GWOT VI - Completely Lacking In Ruth
Feb. 8th, 2020 01:56 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
drewkittyGWOT 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 ..."
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 ..."
