GWOT VI - Walking Out
Jan. 7th, 2024 07:06 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
drewkittyGWOT VI - Walking Out
Bogdan Munteanu regretted three things in his life.
The day he'd decided to become a police officer, to serve his country without becoming a soldier. Seventeen and stupid.
The day he'd accepted appointment in the Moldavian National Police. Nineteen and stupider.
The day he'd agreed to accompany his country's contribution to the United Nations peacekeeping effort in America. Twenty three and likely to be no older.
Each of the decisions had resulted in grueling, unpleasant experiences.
The provincial police academy had been tough. The national police academy, tougher.
It was not the skills. He knew soberly that while he took pride in his nation, the training was not of the best.
It was that he had a tendency to think when he should be doing. This earned him more than his share of push-ups, and of beatings.
In his personal life, he liked his drinking, when it was safe. He liked women, but willing and smiling not running away.
Despite his nominal rank of Police Corporal, he was neither well paid nor had anyone to lead.
He spoke English somewhat well but liked to pretend to only speak Moldavian.
He spoke enough Russian for battlefield purposes (Stop! Police! Drop your weapons! Lie down!) and did not care to learn more.
He had been Christian until he came here. The third time he'd helped bury bodies, he'd tossed his wooden crucifix in with one. He did not want to mistaken for these nekulturny bastards.
He liked his cheese too, but not at every meal.
He'd had a good piece of cheese at lunch. His mother had sent it, and he'd been saving it.
As likely as not, his last meal.
Because the grueling, unpleasant experience today was not likely to be one that he survived.
Captain Somol had confronted the Christian militia, as it was the duty of United Nations troops to do.
By pure chance, he had been returning from answering a call of nature, tucking in his little gun when the American style jacked up pickup trucks had arrived.
He had not come closer. Certainly nowhere near his SKS, left with the rifles of the other police in their single purchased farm wagon, a Ford Bronco.
So the only weapon at hand was his bigger gun, the large frame revolver Americans called a 'Magnum.' Also the only brand of condom that on him would fit.
When the swivel mounts of the machine guns had come down, he had fallen immediately ... and saved his life.
Now, Bogdan was hiding among a pile of bodies. His mother would not like to see him now. But then again, she was not likely to see him again.
So he waited his moment to retreat.
It was a grisly game of hide and murder.
Screams, the flash of machetes, shots. Movement, rustling noises. Then the screams and slaying again.
As much as it disgusted him to do, his only hope was to run away, and to allow the murder of innocent people to be the distraction that permitted his flight.
The cheap tracksuit that was his country's chosen uniform was an elastic polyester yet still stuck to his skin. Now it was soaked from both sides - his sweat and others' blood.
His only equipment was that which had been on his body when he pissed. A nylon belt with holsters as if for police equipment. His handcuff pouch held a single zip tie - just in case - and a supply of hard candies to slip to children when he could. His straight baton vexed him, so he always left it with the others in the car. Its ring was still on his belt. His revolver speedloaders, and the packet of loose rounds, was carefully secured. No radio, so no radio holster. A holster instead for his mobile phone and an additional portable battery. One long cable, two short cables and three small chargers tucked away in what could have been mistaken for a small medical pouch. Others carried such supplies, and he and they knew how to use them. But he did not bother with such. Either one was in a civilized town, and medics would come - or not, and not.
What he regretted most was his water bottle. Metal with a lanyard, it had been empty and he hadn't been going off to fill anything. It was now irretrievably lost, but of no sentimental value.
It might have helped stave off thirst.
He did not at all regret his nylon baseball cap with "UNNAPID POLICE MOLDOVA" and a colored badge of a lion with a sword. It could only get him killed, by refugees who mistook him for Christian or Christians who did not like foreigners, which was all of them.
A scream, shots, and he scuttled swiftly into motion, cold muscles protesting as he ran.
So did several others. So did shots fly.
None touched him.
He ran, ran and ran ... until the joke about what to do if one is swallowed whole by the elephant in the zoo, he ran until he was all pooped out.
He stopped, panting, stretching each leg in turn.
There was little point to calling for help. But his training had drilled into him the need to communicate.
His cheap looking dual SIM phone had a few features - a hidden application, a passcode to access it, and the ability to send text messages in some way that was not depending on Christian charity or long since deactivated public GSM networks.
He did not need to know how it worked. But he could send a message.
"Rodeo Gulch. Unit destroyed. Many killed. Killing continues. UNNAPID Moldavia Contingent PC Bogdan Munteanu."
It would attach his GPS coordinates, which would tell their own tale.
A swift reply. Surprising.
"California Control copies. Stay alive. Attempt to extract north or west. Enemy in disorganized company strength. If captured give your name again. Good luck. End message."
He shrugged while squatting. There was nothing they could do for him, and the little he had done for them to give warning.
His phone also had an offline mapping capability, but he could think of no easier way to get killed than to look at it while walking, except perhaps to call out to the Christian murderers looking for strays.
So he consulted it briefly to pick a direction, and start his walk.
It was cold, and drizzling. But he was in great health, much better than the refugees, so he had at least two days of hard travel in him before he would truly be able to call this suffering.
Some of his compatriots had mobile phone shaped flasks instead of mobile phones, to keep their vodka or other spirits in.
A swallow would be courage. Two or more would be rash foolishness. But no drink meant no temptation.
The important part was to not get killed. Then to move as swiftly as he dared in a straight line. No need to worry about trackers, this was not that kind of war. Not like pig dog Serbians chasing their sisters or Belgrade city Muslims terrified of their own shadows in the woods.
He had to harden his heart to these refugees. He could not help them. That was not why he was here anymore.
He was here to be elsewhere, as fast as his own two tracksuit wearing legs could carry him.
So he stretched one more time, and began.
Bogdan Munteanu regretted three things in his life.
The day he'd decided to become a police officer, to serve his country without becoming a soldier. Seventeen and stupid.
The day he'd accepted appointment in the Moldavian National Police. Nineteen and stupider.
The day he'd agreed to accompany his country's contribution to the United Nations peacekeeping effort in America. Twenty three and likely to be no older.
Each of the decisions had resulted in grueling, unpleasant experiences.
The provincial police academy had been tough. The national police academy, tougher.
It was not the skills. He knew soberly that while he took pride in his nation, the training was not of the best.
It was that he had a tendency to think when he should be doing. This earned him more than his share of push-ups, and of beatings.
In his personal life, he liked his drinking, when it was safe. He liked women, but willing and smiling not running away.
Despite his nominal rank of Police Corporal, he was neither well paid nor had anyone to lead.
He spoke English somewhat well but liked to pretend to only speak Moldavian.
He spoke enough Russian for battlefield purposes (Stop! Police! Drop your weapons! Lie down!) and did not care to learn more.
He had been Christian until he came here. The third time he'd helped bury bodies, he'd tossed his wooden crucifix in with one. He did not want to mistaken for these nekulturny bastards.
He liked his cheese too, but not at every meal.
He'd had a good piece of cheese at lunch. His mother had sent it, and he'd been saving it.
As likely as not, his last meal.
Because the grueling, unpleasant experience today was not likely to be one that he survived.
Captain Somol had confronted the Christian militia, as it was the duty of United Nations troops to do.
By pure chance, he had been returning from answering a call of nature, tucking in his little gun when the American style jacked up pickup trucks had arrived.
He had not come closer. Certainly nowhere near his SKS, left with the rifles of the other police in their single purchased farm wagon, a Ford Bronco.
So the only weapon at hand was his bigger gun, the large frame revolver Americans called a 'Magnum.' Also the only brand of condom that on him would fit.
When the swivel mounts of the machine guns had come down, he had fallen immediately ... and saved his life.
Now, Bogdan was hiding among a pile of bodies. His mother would not like to see him now. But then again, she was not likely to see him again.
So he waited his moment to retreat.
It was a grisly game of hide and murder.
Screams, the flash of machetes, shots. Movement, rustling noises. Then the screams and slaying again.
As much as it disgusted him to do, his only hope was to run away, and to allow the murder of innocent people to be the distraction that permitted his flight.
The cheap tracksuit that was his country's chosen uniform was an elastic polyester yet still stuck to his skin. Now it was soaked from both sides - his sweat and others' blood.
His only equipment was that which had been on his body when he pissed. A nylon belt with holsters as if for police equipment. His handcuff pouch held a single zip tie - just in case - and a supply of hard candies to slip to children when he could. His straight baton vexed him, so he always left it with the others in the car. Its ring was still on his belt. His revolver speedloaders, and the packet of loose rounds, was carefully secured. No radio, so no radio holster. A holster instead for his mobile phone and an additional portable battery. One long cable, two short cables and three small chargers tucked away in what could have been mistaken for a small medical pouch. Others carried such supplies, and he and they knew how to use them. But he did not bother with such. Either one was in a civilized town, and medics would come - or not, and not.
What he regretted most was his water bottle. Metal with a lanyard, it had been empty and he hadn't been going off to fill anything. It was now irretrievably lost, but of no sentimental value.
It might have helped stave off thirst.
He did not at all regret his nylon baseball cap with "UNNAPID POLICE MOLDOVA" and a colored badge of a lion with a sword. It could only get him killed, by refugees who mistook him for Christian or Christians who did not like foreigners, which was all of them.
A scream, shots, and he scuttled swiftly into motion, cold muscles protesting as he ran.
So did several others. So did shots fly.
None touched him.
He ran, ran and ran ... until the joke about what to do if one is swallowed whole by the elephant in the zoo, he ran until he was all pooped out.
He stopped, panting, stretching each leg in turn.
There was little point to calling for help. But his training had drilled into him the need to communicate.
His cheap looking dual SIM phone had a few features - a hidden application, a passcode to access it, and the ability to send text messages in some way that was not depending on Christian charity or long since deactivated public GSM networks.
He did not need to know how it worked. But he could send a message.
"Rodeo Gulch. Unit destroyed. Many killed. Killing continues. UNNAPID Moldavia Contingent PC Bogdan Munteanu."
It would attach his GPS coordinates, which would tell their own tale.
A swift reply. Surprising.
"California Control copies. Stay alive. Attempt to extract north or west. Enemy in disorganized company strength. If captured give your name again. Good luck. End message."
He shrugged while squatting. There was nothing they could do for him, and the little he had done for them to give warning.
His phone also had an offline mapping capability, but he could think of no easier way to get killed than to look at it while walking, except perhaps to call out to the Christian murderers looking for strays.
So he consulted it briefly to pick a direction, and start his walk.
It was cold, and drizzling. But he was in great health, much better than the refugees, so he had at least two days of hard travel in him before he would truly be able to call this suffering.
Some of his compatriots had mobile phone shaped flasks instead of mobile phones, to keep their vodka or other spirits in.
A swallow would be courage. Two or more would be rash foolishness. But no drink meant no temptation.
The important part was to not get killed. Then to move as swiftly as he dared in a straight line. No need to worry about trackers, this was not that kind of war. Not like pig dog Serbians chasing their sisters or Belgrade city Muslims terrified of their own shadows in the woods.
He had to harden his heart to these refugees. He could not help them. That was not why he was here anymore.
He was here to be elsewhere, as fast as his own two tracksuit wearing legs could carry him.
So he stretched one more time, and began.
