town and gotten it into use, after a fashion.

But the mortar trucks are already rolling.

They have many towns to visit today.

###

The town has a small paper.

The photographer is in time to take pictures.

He has an eye for detail. And a scene full of horrors to capture.

The pictures he takes are uploaded to what is still called the AP news wire.

And flashed to the world.

###

"Sir, operational message."

I look at it briefly. In the language of military bureaucracy, it asks me what the fuck I think I'm doing.

"Hand me that."

I type four words and hit SEND.

###

"Lawful operations of war."

"What the fuck does he mean by lawful operations of war?" rages the duty officer.

"Sir, they've posted the BDA over the datalink."

"So fast?"

He pulls it up and reads. It is linked to the original mission and fire order.

The Battle Damage Assessment, BDA, is antiseptic. But the duty officer can read between the lines.

He reads the fire order. "Shake and bake", a mix of high explosive and incendiary shells.

Then he reads the mission statement, the commander's intent.

He shakes his head.

"Get me the Commanding General, California Expeditionary Forces."

Either way, this is well above his own pay grade.

Someone else will have to decide whether to give Major 18 a medal, or shoot him.

Or maybe both.

GWOT VI: His Brother's Keeper

GWOT VI - His Brother's Keeper

As always happens when the news is so bad, there is an initial hard shock, and the bad news keeps piling up.

The Californicators had taken Midland, and burned it. Killed the militia officers.

And reports were coming in from all over Iowa.

The Californicators were _everywhere_. Fires, explosions, snipers. Motorcyclists with machine pistols. IEDs on the roads. Shot down aircraft.

They were NOT going to do this to his town and to his parish.

"Immediate mobilization. Draw all weapons and equipment and report to the following locations. Defensive Plan Three."

DP-3 called for a series of roadblocks controlling the roads all around town for a five mile radius. Patrols in between. Frequent checks on everyone and everything within. All persons to show papers. Any unauthorized persons to be detained, interrogated and expelled. But they'd already run over the last day, so that wasn't a problem.

Three churches. Four hundred militia and another two hundred unarmed auxiliaries. Plus the sheriffs and their posse.

It was barely enough. But they did it.

###

"Sir," the driver said.

"I see it."

The third roadblock. If there were three, they had all the routes cut off.

"Bypass this target. We can't get close enough."

There were plenty more towns to bombard.

They could skip one.

###

"Colonel, I am *ordering* your parish to contribute troops to the levy."

"General, I have no troops to contribute."

"You have over four hundred troops on roster."

"And I need every single one for area defense."

"We will be taking note. Do you want to be a Colonel much longer? You personally will assemble one hundred of your best and report to your designated staging area. You have four hours."

His response only felt like it took forever.

"No, General."

"You are relieved. Put on your executive."

"I'll tell him you called. But no one is coming from South Bend."

The -click- felt very final.

But for the first time in a long time, something felt -right- too.

###

Had they known it, both Major 18 and the General of the Church of God thought exactly the same thing.

"Fucking South Bend. Every man jack of them is out of it just as surely as if the enemy had shot them all in the head."

GWOT VI: Almost Too Late

GWOT VI - Almost Too Late

Our painstaking recon work in the days leading up to Midland had identified thirty seven distinct refugee sites.

About thirty of them were guarded, at least nominally, by UN forces.

Some were so far away that I couldn't reasonably get troops to them.

They were lost and would have to be avenged.

Others were close enough that we could get them moving before the Churches could get to them.

The ones in the middle were a toss up.

I'd violated just about every rule of the United Nations with my approach.

Send them cadre and weapons. Arm the refugees. Stand and fight.

I was no longer peacekeeping. I was making a new political force.

At the end of the day, a politician is some person in a suit who will give orders to a certain number of "rough men" and know that they will be obeyed.

But one camp will haunt me until the end of my days.

###

The Sergeant took one look through his binoculars and started barking out orders.

"Meeting engagement! They got there first! They're killing the refugees right now! Get it stuck the fuck in! VIVA CALIFORNIA!"

###

"Follow me!" he screamed to the refugee with the baseball bat, who had just finished beating an armed Xtian's head in.

The fighting was close and vicious. The California vehicles had driven into the middle of the killing field, dismounted and started shooting.

In a crowd of people, if you miss, the bullet has to go somewhere.

And he knew that California bullets had killed refugees too, as an inevitable result.

But if they'd staged to go in, long ranged enemy fire would have destroyed their soft skinned vehicles in minutes.

There was no other way to do this, except the hard way.

###

A sudden lull, in the swirling smoke and crying and screaming.

The attackers had counted on the advantage that armed, organized men have over the disorganized and disarmed.

California's arrival had negated half that advantage.

Two men seized the instant.

One blew a whistle over and over again, croaked, took a sip of water from his hydration bag's tube and then shouted.

"I AM A CALIFORNIA PARAMEDIC. IF YOU CAN HEAR MY VOICE, GO OVER THERE TOWARDS THE BURNING GUN TRUCK. TO MY LEFT. IF YOU CAN MOVE, GO OVER THERE NOW."

Anyone who moved, he immediately dismissed from his mind.

Then he started going from body to body, starting where he stood, with rolls of colored flagging tape on a loop.

Ten seconds and he tied a red loop around the man's one surviving arm. Put a piece of red tape in his lower BDU thigh pocket. Used the man's belt, grabbed someone stumbling past, had them hold direct pressure on the stump.

Guarded by the baseball-bat wielding refugee, he kept it moving. Quick and quick and quick. No marks for the dead, he just turned them face down in what had been dirt, but now was blood-mud.

It took him twenty minutes to complete the first circuit.

By then, three California soldiers had been freed up to help him.

The first set up all the medical supplies next to a red tarp.

The second helped people with yellow tape sit near the traffic cone, the best they could do for a "Delayed Treatment Area"

The third started drafting people to help with first aid.

This freed up the paramedic to spread out his little pieces of ripped tape in rough handfuls.

He changed frequencies and keyed his radio.

"One Seven Dash Mercy, California Control."

"This is California Control. One Seven Dash Mercy, is One Seven available?"

"One Seven is dead. Urgent medical traffic, lifesaving priority. Are you clear to copy?"

"Clear to copy."

"Level Six Mass Casualty Incident at my location, repeat Level Six. Approximate numbers. One hundred thirty Immediates. Over one hundred Delayeds. Over one hundred walking wounded. Requesting any medical resources available. Copy back."

"California copies Level Six repeat Six MCI, your location, plus one hundred thirty immediates, over one hundred each delayed and walking. Regret no medical resources available. Have One Seven Actual contact us as soon as possible. Number of souls, your location?"

The medic looked around, did a rough field count.

"Over five hundred souls."

"California Control out."

He technically shouldn't have been on that net at all. He wasn't supposed to be a combatant. But his traffic had been medical in nature.

Not that these Xtian genocidal murderers were likely to care.

He rinsed his mouth with a precious swallow's worth of water, spat it out on his gloves to clear some of the blood, changed gloves, and started looking around for something to use as a surgical table.

His hands would be the only help these people got today.

###

The corporal cursed and closed his sergeant's eyes with a hand.

Then he, reluctantly, stole his sergeant's jacket and Velcro rank tabs and gave himself a battlefield promotion.

This was a enough of a cluster fuck as it was. He didn't want to confuse people.

First he posted sentries, California soldiers who would use binoculars and optics to watch for further enemy approach.

Then they laid the California bodies out neatly by the gun truck, and posted a guard. Living wounded to the medical area, which was the primary sign of activity in the overrun encampment.

Then he started collecting up refugees with arms, to conduct a sweep.

Mop up.

###

"General."

He read the situation reports, paging past, paging past, then stopped and read one again.

"Two attacks... stopped?"

"Yes, General."

And the second had been in battalion strength.

"That's where the enemy main force is. We concentrate and destroy them."

He had his RTO get in contact with who he needed to speak to.

"We need you. Your faith needs you. Be there."

###

The National Guard Captain pressed the END button on his burner phone.

They had explicit orders to stay put.

But his men were gearing up to fight.

And he knew that if he tried to order anything different, his XO would merely shoot him and take over.

That really left him with only the one option.

He went outside the armory, climbed up the side of the trailer, and got into the turret of his tank, still chained down to the lowboy. He paused for a moment just before climbing inside, fixing the location of the other vehicles nearby in his mind.

No one else was in the fighting compartment.

He didn't have a driver.

That meant the tank wasn't going anywhere, even if it hadn't been thoughtfully chained down to the lowboy trailer that would carry it closer to the battle.

He laughed to himself, briefly.

This was going to be the ugliest, most diffcult thing he'd ever done in his life.

But he had no interest in seeing his thirteen tanks used to drive over innocent people, even if they weren't Christian.

This wasn't the movies. He couldn't magically pull computer chips out of each of the other tanks to disable them. He couldn't give a rousing speech to his men, selling them on truth and goodness and the American way.

He slid down from the TC station, opened the shell storage drawer, pulled out a SABOT round - so called silver bullet - and loaded the main gun.

He climbed back up to the TC position.

This was the point at which someone might realize that something was wrong. He closed and dogged the hatch.

He couldn't see much through the vision blocks.

He powered up the turret.

Once someone heard the whine of the motors, the gig would be up for sure.

Certainly once he started turning the gun.

He activated the TC override for the gunner position, and lined up the one shot he would get, at the XO's tank fifty yards away.

He saw men starting to run.

He pressed MAIN GUN FIRE.

*WHAM!*

Then, grimly, he selected COAX OVERRIDE and started moving the turret from left to right.

The machine gun mounted in line with the main barrel started spitting.

Killing his own men, as they ran to their own tanks to kill the traitor in their midst.

And there was a LOT of ammunition hooked up to the co-ax.

But no way at all for him to stop shooting, go back down to the loader position and get another round up the spout.

He was almost glad when finally, another tank powered up and laid its gun dead on.

At least he would die the way a tanker should. And at least two fewer tanks would be going to the massacre.

###

"He did *WHAT*?!? How long until you'll be mobile? This is war, Lieutenant, and the Church needs your tanks!"

The General got his answer and slammed the phone down.

"Maybe tomorrow."

There was nothing, NOTHING more precious in war than time.

###

"Seventeen Actual, Out."

California Control had been ... unhelpful. Taken his situation report. Had nothing for him but bad news.

At least three militia task forces headed for his position, the smallest over a hundred fighters.

A possibility of armor, too.

###

At last the paramedic had worked his way through the immediates. Some had died while waiting.

He then started triaging the delayed a different way.

Could they walk?

If they could, he instructed first aid staff to sling their arm(s) and get them moving.

A few cases among the walking wounded needed quick consultation. A flying splinter, which he studied for a moment and violated procedures by yanking out. A displaced eyeball, for which nothing could be done except to bandage it in the right spot for a surgeon to remove later. If there was a later for any of them. A heart attack, for which there would be no treatment beyond two asprin and the suggestion to lie quietly and wait to live or die. Probably die.

This left him with about a hundred and fifty hurt people who basically couldn't move under their own power.

The corporal, wearing the sergeant's jacket for some reason, came to talk to him.

"We will try to hold here. But we're likely to be overrun. I don't see trying to evacuate even if we didn't have all these wounded. I don't trust these Christians. I need you to be ready to get out on your motorcycle if it looks like we're going to be overrun. I forbid you to stay with these wounded. There will be other wounded, and other lives to save. But not for you here."

"Geneva says I should stay with them and become a POW."

"You don't get to make that choice. I am making it for you."

Unspoken: these Christians apparently don't take prisoners.

Speaking of which...

###

The corporal finished tying the noose in the rope.

The handful of Christian militia prisoners eyed him like turkeys in a slaughterhouse.

"I have questions. You have answers," he began.

###

When he finished, he left the last prisoner's body dangling in midair, by the neck, tied off to the limb of the tree, blood still dripping from his pre-capture and post-capture wounds.

He wanted the Christians to see it, when they overran this position.

Viciousness is a two way street.

Some of the refugees were willing to fight. But they didn't have time for registration, and the armbands had burned up with the gun truck.

He remembered something from somewhere.

"Strip the bodies. Look for dark cloth. Every refugee fighter ties a strip of dark cloth around their right upper arm."

It would have to do.

He wasn't looking at three task forces and a thousand men.

He was looking at six, and five thousand men.

But the logic of the situation was inescapable, with just the one working vehicle, and the fact that defenders in a fixed position were seven times stronger than attackers.

Something told him it was time.

He went over to the paramedic.

"Load the truck with injured children. Get your bike. Take both the California walking wounded with you, have them in the cab to keep the refugee driver honest. Go as soon as you're loaded."

Their eyes met.

Improperly, as they were both NCOs, the paramedic saluted, then turned to his task, of salvaging a little from this wreck.

The corporal turned to his own task, salvaging something else.

He wasn't eloquent. But he was fervent.

Casualties meant enough shovels to go around, and the emergency refugee militia started digging with a will.

Nothing fancy. A square of trenches, with the start of bunkers at the corners. The two remaining California machine guns at the corners facing the enemy line of advance.

He sent someone to hang the California flag from the tree. Next to the corpse, and the other corpses hapazardly piled below from where they had been dumped, after each had hung in turn.

He gave another order. One of the refugees went around collecting pistols, and pistol ammunition. The collection was brought to the area where the wounded had been placed.

As happens, someone had appointed themselves a care provider in the departed paramedic's place. Her face was locked in a wide stare, but she blinked when he gave her a pistol.

And a lot of matching magazines and loose rounds.

She nodded grimly, and tucked the pistol under her skirt, and got for herself three more.

He did not put it past his enemy to torture the wounded, and he knew only one sure way to prevent it.

###

"Task Force Seventeen, consisting of eighteen California soldiers under an MP sergeant, discovered a massacre in progress when they arrived at their objective. With great disregard for their own safety, the members of the Task Force immediately attacked and overcame the genocidal forces, taking several casualties including the MP sergeant in so doing.

"The paramedic and two wounded soldiers were directly ordered to leave the combat area in the one surviving vehicle, transporting with them seventeen injured children, twelve of whom survived the first trip to be further evacuated.

"The diminished California force attempted to carry out their original mission of rallying the refugees to defend themselves. Over the next two days, they resisted repeated dismounted attacks by Christian militia in platoon, company and ultimately battalion strength.

"Finally they were overrun and destroyed. Their bodies were found on site by forensic teams one month later. No California Republic bodies showed evidence of torture, strongly implying that all had been killed in action.

"Life abandoned these soldiers before courage.

"The Bear Cross is hereby awarded to all members of Task Force Seventeen, living and deceased."