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GWOT VII - Kyrie Eleison
GWOT VII - Kyrie Eleison
I'd read about it during the Firecracker War. It was a horror in the heavily sanitized propaganda until I talked to a disabled veteran who'd driven a tank in one.
"They don't stop," he'd said, briefly. He wasn't talking about his tank.
He was talking about the people on foot trying to kill his tank. Dying for their temerity, in windrows that reminded any farmer of a harvested field.
I'd seen a version of it with my own eyes in Iowa. A weak, watered down version. Killdozers versus refugees. But we were there, and killdozers didn't actually need all that much killing. Refugees ran, and we covered them when we could.
I was alive and the California Republic existed because of our own version of it, on our soil. Our own "Wo(M)en Against Tanks."
There is a joke in the old _South Park_ series to the effect that Team A will consist of all the important characters, and Team B will consist of the eminently disposable and killable Kenny.
Team A consists of first line American battle armor. M1 tanks of various generations backed at first by armored fighting vehicles, later as supplies ran low, by armed mobility vehicles. Nonetheless mounting machine guns, chain guns and automatic cannon - the difference being merely technical if you are being ripped apart by them. Or 'Technical,' as that is the term for them.
Team B consists of whatever can be scraped up to oppose them. On foot.
In China this was local Red Army units augmented by peasant militia. At first, they used the old Stalingrad trick - one soldier armed, another unarmed and following to pick up and keep the rifle in use. Then it was one rifle per squad, the rest with rocks and lengths of rebar and pipes.
Lord have mercy. Christ have mercy. Kyrie eleison.
When it was California's turn, in the High Sierras where we had the terrain on our side - which China did not - and some Americans hesitated to kill Californians - which did not happen in China - and we were at least able to provide one firearm per California trooper ... yet the American cannon and machine guns cut our young people - men and women alike, as it was also in China - cut them to bloodied shreds. Over and over and over again.
Just as it happened in China.
So I could walk among the battlefield I was being shown, in China, stolid and frozen faced.
Because I had walked it before. In the Sierras. Where our children bought the time to stop first line American battle armor with their blood, raw courage, and here and there, bits of explosive.
Don't believe the lie.
War is waste. The only excuse for it, is to keep the fighting away from those you love.
The Chinese guide said something brief.
The translator said, "And this is how we stopped you."
I turned on him - the guide - ferociously.
"No, sir, that's not what happened. You stopped Americans, here, and you are right to be proud. We stopped Americans too. This is how. This is how you stopped them. This is how we stopped them."
The guide had brought us to the shell of a burned out M-1, too far gone for recovery and salvage but yet stripped of parts, was nearby. It had burned. Barrel intact.
I kicked the side. Fortunately I had planned ahead and was wearing boots.
Then I gestured under the treads.
You could see the tell tale of gleaming white. The bones of the people being crushed under, when the tank was killed.
Had it overheated? Grenade? Anti-tank rocket? Armor piercing? Perhaps a hit from one of the handful of Chinese tanks? Probably not land mine, as the belly was unbreached.
The translator couldn't cope. I made my reply simple.
"This is war. This is a tank. I see how you stopped tanks. Good. We stopped tanks that way as well."
I spat on the tank. I kicked it again.
"Fuck you American tanks," I said.
I looked around.
Most of the battlefield had been policed, but here and there, there were still remains to be seen.
I put my hand on part of a skull.
"My friend. My brother. Killer of tanks."
I picked it up, kissed it, and put it back down carefully.
The translator tried to say something. He started arguing with the guide. Neither bothered with me.
I walked back to the four by four.
They kept arguing.
The driver said nothing, even though I was certain he spoke English. State Security agent for sure.
They had to realize that we weren't Americans any more.
Had to.
Or millions more on all sides would die.
I'd read about it during the Firecracker War. It was a horror in the heavily sanitized propaganda until I talked to a disabled veteran who'd driven a tank in one.
"They don't stop," he'd said, briefly. He wasn't talking about his tank.
He was talking about the people on foot trying to kill his tank. Dying for their temerity, in windrows that reminded any farmer of a harvested field.
I'd seen a version of it with my own eyes in Iowa. A weak, watered down version. Killdozers versus refugees. But we were there, and killdozers didn't actually need all that much killing. Refugees ran, and we covered them when we could.
I was alive and the California Republic existed because of our own version of it, on our soil. Our own "Wo(M)en Against Tanks."
There is a joke in the old _South Park_ series to the effect that Team A will consist of all the important characters, and Team B will consist of the eminently disposable and killable Kenny.
Team A consists of first line American battle armor. M1 tanks of various generations backed at first by armored fighting vehicles, later as supplies ran low, by armed mobility vehicles. Nonetheless mounting machine guns, chain guns and automatic cannon - the difference being merely technical if you are being ripped apart by them. Or 'Technical,' as that is the term for them.
Team B consists of whatever can be scraped up to oppose them. On foot.
In China this was local Red Army units augmented by peasant militia. At first, they used the old Stalingrad trick - one soldier armed, another unarmed and following to pick up and keep the rifle in use. Then it was one rifle per squad, the rest with rocks and lengths of rebar and pipes.
Lord have mercy. Christ have mercy. Kyrie eleison.
When it was California's turn, in the High Sierras where we had the terrain on our side - which China did not - and some Americans hesitated to kill Californians - which did not happen in China - and we were at least able to provide one firearm per California trooper ... yet the American cannon and machine guns cut our young people - men and women alike, as it was also in China - cut them to bloodied shreds. Over and over and over again.
Just as it happened in China.
So I could walk among the battlefield I was being shown, in China, stolid and frozen faced.
Because I had walked it before. In the Sierras. Where our children bought the time to stop first line American battle armor with their blood, raw courage, and here and there, bits of explosive.
Don't believe the lie.
War is waste. The only excuse for it, is to keep the fighting away from those you love.
The Chinese guide said something brief.
The translator said, "And this is how we stopped you."
I turned on him - the guide - ferociously.
"No, sir, that's not what happened. You stopped Americans, here, and you are right to be proud. We stopped Americans too. This is how. This is how you stopped them. This is how we stopped them."
The guide had brought us to the shell of a burned out M-1, too far gone for recovery and salvage but yet stripped of parts, was nearby. It had burned. Barrel intact.
I kicked the side. Fortunately I had planned ahead and was wearing boots.
Then I gestured under the treads.
You could see the tell tale of gleaming white. The bones of the people being crushed under, when the tank was killed.
Had it overheated? Grenade? Anti-tank rocket? Armor piercing? Perhaps a hit from one of the handful of Chinese tanks? Probably not land mine, as the belly was unbreached.
The translator couldn't cope. I made my reply simple.
"This is war. This is a tank. I see how you stopped tanks. Good. We stopped tanks that way as well."
I spat on the tank. I kicked it again.
"Fuck you American tanks," I said.
I looked around.
Most of the battlefield had been policed, but here and there, there were still remains to be seen.
I put my hand on part of a skull.
"My friend. My brother. Killer of tanks."
I picked it up, kissed it, and put it back down carefully.
The translator tried to say something. He started arguing with the guide. Neither bothered with me.
I walked back to the four by four.
They kept arguing.
The driver said nothing, even though I was certain he spoke English. State Security agent for sure.
They had to realize that we weren't Americans any more.
Had to.
Or millions more on all sides would die.