GWOT VI - Strategy
Jan. 22nd, 2020 08:42 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
drewkittyGWOT VI - Strategy
As I expected, the infantry Captain had just about had it with my refusal to let him know what my plans were.
I'd made it to the gun truck when he boarded.
"SIr, I need to talk to you."
I nodded curtly. I did not however, need to talk to him.
But I needed him to play his part and not fuck up.
"Two minutes," I warned, and led him away from the truck.
"Go."
"If you get killed or have a stroke or something, none of us have any idea what the fuck to do!"
That would normally be a valid point.
But not in this situation.
I'd scattered my troops in such small teams. Some as small as two. Some with special taskings, as many as a dozen.
They would fight according to the plan. And some of them would die, because the situation would change and the plan couldn't.
Not wouldn't.
Couldn't.
I'd committed several cardinal sins in setting this up. And two minutes was not long enough to confess them, let alone explain them to a narrow minded tactical thinker.
Don't get me wrong. He was an excellent infantry Captain. Tell him to take a town, guard a bridge, skirmish with a much larger force, kill or capture all left handed redheads west of the river, and he was your guy.
But you did have to tell him.
"Captain, our objectives are not going to change. The militias will come, and we will kill them. If too many of them come, we will die. But we will exact a terrifying price.
"What I need you to do, your job, is to keep pulling the teams in and sending them out again. Run and gun. Ammo, sleep, casevac, replace barrels, top up casualties. Skirmishers with Fords and Chevy instead of horses. That's it.
"It is too late to innovate. Too late to get smart about it."
"What if they surrender?"
My reply was instant.
"They won't. If they didn't want to fight, they wouldn't cross the miles to come to us."
I relented slightly.
"Captain, I've made no secret that we stop the genocide or die trying. This is the 'die trying' part. I have a few more tricks up my sleeve, but when they all fail, and they most likely will, we're going to do a poor imitation of Stalingrad and die as hard as we can, for as long as we can.
"Are you game?" I asked unfairly, as there was only one answer. I would have to listen for the tone.
"Yes, sir."
It was the tone of a professional's professional, who would charge the fires of Hell with a bucket of warm spit, just because it was orders.
I needed rather more than that.
"Five minutes," I relented further.
"Captain, the militias that don't mobilize, that stay home and protect their families, are the future of Iowa. Whatever they did yesterday, they are not the genocidaires today and we can safely let them live. They are the hope of peace.
"The ones we have to kill, to break their teeth and their spirit, are the ones who are coming. By attacking they are leaving their families undefended. They hate more than they love, and they must therefore die. They ARE the war.
"Captain, I warn you, just as I warned the Governors of both California and Iowa, that there is going to be a lot of killing. And it's only just begun.
"What you are going to do, if I am killed, is just what I asked you to do. Run and gun. Whittle them down. Keep doing it long past the point of becoming combat ineffective.
"When you run out of fuel, go to bicycles. When you run out of ammo, go to bayonets. When you run out of hope, start shooting your own men as needed to keep them fighting. No surrender. You won't want to by then anyway.
"And when the Churches commit more war crimes, and they will, you will reprise. You will start by burning another church. But this time, you follow Hama rules."
"Sir?"
Syria.
"The next time you have to burn a church, you lock the adult congregation in first. Leave the children in the day care."
His face paled. I wasn't done.
"Then the next war crime, and the next reprisal at the next church. You fucking lock the fucking children _in_ the fucking church. One up, Captain."
He looked like he wanted to throw up.
"Then you start sweeping towns and houses, and you start dragging out and killing everyone you find, down to the last mewling kitten and drowning goldfish.
"Do you understand, Captain? I need an answer, Captain. You wanted to know your contingency orders if I am killed. You now have them. Do you understand? Captain."
He looked at me, utterly horrified.
I met his eyes.
He … would do it. Because he had the military virtue of following orders.
And the human vice of delegating his will to that of another.
I had made a man into a Nazi.
Earlier today, I'd killed five hundred refugees.
Why did I now feel worse?
"Captain, if there were any other way to stop this genocide, I would take it. The mortar platoon has nerve gas, as you know. They have contingency orders. They'll die before they touch those purple banded shells. Unless the militia uses NBC agents.
"The only road to peace is through Hell. Don't order another reprisal unless I'm killed, AND the militia commits another major war crime like Rodeo Gulch. But if they do, the only way to save every refugee in Iowa from a horrible lingering death is to burn that next church. With people in it.
"Can you do it, Captain? Not just because it's orders? Because it's the only moral choice?"
He nodded again, more firmly.
"Good man. With luck you will live to testify at my court martial, one way or another. Go."
###
There were bigger pieces in motion than I needed to know. Both Governors had hinted at them, that there was a need to buy time.
The only coin a soldier can buy time with is lives.
But I had told the Captain the absolute truth as I believed it.
I'd died long ago. I had come to Iowa … already dead.
Some people allegedly leave their heart in San Francisco.
My soul had died with it.
This made me … rather useful.
If I'd been a Christian in Iowa when the Firecracker had started, I had no particular doubt that I'd be out there with a militia reaction team, roaring to come to grips with the California heretics and perverts.
That let me understand them.
And more efficiently kill them.
As I expected, the infantry Captain had just about had it with my refusal to let him know what my plans were.
I'd made it to the gun truck when he boarded.
"SIr, I need to talk to you."
I nodded curtly. I did not however, need to talk to him.
But I needed him to play his part and not fuck up.
"Two minutes," I warned, and led him away from the truck.
"Go."
"If you get killed or have a stroke or something, none of us have any idea what the fuck to do!"
That would normally be a valid point.
But not in this situation.
I'd scattered my troops in such small teams. Some as small as two. Some with special taskings, as many as a dozen.
They would fight according to the plan. And some of them would die, because the situation would change and the plan couldn't.
Not wouldn't.
Couldn't.
I'd committed several cardinal sins in setting this up. And two minutes was not long enough to confess them, let alone explain them to a narrow minded tactical thinker.
Don't get me wrong. He was an excellent infantry Captain. Tell him to take a town, guard a bridge, skirmish with a much larger force, kill or capture all left handed redheads west of the river, and he was your guy.
But you did have to tell him.
"Captain, our objectives are not going to change. The militias will come, and we will kill them. If too many of them come, we will die. But we will exact a terrifying price.
"What I need you to do, your job, is to keep pulling the teams in and sending them out again. Run and gun. Ammo, sleep, casevac, replace barrels, top up casualties. Skirmishers with Fords and Chevy instead of horses. That's it.
"It is too late to innovate. Too late to get smart about it."
"What if they surrender?"
My reply was instant.
"They won't. If they didn't want to fight, they wouldn't cross the miles to come to us."
I relented slightly.
"Captain, I've made no secret that we stop the genocide or die trying. This is the 'die trying' part. I have a few more tricks up my sleeve, but when they all fail, and they most likely will, we're going to do a poor imitation of Stalingrad and die as hard as we can, for as long as we can.
"Are you game?" I asked unfairly, as there was only one answer. I would have to listen for the tone.
"Yes, sir."
It was the tone of a professional's professional, who would charge the fires of Hell with a bucket of warm spit, just because it was orders.
I needed rather more than that.
"Five minutes," I relented further.
"Captain, the militias that don't mobilize, that stay home and protect their families, are the future of Iowa. Whatever they did yesterday, they are not the genocidaires today and we can safely let them live. They are the hope of peace.
"The ones we have to kill, to break their teeth and their spirit, are the ones who are coming. By attacking they are leaving their families undefended. They hate more than they love, and they must therefore die. They ARE the war.
"Captain, I warn you, just as I warned the Governors of both California and Iowa, that there is going to be a lot of killing. And it's only just begun.
"What you are going to do, if I am killed, is just what I asked you to do. Run and gun. Whittle them down. Keep doing it long past the point of becoming combat ineffective.
"When you run out of fuel, go to bicycles. When you run out of ammo, go to bayonets. When you run out of hope, start shooting your own men as needed to keep them fighting. No surrender. You won't want to by then anyway.
"And when the Churches commit more war crimes, and they will, you will reprise. You will start by burning another church. But this time, you follow Hama rules."
"Sir?"
Syria.
"The next time you have to burn a church, you lock the adult congregation in first. Leave the children in the day care."
His face paled. I wasn't done.
"Then the next war crime, and the next reprisal at the next church. You fucking lock the fucking children _in_ the fucking church. One up, Captain."
He looked like he wanted to throw up.
"Then you start sweeping towns and houses, and you start dragging out and killing everyone you find, down to the last mewling kitten and drowning goldfish.
"Do you understand, Captain? I need an answer, Captain. You wanted to know your contingency orders if I am killed. You now have them. Do you understand? Captain."
He looked at me, utterly horrified.
I met his eyes.
He … would do it. Because he had the military virtue of following orders.
And the human vice of delegating his will to that of another.
I had made a man into a Nazi.
Earlier today, I'd killed five hundred refugees.
Why did I now feel worse?
"Captain, if there were any other way to stop this genocide, I would take it. The mortar platoon has nerve gas, as you know. They have contingency orders. They'll die before they touch those purple banded shells. Unless the militia uses NBC agents.
"The only road to peace is through Hell. Don't order another reprisal unless I'm killed, AND the militia commits another major war crime like Rodeo Gulch. But if they do, the only way to save every refugee in Iowa from a horrible lingering death is to burn that next church. With people in it.
"Can you do it, Captain? Not just because it's orders? Because it's the only moral choice?"
He nodded again, more firmly.
"Good man. With luck you will live to testify at my court martial, one way or another. Go."
###
There were bigger pieces in motion than I needed to know. Both Governors had hinted at them, that there was a need to buy time.
The only coin a soldier can buy time with is lives.
But I had told the Captain the absolute truth as I believed it.
I'd died long ago. I had come to Iowa … already dead.
Some people allegedly leave their heart in San Francisco.
My soul had died with it.
This made me … rather useful.
If I'd been a Christian in Iowa when the Firecracker had started, I had no particular doubt that I'd be out there with a militia reaction team, roaring to come to grips with the California heretics and perverts.
That let me understand them.
And more efficiently kill them.
