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GWOT VI - Entire Iowa Towns
Aug. 5th, 2021 08:11 pmGWOT VI - Entire Iowa Towns
Things were starting to firm up.
Not the runny shits of the dying refugees. Red Lion was doing their best, but bad water and no medical care was producing its share of fatalities.
So were the small groups of highly mobile killers who had off road vehicles, fanatic Christian fundamentalism, and were smart enough to avoid the patrols of California soldiers hunting them.
When we caught the others, we executed them, confiscated their weapons and vehicles, and gave them to the new Refuge government. If they were dumb enough to stay on roads, they were ours.
Completely lawful under the laws of war. We weren't bothering with field tribunals. We'd held one, in advance, for the duration of the intervention. Anyone caught committing genocide would be shot on contact, or while they surrendered, or if they had good intel, shortly after sharing it with us.
The legal difference was that we were lawful combatants and they weren't.
I was now profoundly indifferent to the moral differences.
We had control points on the highways and many of the local roads. We couldn't always keep them - in the face of a large force, we would melt into the bushes or the fields. But once the enemy force passed, we'd lock it back up.
Then we would ambush that large force further down. Skirmishing. Run and gun. L-shaped ambushes.
The other thing we would do, of course, is ambushes at the control points. Offensive mines, aka Claymores, or a fan of high velocity steel fifteen feet wide and three hundred feet deep.
On occasion, just often enough to keep the enemy honest (meaning slowed down, sphincter-puckered, and scared), we would leave behind a land mine and not initiate an ambush. I'd written strict protocols. No secondary anti-tampers on anti-vehicle mines. No mines not under observation. Off route shaped projectiles to be used sparingly and against armor. Pull mines if there is any question of a possible blue on white.
More antiseptic language. Blue is us. White is refugees, the people we are trying to protect. Or other noncombatants. People still have to eat, and farmers take their crops to market.
Another way to put it is that we had re-invented the Vietnam War. But this time we were the NVA. And the refugees functioned as our VC.
I should explain.
The North Vietnamese Army was a conventional military force that used unconventional tactics to mess with a technically superior but less numerous opponent. We were kind of the opposite of that - not many of us, but damn we're good. Clarification: we're competent. Good in the moral sense, again, profoundly indifferent.
The Viet Cong (VC) were concealed among the general population. The refugees were not concealed, but their more fanatic armed personnel had started merely pretending to be refugees and hanging themselves out there as bait. Sometimes they would call us. But we frowned on torture, so sometimes they didn't.
It was a messy, messy conflict. Every now and again, other folks would come wandering through.
We'd had six convoys of American heavy metal. Army. Always with the tracked vehicles on wheeled transport, so-called lowboys. They didn't stop for shit. A Christian militia roadblock tried to fuck with one, and was casually blown to hell in passing. They always took the Interstate, and were sometimes headed west, sometimes headed north.
Iowa State Police would run around now and again. They ignored us; we ignored them. But they would try to talk the fainter hearts among the militia into going home. They were supposed to be protecting refugees. They didn't do that, they preferred breathing.
Occasionally there would be what amounted to a mercenary convoy. Again, people still need to eat. So grocery stores still needed to be supplied. But there were a lot of hungry people in Iowa. So the groceries needed armed escort.
Refugees had found out the hard way that their money, or barter, or willingness to work, was worthless in Iowa. So now the strong stole when they could, and the weak starved.
So things were hella confusing.
Then came the atrocity.
Chemical weapons attack on a California security control point. I will skip the technical details. Anyone with Internet access can figure out how.
Adding insult to injury, the local volunteer fire department had refused to respond with their fire engine, needed to decontaminate the many casualties. So we'd stolen it and burned their station down. I didn't do it myself but I'd been asked and I chose to authorize it. We let the Refugee government loot the station first - they needed tools and equipment as much as they needed everything else.
The former volunteers were obviously pissed. Especially when we'd photographed and fingerprinted them, taken them back to their houses, searched them for all fire equipment and weapons, confiscated same for the refugees, and informed them that if they ever were seen in groups of greater than one again, we'd just shoot them as the unlawful combatants they were.
One had resisted. We didn't confiscate their gear because we burned their house down and shot them.
Unsurprisingly, from time to time, there continued to be confusion among the good people of Iowa over what we were doing, and with what legal authority.
You can probably guess how we handled it.
###
The pile of bodies in the town square was a silent accusation.
Bloated in the sun. We'd had time for the rigor mortis cycle to liquify the remains. Children rot faster. Babies fastest.
At a hasty count, at least two hundred. Likely more.
The team leader, one of our sergeants, had called it in. We'd taken a day to plan. A sudden concentration of personnel on a single point, the town in question. A brief attack to overwhelm the defenses.
We swept everyone out of their homes. Gathered them in the square. Their children not excepted.
"Attention," I spoke using the throat mike linked to the confiscated, repainted muscle car I was now using as a command post.
"Who killed these people?" I asked.
No one answered.
"Who is in charge here?"
No reply.
I motioned to my soldiers. They plunged into the crowd.
"Leader? You? You? Mayor? Who?"
Soon four men, pointed out by their neighbors who didn't want to get shot, were dragged to the front.
One spat. Somewhat ambiguous.
"Who killed these people?" I asked him.
"They all shot themselves."
I turned over an infant skull with a foot. There were no weapons among the remains.
They'd been gathered together and machine gunned. I'd seen it enough that I didn't need forensics.
I drew my pistol.
"Try again. Last chance."
"Fuck you."
"OK," I shrugged, and shot him in the leg.
Someone screamed. Always happens. But my soldiers menaced the crowd and they didn't move. The hand grenade in a sergeant's hand may have helped them decide that prudence was the way to avoid their own massacre.
He screamed and clutched uselessly at his leg. He started to bleed out.
Someone tried to approach him and one of my soldiers pointed a rifle at the would-be Samaritan.
"Try again. Who killed these people?"
He clutched harder, but didn't have the presence of mind to take off his shirt and use it as a dressing.
I pointed the pistol at his other leg.
"I can do this all day. You can't. Who killed these people?"
He let go of his leg deliberately.
"I did. I shot them all, every one."
I motioned and two of my soldiers knelt on his wrists. Our medic moved forward, cut off his shirt, and tied a pressure dressing on the shredded meat that had been his lower leg.
"Very well. You shall hang by the neck until dead. Sergeant."
It took a couple minutes to rig a rope off of a street light. A noose. Six non-volunteers from the crowd to pull on the rope at the word of command.
They hauled, he dangled.
"Next," I ordered when his twitching stopped.
"Who killed these people?" I asked the next man.
###
It took three before the fourth confessed on behalf of the town.
They'd done it. The townspeople. Set out a table with food and water while the militia assembled and got their weapons.
I knew this, of course.
"I find the town guilty of murder. Here are your punishments. First, for the remainder of this war, you may not harbor anyone. No guests. No Christian militia, for you are not Christian people, you are murderers. Not refugees, for you are untrustworthy murderers. If I find anyone in this town who does not live in this town, I will burn it to the ground and shoot you all."
We were already fingerprinting and photographing the residents.
"Second. When travelers come to this town, you must tell them. You must show them the bodies, tell the travelers they cannot stay because you are murderers and cannot be trusted. Their lives as well as yours depend on you telling them that they cannot stay. And I may send travelers through myself. If I hear that you EVER fail your mandatory confessional, I will return to this town, burn it to the ground and shoot you all."
My psyop tech was already painting "MURDER TOWN" on the larger walls.
"Third. Each adult among you will confess to me, in front of us all. You will tell me that you are a murderer. Whether you pulled the trigger, helped the murderers wash up, fed them, or lived in their company, I don't care. You are all murderers.
"I will start. My name is Echo 18. I am a murderer. I murdered three men in this town just now, to prove to you that the murder of innocents will be avenged. Now, sir, your turn."
He stammered.
"I am a murderer."
"Again. More."
"I am a murderer. I helped kill these people."
I motioned with my pistol.
"I pulled trigger."
"Very good. Next."
###
In military terms, I'd turned the town into a demilitarized zone. No guests meant no support for enemy bandit cells. No guests meant no more temptations to kill. They'd tasted blood. It ended here. Or it ended with me, or one of my officers, coming back and killing them all.
As the last act, I confiscated two thirds of their weapons. I left them some rifles, shotguns and pistols.
I wouldn't want them totally defenseless against an attacker. Just mostly defenseless.
###
Later that day, I approved uploading the YouTube video of our actions.
Lessons can be taught.
Others must be experienced.
We don't stop genocides by committing more of them. But confession was essential.
This was something I wanted to have stick in their minds for the rest of their lives.
Soon we would have to go home. Or all be killed.
They would eventually paint over the warnings. They would stop telling travelers.
But they would know.
As I did.
Things were starting to firm up.
Not the runny shits of the dying refugees. Red Lion was doing their best, but bad water and no medical care was producing its share of fatalities.
So were the small groups of highly mobile killers who had off road vehicles, fanatic Christian fundamentalism, and were smart enough to avoid the patrols of California soldiers hunting them.
When we caught the others, we executed them, confiscated their weapons and vehicles, and gave them to the new Refuge government. If they were dumb enough to stay on roads, they were ours.
Completely lawful under the laws of war. We weren't bothering with field tribunals. We'd held one, in advance, for the duration of the intervention. Anyone caught committing genocide would be shot on contact, or while they surrendered, or if they had good intel, shortly after sharing it with us.
The legal difference was that we were lawful combatants and they weren't.
I was now profoundly indifferent to the moral differences.
We had control points on the highways and many of the local roads. We couldn't always keep them - in the face of a large force, we would melt into the bushes or the fields. But once the enemy force passed, we'd lock it back up.
Then we would ambush that large force further down. Skirmishing. Run and gun. L-shaped ambushes.
The other thing we would do, of course, is ambushes at the control points. Offensive mines, aka Claymores, or a fan of high velocity steel fifteen feet wide and three hundred feet deep.
On occasion, just often enough to keep the enemy honest (meaning slowed down, sphincter-puckered, and scared), we would leave behind a land mine and not initiate an ambush. I'd written strict protocols. No secondary anti-tampers on anti-vehicle mines. No mines not under observation. Off route shaped projectiles to be used sparingly and against armor. Pull mines if there is any question of a possible blue on white.
More antiseptic language. Blue is us. White is refugees, the people we are trying to protect. Or other noncombatants. People still have to eat, and farmers take their crops to market.
Another way to put it is that we had re-invented the Vietnam War. But this time we were the NVA. And the refugees functioned as our VC.
I should explain.
The North Vietnamese Army was a conventional military force that used unconventional tactics to mess with a technically superior but less numerous opponent. We were kind of the opposite of that - not many of us, but damn we're good. Clarification: we're competent. Good in the moral sense, again, profoundly indifferent.
The Viet Cong (VC) were concealed among the general population. The refugees were not concealed, but their more fanatic armed personnel had started merely pretending to be refugees and hanging themselves out there as bait. Sometimes they would call us. But we frowned on torture, so sometimes they didn't.
It was a messy, messy conflict. Every now and again, other folks would come wandering through.
We'd had six convoys of American heavy metal. Army. Always with the tracked vehicles on wheeled transport, so-called lowboys. They didn't stop for shit. A Christian militia roadblock tried to fuck with one, and was casually blown to hell in passing. They always took the Interstate, and were sometimes headed west, sometimes headed north.
Iowa State Police would run around now and again. They ignored us; we ignored them. But they would try to talk the fainter hearts among the militia into going home. They were supposed to be protecting refugees. They didn't do that, they preferred breathing.
Occasionally there would be what amounted to a mercenary convoy. Again, people still need to eat. So grocery stores still needed to be supplied. But there were a lot of hungry people in Iowa. So the groceries needed armed escort.
Refugees had found out the hard way that their money, or barter, or willingness to work, was worthless in Iowa. So now the strong stole when they could, and the weak starved.
So things were hella confusing.
Then came the atrocity.
Chemical weapons attack on a California security control point. I will skip the technical details. Anyone with Internet access can figure out how.
Adding insult to injury, the local volunteer fire department had refused to respond with their fire engine, needed to decontaminate the many casualties. So we'd stolen it and burned their station down. I didn't do it myself but I'd been asked and I chose to authorize it. We let the Refugee government loot the station first - they needed tools and equipment as much as they needed everything else.
The former volunteers were obviously pissed. Especially when we'd photographed and fingerprinted them, taken them back to their houses, searched them for all fire equipment and weapons, confiscated same for the refugees, and informed them that if they ever were seen in groups of greater than one again, we'd just shoot them as the unlawful combatants they were.
One had resisted. We didn't confiscate their gear because we burned their house down and shot them.
Unsurprisingly, from time to time, there continued to be confusion among the good people of Iowa over what we were doing, and with what legal authority.
You can probably guess how we handled it.
###
The pile of bodies in the town square was a silent accusation.
Bloated in the sun. We'd had time for the rigor mortis cycle to liquify the remains. Children rot faster. Babies fastest.
At a hasty count, at least two hundred. Likely more.
The team leader, one of our sergeants, had called it in. We'd taken a day to plan. A sudden concentration of personnel on a single point, the town in question. A brief attack to overwhelm the defenses.
We swept everyone out of their homes. Gathered them in the square. Their children not excepted.
"Attention," I spoke using the throat mike linked to the confiscated, repainted muscle car I was now using as a command post.
"Who killed these people?" I asked.
No one answered.
"Who is in charge here?"
No reply.
I motioned to my soldiers. They plunged into the crowd.
"Leader? You? You? Mayor? Who?"
Soon four men, pointed out by their neighbors who didn't want to get shot, were dragged to the front.
One spat. Somewhat ambiguous.
"Who killed these people?" I asked him.
"They all shot themselves."
I turned over an infant skull with a foot. There were no weapons among the remains.
They'd been gathered together and machine gunned. I'd seen it enough that I didn't need forensics.
I drew my pistol.
"Try again. Last chance."
"Fuck you."
"OK," I shrugged, and shot him in the leg.
Someone screamed. Always happens. But my soldiers menaced the crowd and they didn't move. The hand grenade in a sergeant's hand may have helped them decide that prudence was the way to avoid their own massacre.
He screamed and clutched uselessly at his leg. He started to bleed out.
Someone tried to approach him and one of my soldiers pointed a rifle at the would-be Samaritan.
"Try again. Who killed these people?"
He clutched harder, but didn't have the presence of mind to take off his shirt and use it as a dressing.
I pointed the pistol at his other leg.
"I can do this all day. You can't. Who killed these people?"
He let go of his leg deliberately.
"I did. I shot them all, every one."
I motioned and two of my soldiers knelt on his wrists. Our medic moved forward, cut off his shirt, and tied a pressure dressing on the shredded meat that had been his lower leg.
"Very well. You shall hang by the neck until dead. Sergeant."
It took a couple minutes to rig a rope off of a street light. A noose. Six non-volunteers from the crowd to pull on the rope at the word of command.
They hauled, he dangled.
"Next," I ordered when his twitching stopped.
"Who killed these people?" I asked the next man.
###
It took three before the fourth confessed on behalf of the town.
They'd done it. The townspeople. Set out a table with food and water while the militia assembled and got their weapons.
I knew this, of course.
"I find the town guilty of murder. Here are your punishments. First, for the remainder of this war, you may not harbor anyone. No guests. No Christian militia, for you are not Christian people, you are murderers. Not refugees, for you are untrustworthy murderers. If I find anyone in this town who does not live in this town, I will burn it to the ground and shoot you all."
We were already fingerprinting and photographing the residents.
"Second. When travelers come to this town, you must tell them. You must show them the bodies, tell the travelers they cannot stay because you are murderers and cannot be trusted. Their lives as well as yours depend on you telling them that they cannot stay. And I may send travelers through myself. If I hear that you EVER fail your mandatory confessional, I will return to this town, burn it to the ground and shoot you all."
My psyop tech was already painting "MURDER TOWN" on the larger walls.
"Third. Each adult among you will confess to me, in front of us all. You will tell me that you are a murderer. Whether you pulled the trigger, helped the murderers wash up, fed them, or lived in their company, I don't care. You are all murderers.
"I will start. My name is Echo 18. I am a murderer. I murdered three men in this town just now, to prove to you that the murder of innocents will be avenged. Now, sir, your turn."
He stammered.
"I am a murderer."
"Again. More."
"I am a murderer. I helped kill these people."
I motioned with my pistol.
"I pulled trigger."
"Very good. Next."
###
In military terms, I'd turned the town into a demilitarized zone. No guests meant no support for enemy bandit cells. No guests meant no more temptations to kill. They'd tasted blood. It ended here. Or it ended with me, or one of my officers, coming back and killing them all.
As the last act, I confiscated two thirds of their weapons. I left them some rifles, shotguns and pistols.
I wouldn't want them totally defenseless against an attacker. Just mostly defenseless.
###
Later that day, I approved uploading the YouTube video of our actions.
Lessons can be taught.
Others must be experienced.
We don't stop genocides by committing more of them. But confession was essential.
This was something I wanted to have stick in their minds for the rest of their lives.
Soon we would have to go home. Or all be killed.
They would eventually paint over the warnings. They would stop telling travelers.
But they would know.
As I did.
