PEACEKEEPERS - PEACE, PART 1

PEACE, PART 1

NotThatSpecial

Jul 25, 2016

379

8 Mins Read

PART 1: PEACE

1993

TARLETON INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, TARLETON, UNITED KINGDOM of GREAT BRITONNIA

The Territorial Units stood side by side with their regular army counterparts at the waiting bay, their standard-issue camouflaged rucksacks and olive-drabbed gear and helmets standing next to and around them. In the distance, down over the tarmac, their FV501 ‘Warrior’ Infantry Fighting Vehicles could be seen being loaded up to C-130 Hercules, bearing markings of the United Kingdom’s 3 QUEENS, an abbreviation of the Briton 3rd Battalion, Queen’s Own Hussars. Apart from the drivers, the crew and the infantry supposed to be carried within these high-speed, high-mobility armoured war machines sat at the boarding room where international flight passengers usually treaded, waited, and listened to walkmen or talked to their loved ones waiting at the other side of the world.

Before entering the boarding room the soldiers passed a massed group of civilians; friends, family, lovers, to say goodbyes for this moment might be the last time they would see each other. Greeted by a group of friends, two soldiers stood – in such dashing stature, their chests seemingly buffed by their DPM uniforms – sharing a few last laughs and several sad remarks.

Rickie Kostopolous and John Farissey were good friends who shared the same class in unicersity, in which they were studying law, currently in their third year. As members of the Territorial Army, they volunteered to be called up as part of Operation LEONIDAS, the multinational peacekeeping mission called by the United Nations to maintain peace in the quote-on-quote genocidal, criminal, evil government of the Socialist Federal Republic of Ustovakia. In truth the conflict was at an amazingly confusing state, with three groups fighting each other for any reason possible, something Kostopolous and even Farrisey had trouble in understanding. Grim, horrible, terrorist actions have been conducted by all three side, with even the United Nations not fully comprehending the situation.

A bad call, according to the university-educated minds of the two law students, but something of a call of duty to serve their country and go through what many inexperienced thoughts tend to think as ‘exciting’: war. For Rickie, a big fan of history, military history in particular, it was a rightful passage from to manhood.

John switched hugs and a kiss with his girlfriend, while Rickie talked to his two best mates Bray and Ian. Bray was a part-time music producer currently taking classes in Audio Engineering, and also a hit disk-jockey with several local clubs in the UK’s capital of Tarleton. Ian, on the other hand, studied film and aspired to be a successful director one day. Rickie was sent off with a brotherly hug and a firm handshake from his two mates.

“You go get ‘em, alright, mate?” Bray said. “And you come back, don’t be a damned courageous cunt.”

“Yeah. It isn’t like in the movies and all that, Rickie.” Ian said. He wore a flat cap in checkers, his rather short but stocky body, paired with a thick beard and black plastic-framed glasses further enhanced his somewhat-sophistication. “Don’t get yourself killed, otherwise who’d lecture me on Greek philosophy on the drive home?”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Ian.” Rickie said with a grin. Rickie, like Ian, also wore glasses. Army-issue ray ban-styled, hard resistant glasses which, to him, was quite comfortable. Although, in many ways, he’d prefer not to wear them because they could be quite the fuss especially during the rain. “I’ll write home, lads.”

“You aren’t gonna write to that chick? What was her name? Joanna?” Bray asked.

“Joanna? Nah, mate. I don’t date every girl I meet at the club, unlike you, you wild bastard.” Rickie said.

A loud crispy voice could be heard. An officer was standing on a plastic seat, a speakerphone on his hands. The sleeves of his No. 8 temperate combat shirt rolled up, his navy blue beret slightly tilted, his cap badge rinsed and shining, he called onto the men who were still outside. “To men of Charlie Company 3 Queens you are duly expected at the boarding room immediately. Sorry for cutting your time with your mates and loved ones, but we’re shortly mounting you lads up and get you people flying twelve-hundred miles away to Ustovakia. Now, if you’d please, hurry up!”

“Heh. I guess that’s my call.” Rickie said. He picked up his two packs – one very large Bergen that seemed filled and tightly-packed, in which he set on the ground – and the other a black duffel bag. The other, smaller rucksack was worn on his back.

“Goodluck, mate.” Bray said, patting his shoulder.

“Yeah. Stay safe.” Said Ian.

Rickie offered a hand to Ian, which he gladly took, and when it came to Bray, he quickly crashed his heels in a 45-degree angle and gave him a mock salute. Rickie laughed at his friend’s gesture, and he dropped his duffel bag and gave a one-armed hug instead. He brought his things up, turned round, and marched, along with other identically-wearing, beret-headed troops, through the doorway.

Sitting down with Farissey on the sides of the packed boarding room, Farissey gave a final wave to his woman, who disappeared then amongst the crowd.

“A bit sad, isn’t it?”

“Quite.” John said. “I’m afraid I’m never going to see her again.”

“Who isn’t? Almost everyone’s here going to lose something. Even me.”

“You got that head of yours to lose, mate.” John Farissey laughed.

“I’m as precious as the man next to me, John.”

“You mean me? Oh very sweet of you.”

“No,” Rickie laughed. “You’re a tremendous guy, John, but that’s not what I meant. What I meant was that war takes a toll on everyone no matter who they are. People die. No matter how good we were brought up, how far we’ve gone in our career; when the first shots are fired… it don’t matter who we were. If it’s your time, your time.”

“Your stoicism appalls me.” Said John.

Then the speakerphone rang up again. It was the same officer who called them in. “Charlie Company 3 QUEENS ONYOURFEET!” he said.

“Here we go,” said Rickie. He put his beret on his head and stood up. He helped John go up, and before the two finished going on their feet proper, the officer said, “Follow Company Sergeant Major James who now holds a red flag. Godspeed to you all.”

“That’s us, I guess.” John said.

“Wonder where the major is.”

“Probably sitting in his luxury dining room on a flying limousine. Wouldn’t be surprised if he suddenly brings his own table and medium well steak aboard.”

“Always full of surprises, isn’t he?”

Going down the steps to the wide, plentiful take-off zones of Tarleton International, company-sized lines of men were organized could be seen, heading towards several Boeing jets (rented from civilian airliners) and C-130s in courtesy of the Royal Air Force and elements of other UN-affiliated air forces. In the background, a jumbo jet was taking off, its contents pretty much the same as the ones now on the ground. Several land rovers went back and forth, some bearing the white colours of the UN mission and some in UK Army green.

Luckily the men of B and C Coy were guided to a 747, which, by any luck, had female flight attendants waiting at the loading stairs.

“Oy, look! Girls!” said one of the young soldiers. A squad-sized group cheered like a batch of hooligans.

“Hey, hey Rickie, John,” somebody suddenly called them as they marched. He was running from the back of the line, but nobody cared as he had rank. On the buttons of his shirt a downwards chevron was struck, indicating his rank of lance corporal, and automatically, commander of Rickie and Jonesy’s fireteam. Lance Corporal Harold Jones, known often by the name ‘Jonesy’ by the men of his section, was a man with a bushy mustache that made him look much older than his twenty-two years. Previously a regular army bloke transitioning to the Territorials, not more than a month after his discharge he was given an assignment to be part of Op LEONIDAS. An order was an order, and since deployments excited him anyway in comparison to his idle day job helping out his family pub, he went. Jonesy, Rickie, John, and young Tate – a quiet lad who did plumbing work before – were Fireteam Bravo of 3 Section. Jonesy, who had slung his duffel bag across his chest, opened a pocket and offered some cigarettes.

“Last one before we takeoff from Albion, lads. Have a ciggie.”

“Ain’t chargin’ me for this, are you Jonesy?” asked John.

“Fuck that, give me one.” Said Rickie. He lit it up. John followed in. Tate didn’t smoke.

They were three-quarters through when they finally reached the stairway up the Boeing. They handed over their bergens – which were each named according to their owners – and went up the steps. They threw off their cigarettes before being greeted by two attendants – one a tall, blonde, blue-eyed Nord, the other a rather short but well-figured Oriental.

They took their seats, far in the middle, and sat down with the duffel bags on the overhead compartment, and the backpacks in their laps. Rickie was absurdly sleepy then, and, putting his glasses into his chest pocket, quickly put on earphones to his walkman and slept to some songs. The last thing he heard were the captain’s voice – which was thickly accented Briton – and Peter Cetera’s calming voice in If You Leave Me Now.

***

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PEACE, PART 2

NotThatSpecial

Jul 25, 2016

389

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The flight went for four hours. When Rickie woke up, they were already within what seemed to be the no-fly zone, as evidently while sitting next to the window, he saw a Sea Harrier flying about the Boeing’s right wing. John Farissey was firmly asleep, a newspaper from the Daily Mail set upon the flip-table in front of him.

Rickie put on his glasses and took it.

The front page was, not surprisingly, regarding the situation in Ustovakia. He was sure that half of the contents of the paper was filled with rather biased opinions on the matter, as other newspapers – including DM – usually were.

SITUATION IN USTOVAKIA GRIMMER DESPITE UN PRESENCE IN THE AREA. UN COMMANDER: WE NEED MORE MEN, FREEDOM OF ACTION, SITUATION NOT UNDER CONTROL.

12 April 1993

SFR Ustovakia had been going through civil war after two of its member states quit the federation in order to achieve what many western states take for granted–liberty and freedom. The Socialist Republics of Kastavina and Rumania, whose politicians were unhappy due to the current state of affairs within the Ustovak government, where the large majority of parliament and members of the Ustovak State Council, equivalent to the UK’s cabinet, were disproportionately filled with those with Raszkac nationalist backgrounds, giving an implication that Ustovakia was more and more a Raszkac superstate and not what their constitution meant: a federation that included equal rights for all citizens, no matter what background they came from. In the last several years, however, things have proven otherwise, as the Raszkac nationalists have since dominated Ustovak politics and unilaterally control the strongpoints of the Ustovakian Communist Party.

After the death of its iron-handed dictator Marshal Dario Jankovic in 1987, each of the four member states of SFR Ustovakia began to express their long-pressed desires of nationalism, which instead of promoting social unity and harmony after the late dictator’s totalitarian reign, began to tear the communist state apart. Unable to let disunity to ruin what they have achieved so far, under orders of (Communist party secretary-general and president of Raszka) Nikolai Mihailovic, the Ustovak Federal Army invaded the two seceding states. Due to a large minority of Raszkac nationals in both Rumania and Turk-dominated Kastavina, the war has dragged on not only to conventional Ustovak forces but also paramilitaries under the payroll of the communist government. With the lack of a professional army (aside from defecting Ustovak forces), the two seceding countries–deemed as ‘rebels’ and ‘insurgents’ by the Ustovak government–managed to gather a rag tag militia force who were quickly routed by the well-equipped, well-trained federal army.

Due to the nationalist and ethnically-composed nature of both the Rumanian and the ‘Turk’ Kastav army, clashes between the two were just as common as those between them and the Ustovak forces. The highly-volatile situation not only is a political conflict, but also an ethnical, and racial one.

War crimes conducted by all three sides are not far in between. The Srvikska valley massacre–conducted by Raszkac nationalists to a village of Kastav Turks–and the shelling of the city of Karsyna which claimed the lives of thousands of Rumanian civilians are just two among a dozen others.

Despite the UNPROFOR–an acronym for the United Nations Protection Force–mandate being given last year, progress to assist civilians in facing humanitarian concerns remains at almost the same levels as those before UNPROFOR arrived. The commander of UNPROFOR, US Army General Mark F. Wright has stated in a recent interview that ‘We need more men, we need more supplies, we need more freedom in our actions. We cannot halt the crimes conducted here unless the politicians stop holding us back.

‘Unless the politicians know what the hell is happening down here, we can never help solve this conflict. By any means, as we speak, the UN does not have the situation under control. The situation is absolutely out of hand.’ Said the general, who has served a long and decorated career in the United States Army.

The War in Ustovakia between the three countries – or more correctly, the three nations – has gone on for the last four years, with no end in sight. Whatever the UN has to do is to listen to what the men on the ground think if they wish to serve their purpose: give resolution to conflict.

Apparently, indecisive action costs lives, which is what is currently taking place in Ustovakia and areas that were formerly ‘Ustovakia’, even as we speak.

Gareth McGuiness for the Daily Mail.

“You’ve read it?” John suddenly said to Rickie, who was quite deeply indulged into the article.

“The Daily Mail makes a good case. They usually post overexaggerated crap.”

“Much like the University Press?”

“Screw you, mate.” Rickie said, a grin on his face. He was a regular contributor to Hartford University Press as a columnist, where he often wrote his opinions on current issues. Rickie aspired to become a writer one day, and spent his spare time writing stories.

The overhead speaker then crackled. The captain’s voice came in. “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We are due five minutes to touchdown at Ioanescu Airport. The weather is a calm westerly wind and slight rain on the tarmac. Please remain seated until we have firmly landed. Thank you.”

They landed not much later. It was sundown when they arrived.

Upon touching the tarmac the troops were handed over their bergens and quickly mounted up on trucks, with exception of the Warrior crews, who had to wait for about another hour until their Warriors were unloaded. The infantry, including Rickie, John, Tate, and Jonesy, were driven into the armoury at the ‘Green Zone’–an area cleared of hostilities, where many UN checkpoints were built, occupied by machinegun nests, men and whatnot.

It did not seem like a peacekeeping mission; instead, it seemed like UNPROFOR was at war, with an ‘enemy’–a term which, due to the shady tangled political situation of the country, was dubious at best. Politically correct, there was not supposed to be an enemy. The UN served as a neutral force even in such confusing situations, but the fighting sides did not care very much. Ever since the start of UNPROFOR, 24 UN troops from various nationalities had been killed in action either being stuck in the crossfire or even under direct contact itself. The Rumanians, the Raszkac, and the Kastav Turks did not care.

And UN troops should not care either.

5 Platoon, in which the four were member of, was the head truck, arriving first at the armoury before the others, who trailed a short distance behind. Guided by some Royal Ordinance NCOs, the infantrymen went in line and received their weapons.

The Enfield Small-Arms 80 – officially the L85 – was at first a faulty gun that couldn’t work well – let alone fire accurately – in dusty or snowy conditions. It was the absolute bane of an infantryman, being unreliable, heavy, and inaccurate. However, after Enfield made a contract with some Elmic developers at Heckler & Koch, thousands of L85 rifles were quickly fixed up and eventually ended up as one of the most accurate and reliable rifles in the world. Its weight, however, remained an issue.

The L85 was a decent platform, and the men, much to their apparent dismay at not being handed the L1A1 Self-Loading Rifle which was the mainstay standard-issue weapon for the last forty years–famous for its rugged reliability and endurance–were issued with the newer rifles. Shorter, smaller, but at the same weight, they were first given the H&K ‘refurbished and reconditioned’ rifles. Going to the next counter, each man was assigned seven magazines–six in pouches, one on the rifle. Next, they collected their grenades, each man having two fragmentation grenades and one smoke grenade. The last one were the hefty flak jackets, which had a reputation of being pretty much useless; especially when faced with rifle fire.

Humping their newly-given weapons and ammunition, the soldiers went back up the trucks to a destination only the officers knew. The half-a-dozen 5-ton trucks rolled through an outposts, and were met by two US Army Humvees. One rode on the head and the other on the rear. On the empty roadsides they saw Arborican soldiers and some of other nationalities patrolling the streets. Their paths were lit by a few still-active streetlights, but most of the illumination came from burning oil drums.

They rode out of town, to a somewhat secluded outpost located at the edges of a forest, overseeing one of the main cross-country roads made by the Ustovak government years ago. The road was plagued with holes and the signs had all seen better days. Untold numbers of craters made by artillery, and flagged areas filled with mines dotted the countryside. It was legitimate: they were in a war zone, but they were not fighting a war.

The outpost was dubbed Camp Camelot. When they arrived, there was a soldier in full gear changing the sign from US 27th INFANTRY to 3 QUEEN’S OWN HUSSARS. A new flag–the flag of the United Kingdom–was flown atop the flagpole in the middle. The perimeter was armed to the teeth. Tired eyes watched from the makeshift bunkers, and peered from the watchtowers as the ‘new boys’ arrived – not that the current inhabitants were no more than a few hours ‘older’.

They dismounted from their trucks. NCOs barked orders, bringing the troops to their lodgings–‘lodging’ being an understatement, as where they lived were a set of long tents with rubber mattresses. Souvenirs from their US Army predecessors were all over the places. A leftover poster of a baseball team–in which Rickie and the rest didn’t want the trouble to understand, a wicked game so distant from the UK’s football culture–was left hanging on the woodwork. Several vulgar images of naked women and penises drawn by the US soldiers littered one part of the wall.

“The Arboricans love to leave marks for us, don’t they?” said Jonesy. The others looked in either a comic or annoyed fashion. Jonesy turned around. “Well come on, lads, let’s set up.”

Rickie and John’s beds were next to each other. They put their duffel bags and bergens on the wooden floors, and laid down after five hours of constant sitting. Then, just a moment later, a man shouted at the edge of the tent, near the entrance. “TOOON… SHUN!”

The men quickly went off what they were previously doing, and went to the side of their beds, or wherever they were before, standing with heels meeting at a forty-five degree angle, hands firmly on the sides, back straight, eyes front. A few seconds passed. “At ease,” a young, assured voice came from the same direction.

“Relax, lads. Nothing to be so paradely about around here.” Said the lieutenant, who spoke in clean RP. Public-school educated Lieutenant Jonatan C. Pedersen, the young commander of 5 Platoon walked into the room with Sergeant Cowden trailing behind him. Pedersen came from Hrasvelg, the continental half of the UK, which by any weird coincidence, was apparently unified by having the same monarch after a marriage between the two royal families many centuries ago.

Due to his laid-back attitude the men appreciated Pedersen, who, like most of 5 Platoon, were Territorial Army soldiers. Reservists. Sergeant Cowden, a hard-as-nails, tough and stiff regular, was responsible to put these men back to fighting status, and due to their excellence despite being a reserve unit, 5 Platoon– nicknamed the ‘Backwaters’ due to them being reservists–were chosen to be deployed to Ustovakia.

“Listen up, lads. I came here to notify you that we will hold a platoon briefing tomorrow morning at 0800 Hours. Tonight I want you all to get some decent sleep. Hot water is available at the Mess Hall for twenty-four hours. You can find the showers by following the signs. Any further questions regarding regulations and all that can be addressed to Sergeant Cowden. That clear?”

“Sir yes sir!” the men replied.

“Splendid. Now, as you were. If you need me I will be at my quarters. Goodnight, lads.”

The lads replied in unison. “G’night, sir!”

The room’s bustle resumed as the lieutenant exited the room. Rickie went back on his bed but ended up going back up again to set up his ‘crib’. He noticed there were a pair of nails set upon the woodwork behind him. He took his rifle and set it there, nicely and steadily. His webbing gear was set near his three-day pack. He pulled on a woolen sweater, army-issue, and lied down. He slept again, not even having the trouble to remember taking his glasses off.

***

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PEACE, PART 3

NotThatSpecial

Jul 25, 2016

355

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The platoon sat across a small room where a projector lazed on a board. It had maps regarding the current situation in the volatile Traianu valley, which was a cross-section between Raszckac nationalist paramilitaries (backed by several thousand Ustovak units), Rumanian militia, and Kastav Turks. Not more than 10 miles north is the infamous Srkviska Valley where, not long ago, a whole village of three hundred were massacred – women, children, and elderly included – by a Raszckac paramilitary group known as the ‘Black Hand’. Ethnic tension was exceedingly high even before the breakup of Ustovakia, and now anyone – innocent or not – may find themselves at the receiving end of a gun one way or another.

Lieutenant Pedersen explained quite clearly their mission, while with the assistance of Lieutenant Charlotte Faye of 7 Military Intelligence – a Hrasvelgr brunette with a straight nose, blue eyes, and a slim figure – handed out small sheets of paper regarding the R.O.E.

Rickie, wearing a DPM para-smock and having his weapon slung behind him, read the sheet containing the Rules of Engagement.

UNITED NATIONS PROTECTION FORCE – USTOVAKIA and FORMER TERRITORIES

RULES OF ENGAGEMENT

AUTHORISED BY THE UNITED NATIONS AND HM MINISTRY OF DEFENCE

NOTHING IN THESE RULES OF ENGAGEMENT LIMITS YOUR RIGHTS TO TAKE APPROPRIATE ACTION TO DEFEND YOURSELF AND YOUR UNIT

YOU HAVE THE RIGHT TO USE FORCE TO DEFEND YOURSELF AGAINST ATTACKS/OFFENSIVE ACTIONS CONDUCTED BY FORCES IN OPPOSITION TO YOU DECLARED or UNDECLARED

HOSTILE FIRE MAY BE RETURNED AND PROMPTLY TO STOP A HOSTILE ACT

WHEN UNPROFOR FORCES ARE ATTACKED BY UNARMED ELEMENTS, MOBS AND/OR RIOTERS, UN PROTECTION FORCES ARE TO USE THE MINIMUM FORCE NECESSARY UNDER THE CIRCUMSTANCES AND PROPORTIONAL TO SAID THREAT

YOU MAY NOT SEIZE PROPERTIES OF OTHERS TO SUCCEED YOUR MISSION (HOUSES, BUILDINGS, OR LAND) UNLESS OTHERWISE NECESSARY

DETENTION OF CIVILIANS IS NOT AUTHORIZED (UNLESS APPROVED BY THE HIGHEST AUTHORITY) FOR SECURITY REASONS OR IN SELF-DEFENCE

REMEMBER

THE UNITED KINGDOM IS NOT AT WAR

TREAT ALL PERSONS WITH DIGNITY AND RESPECT

USE MINIMUM FORCE TO CARRY OUT MISSIONS

ALWAYS BE PREPARED TO ACT IN SELF-DEFENCE

“This is bollocks,” Jonesy said. “We can’t detain who we think appropriate? I thought we were the UN?”

“We are the UN, Lance Corporal Jones. That’s what the UN does, being a bit useless.” Said Lt. Pedersen. The room laughed. Lieutenant Faye had a slight smirk on her face.

John noticed her expression and quickly looked to Rickie, who noticed it as well.

“Anyway, the situation is quite dire and our desperation and underhandedness is reflected by what General Wright said, if you all read the papers. Out of hand. This war is not only between the three sides but also between the militaries and the innocent civilian. That is where our job lies.”

“But, sir,” Rickie suddenly said. “How are we supposed to save civilians if we can’t detain who we see as suspicious, or, we know have done wrong?”

“I wish I could give you a solution, but it seems we have our hands a bit tied here. Either way, we’re rolling out for our first patrol down to a village just south of here, called Soroca. They’re on the edge of the hostilities and MI suggests that we set up a perimeter and socialize with the locals a bit. Remember. We’re not at war. Don’t act like these people might harbour the enemy. They’re just civilians, and we’re here to help them. Lieutenant Faye will explain the rest.”

Lieutenant Pedersen took a seat and sat with his arms crossed, sipping a bottle of water while trading words with Sergeant Cowden. Faye took the stage like a TV show host.

“So today you will be heading off to Socora for operations. I will remind you that this mission is not a military operation, we are here to conduct humanitarian operations. To win hearts and minds, to show these people that we are here to help and not intervene in their wars. I would highly suggest that we do not use helmets and carry as much gear as we usually do, instead, we should go with berets…”

She then explained how important it was to smile and say hi and it didn’t matter if they didn’t understand. What mattered was, according to Faye, that the soldiers must be seen being there with good intentions, that they are not ‘the same’ with the others: the Ustovak military, the Raszkac paramilitaries, the Rumanian ‘soldiers’, nor the Kastav troops. It was vital that they act like men of honour – as if it was not synonymous with soldiering – and be welcoming to the people of Socora, who had seen war enough for several lifetimes.

Rickie then raised a hand when she offered question time. “Excuse me, lieutenant, ma’am, why do you say as if soldiering not as identical with men of honour?”

“Ah, you’re a smart one, aren’t you, whatsyourname?”

“Kostaspolous.”

“Kostaspolous. Well, alright, Kostaspolous, maybe that’s how you see it, how we see it. But for them? Soldiers and soldiering are criminals and crime. They murder, steal, and massacre. They are evil things. They’ve seen too much of that, so please, bear mind.”

The men were dismissed with a bit of confusion regarding their tasks. What were they actually here for? Send off food, with their weapons as deterrent, and that was it? They would ride around in their large iron, diesel-powered wagons of war and act as targets for the enemy? It was a bit unsettling for the newer boys, who were accustomed to aggressive, old-style, infantry warfare. The older ones, and the regular ones, alongside the Territorials who had volunteered beforehand, had conducted counterinsurgency operations in the past during the chaos in Northern Eire a couple years back. However, still, the ROE that UNPROFOR did not have the power to arrest civilians or hostile forces was unsettling. It made some of the men uncomfortable. However, the discomfort caused by having their hands tied behind their backs had not truly begun until later on.

At 1500 Hours the sky was a bit grim with a cold gray backdrop and little sunlight, not something people would imagine as an April spring. The flowers had died along with all hopes of the people for peace, and the trees, the greenness, the peace, the comfort it brought, had all gone with the innocence and healthy mind of the country’s children. Schools closed, parks were bombarded, shopping centres were now city strongholds, and open football fields now training grounds for the untrained youth to fight lawless wars.

The white-painted Warrior IFVs were switched on. Pedersen sat at the command vehicle along with Sergeant Cowden, a team of machinegunners, and mortarmen. 3 Section were seated at the head vehicle, all eight fitting into the cramped hull of the Warrior.

Corporal Matthew Galbraith – often called only by ‘Matt’ if not referred as Corporal Galbraith by the younger lads – was the commander of 3 Section. Before being mobilized he dealt business in Albany, in Northern Albion. He was much older than the rest of the lads, being thirty, and had been in the Territorials for twelve years. This was his third time being deployed.

Before setting off on their first mission, Lieutenant Pedersen went to the back of each Warrior to send the lads off. Then once it was all clear and the ‘go’ was given, he went into his command vehicle and the troop set off into the now-colourless countryside. It was all white from inside the tight confines of the Warrior, and the men – wearing windproof smocks and berets instead of helmets – had their weapons between their legs. Some tried to get some sleep.

“First action, eh, Rickie?” asked Matt.

“Yeah, corporal.”

“How is it?”

“How is what?”

“You know, combat.” Said Rickie.

Matt grinned. “Depends whether you’re winning or losing.”

The section laughed. Most of them were new: Tate, Rickie, John, and the boys from FT Alpha. Jonesy and Matt weren’t new. They’d been there. They’ve done it, probably: the act of killing.

After a short 30 minute ride the Warrior stopped. Matt opened the rear hatch. There was a rush. The eight soldiers quickly secured their surroundings, as their training dictated. However, when Rickie set his knees on the ground and put the butt of rifle on his shoulder, he saw that he had a child in his sights. They were already in town. A few women went out of their homes to see the dashing, smart, and tough-looking Britons in berets and tanks. Rickie noticed a few… absurd looks from the villagers. Like they were captives trying to pretend they were happy. Perhaps it was just the war. He was sure something more was going on in this village.

“Stand down, lads, stand down.” Said Matt. “Hearts and minds, lads, remember.”

“You buy into that shit, Matt? A couple of weeks ago one of our Warriors got thrashed.” Jonesy said. “Roadside bomb.”

“Act nice but keep your heads up. You never know.”

Alongside the four Warriors came two UN-marked 5-ton trucks. The soldiers aboard handed over boxes of supplies to the villagers who were now too afraid to plow their lands and too afraid to buy things from other villages in fear of ambushes by paramilitaries – from all three sides.

Matt went on his feet. He looked at the trucks. “Alright, boys, let’s go help these people.”

“I can’t believe it.” Said Jonesy. He sighed. “Alright, you heard the corp. Rickie, John, make yourself useful.”

“Roger.” Said Rickie. He walked over to the truck. John followed in. They passed over the boxes from the Royal Logistics Corps blokes on the trucks over to the mass of villagers. The kids were skinny, and the old women looked frail and weak.

Several militiamen came over, wearing camouflage and white armbands. Sensing danger, Rickie quickly put his box on the ground, went out of formation, and lifted his rifle towards the group of armed paramilitaries. The group of villagers quickly went silent. Those who’d receive boxes scrammed. “Step back! Step back or we’ll shoot!”

They lifted their weapons as well, but the one at the front, a skinny, crook-nosed, balding man in his late 40s with a black goatee raised his arms. Lieutenant Pedersen quickly headed to the spot of confrontation, bringing in his interpreter.

“They are village militia. They protect this village.” Said the interpreter in heavily accented Briton.

“So are they the good guys or bad guys?”

“From what they say they are good, but I don’t know.”

“They could be damned bullies as far as I’m concerned, boss.” Said Rickie.

“Can you tell them to not disturb the food delivering process?” said Pedersen.

“OK. I will tell them.” The terp said. He relayed his message. They replied in Rumanian. “Why? They’re asking.”

“We cannot take the risk of… of having hostiles nearby.”

He relayed his words. The man with the goatee then came back at him. “Hostiles? We have not shot you. You are not our enemy. We protect this village.”

“Well I don’t know that and I’m never going to be sure of that, am I?”

The man with the goatee spit on the asphalt, landing not far from the lieutenant’s feet. Matt then came over. “There a problem, sir?”

The man said something in Rumanian again. The terp translated. “You have no right to be here, he says.”

“A slight one.” Said the lieutenant.

“Tell him to fuck off, sir.” Rickie said. “He ain’t no Rumanian. Fuckin’ Raszkac he is. Saw it in the news.”

“Ilya, tell him to fuck off.”

“Sir?” the interpreter said confusedly.

The man then laughed upon hearing the lieutenant’s words. He seemed to understand the swearword. “Fuck off?” he laughed, then his men laughed, like a bunch of gangsters. “Fuck off?”

“Corporal Galbraith, get Sergeant Cowden to form a perimeter. These bastards might have shooters on us.”

“Roger, sir.” He said and dashed away.

The man with a goatee then ranted in Rumanian, apparently bringing forth an argument that the lieutenant had no interest to hear. At the end of the rant he started to look a bit mad – as in crazy – and waved his Kalashnikov about. His men still raised their guns towards the two soldiers. The RLC truckers had also dismounted and took cover behind their trucks, weapons pointed at the group of bandits.

The civilians ran away.

Rickie took his safety off and switched to the full-auto mode on the selective fire system. John, who was lying under the truck, had his sights firmly struck on the man with the goatee. Then it happened. One of the men from their side opened fire, shooting at civilians. Rickie’s trigger finger was faster than any of the paramilitaries. On full-auto, he sprayed his heavy weapon on the men in front of him. He took three down before they fired a shot, and John and the other truckers finished the rest. Two of them managed to escape the guillotine and quickly took cover. They sprayed their Kalashnikovs, blind-firing, hitting civilians. The terp was shot through the flak vest. Before turning to cover, Rickie and Pedersen grabbed him by the collar and dragged him behind the truck. John was laying down a steady rate of fire from his position, and so were the two truckers.

Sporadic fire came from around the town. The Warriors mobilized. An RPG was launched, swirling in the air, then hitting the thicker frontal armor of one of the IFVs. Then another one was launched, hitting the engine, setting it afire. The crew commander and gunner quickly exited the burning vehicle; the driver was dead when fragments of the anti-tank rocket hit him right in the face. The Warriors started withdrawing to open ground. The infantrymen took cover, peeking over cover, setting up positions, realizing that they had messed with the ‘wrong’ village. Intel was bad. The village was no neutral zone. It had been taken over by a paramilitary force, allegiance unknown.

The terp then realized: “These are no Rumanians…” he said as a medic patched him up. “Listen. The commands… They’re speaking Raszkac. Damned pigs!”

The Warriors were withdrawing, pulling back. The fire from the head vehicle could be seen from where they stood, and the crew–dressed in blue UN helmets–were running away finding cover. Sergeant Cowden led the withdrawal from the other side, with the Warriors laying down fire with their guns and the infantrymen following in to withdraw down the street.

Lieutenant Faye came dashing in. She carried a pistol. Fire was going wildly around them. “Whatthefuckhappened, Pedersen?”

“Well, it is what it seems.”

“They shot first, I could testify.” Said Rickie.

“I will need a full report when we go back to base.” Said Faye.

“You can put a full report in your bloody arsehole, Faye, now start shooting!” said Pedersen.

Then Rickie figured out quite a clever move. The enemy was firmly pinned behind cover but had nowhere to move. If he could get close enough to lob a grenade, it would finish them.

“Boss, keep the fire up. Cover me!” Rickie said, and he quickly dashed across the line of fire, putting one foot in front of another, then ducked under a dumpster. Now, the enemy was less than twenty meters away. He could manage lobbing a grenade at twenty meters. He slung his weapon over his chest and pulled one grenade from his webbing. He peeked slightly to make sure the direction was correct. He then took the pin off and let it cook for a second, then lobbed it over.

A few seconds later there was an explosion. Their fire stopped, however, sporadic fire from the village continued, but only for a few moments. Cannons from the Warriors fired at a church tower, which fell down. The firing stopped for real now. The soldiers let the smoke clear out, and after a minute of silence, they decided to disengage.

“Christ.” Said John, who had emerged from below the truck. “What a first fucking day.”

On the other side of the formation, Jonesy was going back and forth carrying wounded civilians to the trucks. The platoon’s resident medical specialist, Alley, a woman, quickly rushed to their aid. The two crewmen managed to pull out the dead driver out of the burning tank. Tate looked confused and went around offering what help he could give.

Rickie emerged from cover. He held his rifle with one hand, the weight dealing with the rest. He first looked back: the civilians. He could count more than a dozen dead. The man must’ve poured down his entire magazine down range. The villagers were tightly packed when they scrammed, and it was a matter of hosing down. A child cried over his mother’s body, while a young woman tried to revive her dead friend. A frail old lady looked confused, and instead cried, as she looked upon the horror. She went on her knees and cried out some words.

The wounded terp, who’d been patched up, was asked by Lieutenant Pedersen what it meant.

“No more, she says. No more killing. No more.”

***

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PEACE, PART 4

NotThatSpecial

Jul 28, 2016

391

13 Mins Read

With the village of Socora secured, a temporary defensive perimeter was erected to keep out any curious forces from entering the newly-gained village. The UN Warrior crews took their blue helmet covers off, taking its place the factory-stock colour of the Mk. 6 helmet of olive drab. Ammunition was checked, guards were organized, and the civilians were, with the help of the interpreter, told to stay in their homes. Not long later, nightfall came, and void of night vision equipment, the men of 5 Platoon were doomed to the isolated feeling of manning nighttime outposts. The only night vision equipment came from the Warriors, and accordingly, they were put at the edges of the small village to detect incoming personnel, however their vision was only limited to the thick tree lines and the nearby hills. They were blind 500 meters onwards.

Lieutenant Pedersen sat atop his command Warrior IFV, manning the long range radio. Every hour, Pedersen checked in with Camelot, who were also shorthanded with men. Desperate pleas for reinforcements were made, and Major Warwick, who presided over Charlie Company’s operations within the Traianu Valley Area, had forwarded Pedersen’s request countless times up the chain of command with little effect. Not even reconnaissance aircraft or helicopters could be sent in fear of nullifying UNPROFOR’s neutrality by sending in combat aircraft.

The only help that came were a couple of US Army Humvees that brought along an ambulance truck to evacuate the wounded villagers. They had long since left along with the RLC trucks, leaving some boxes of ammunition behind to help out the undersupplied platoon. The terp, Ilya, was also evacuated due to his wounds. In turn, a few Briton-speaking villagers took his place. One of the more prominent ones was Mr. Andrescu, who quickly approached Pedersen and offered him his servies.

The remains of the dead Warrior crewman was also evacuated, with the rest of the crew escorting the body. The dead carcass of the Warrior IFV laid silent in the streets of the small village, its fire long blown away.

Pedersen, headphones around his beret, contacted Camelot once more for orders. “Let’s try again,” he said.

“It’ll probably end up the same, sir.” Said Sergeant Cowden, who stood with his arms folded over his chest, his SA80 slung around his back.

“Nothing wrong in hoping, is there, sergeant?” the lieutenant said. He dialed in. “Camelot, Camelot, this is Hunter Five Zero. How copy, over?”

“Solid copy, Hunter Five Zero. What’s the situation, over?”

“Camelot, this is Hunter Five-Zero. It’s a bit calm over here and the villagers seem content. No contact with hostile forces so far, but with nightfall coming we’re expecting them to take positions around the village. Break. We’re requesting assistance of any kind to identify the position of possibly hostile forces. We’re quite shorthanded and unable to send patrols due to nightfall. How copy, over?”

“Good copy, Hunter Five Zero. We’ll enquire with the chain of command and notify you as soon as we receive their reply. Over.”

“Roger that, cheers. We’re out in the blind here and we will be very grateful of any kind of assistance. Over.”

“Roger, Five Zero. Out.”

Cowden looked at the lieutenant, rather unimpressed with the dialogue he and the major had. “Any good, sir?”

“Negative. Same as before. Fucking shit.”

The sergeant lit a cigarette. “I’ll take over for a while. Don’t you have a dinner to attend?”

Earlier, for ‘saving’ the village, one of the few men left, Mister Andrescu, invited both Lieutenants Pedersen and Faye over to his home for dinner. Surprisingly, he was doing quite well for himself, still having a whole house, three children, and a considerably young and healthy wife. Pedersen admired how Andrescu could keep his family together even at times like these.

“Of course.” Said Pedersen. He took off his headphones and put it over the Warrior. He jumped down the white-painted, UN-marked vehicle, and rifle in hand, headed into the village. “You know which house it is, right? As soon as the major sends some traffic send someone over to catch me.”

“Roger, boss. Good luck.”

“I’ll make sure to bring you something, sergeant.”

“Ah, no need, sir. I’m full.”

“Alright, then.” Adjusting his beret, the lieutenant gave a nod to Cowden and turned around.

The house was a simple one. Apparently before the war, Andrescu ran a butchery business just next to his home. Now, since there was no more meat to cut and cook, they were inclined to use what leftover salted fish and vegetables they had within their refrigerator to serve their benevolent guests. Half of them were supplied by the UN.

Upon reaching the simple house, Pedersen was met by Lieutenant Charlotte Faye and two others that Pedersen had selected to attend the dinner. Private Rickie Kostopolous stood outside, smoking a cigarette with his left hand and holding his rifle with his right, switching a conversation with Lance-corporal Alley Williams RAMC, the platoon’s resident medic. In the civilian world, Williams, like Rickie, was a student. The two are members of their university’s student regiments and volunteered for deployment. Williams, who was trained as an Army Medic and initially assigned to 421 Field Hospital Company (TA) was handed over by her commander over to 3 Queens and eventually 5 Platoon, explaining why she was in Socora at the first place.

They were undergoing a decent conversation until Pedersen arrived.

“Sorry, had to knock up Camelot one last time to make sure they weren’t actually going to help us.” Pedersen said.

“So? Are we still going to be trapped here, boss?” asked Rickie.

“We’re not trapped, we’re just surrounded by probably half a dozen of paramilitary bases who are most likely fighting each other for control of this town. We have the unfortunate fate of being in the middle of it all.”

“Isn’t that the same thing, sir?” asked Rickie.

The lieutenant held in a chuckle, showing a smile. “Let’s get in, then.”

“We’re terribly late.” Said Faye. She and Pedersen went upon the house’s door, and Pedersen gave three knocks. The door opened not much later, Mr. Andrescu’s wife being the one greeting them. She was a red-haired woman in her mid-40s. Her hair was cut at the neck, and, although looking slightly old, Pedersen could see how she looked like when she was young. War seemed to bring a toll on her cheerful face, as dark pockets existed under her clear brown eyes.

“Oh!” she said. “Lieutenant Pedersen. Please, please come in.” She spoke good Briton, and the four soldiers were thankful for that.

The four entered the house carrying weapons and in combat gear. The soldiers feared that it would make the home’s residents feel they were invaded, but Mr. and Ms. Andrescu greeted them with wide smiles and a table filled with local delicacies. Their three children, two girls and a small boy, all seemingly being younger than twelve, lined up to meet them.

“Thank you, Mr. Andrescu, for inviting us to your home. We don’t deserve it, really.”

“The Black Handers tried to wrestle this village from us and took a lot of things from us a couple days before you came, and thought Socora to be theirs. Thanks to you, they’re out of here now. But they may return, and with a lot more guns.”

“The Black Hand?” asked Pedersen.

“Yes.”

“The ones in the news?” Rickie asked. Pedersen gave a look at him, noticing that he was speaking slightly out of turn.

“Yes, the Black Hands.”

The Black Hand was the notorious armed wing of the Raszkac Nationalist Party and had been involved in the atrocities committed in the Srvikska Valley just a couple weeks earlier. They were not only known for their cold-blooded nature, but also for their reputation of being pillagers, bandits, but most importantly, competent, high-morale combat troops that had never lost a pitched battle even against the pseudo-professional Rumanian military.

A spell of silence came in. Faye was surprised that the men they met today were Black Handers. She expected them to be more competent than a throwaway band of brigands like they were earlier. Rickie, on the other hand, became a bit prouder for his actions, knowing that the bastards he killed weren’t the best people around.

Each of the soldiers shook hands with Mr. and Ms. Andrescu, followed by the three children. When it was Rickie’s turn, Mr. Andrescu gave him a firm and long handshake, while also looking him in the eye. “You must be the one who saw them coming at first. Kostopoulos, is it? A Helen?”

“My grandparents were. I’m through and through Brit, sir.”

“Thank you for what you did today.”

“Just doing my job, sir.” Rickie said coldly. “It was me or them. I could’ve been faster and shot them at first sight… if I did, today’s bloodshed could’ve been prevented.”

“No. You did your duty. Now come, my children think you’re superman.”

He introduced them to his three children. Anna, Ivan, and Alexander. They were eleven, nine, and six respectively, with Alexander saying something about him when Rickie shook his hand.

“What’d he say?” Rickie said, as he grinned, happy seeing these children still being ‘children’, despite the grimness of the overall situation around them.

“He reminds him of his older brother.” Said Mr. Andrescu.

“You have an elder son?”

“He was in the army and defected to be one of the first NCOs in the Rumanian Army. Unfortunately he was killed last year in an ambush near the Kastav border.”

“My condolences, sir.” Said Rickie. “I’m sorry to have asked-“

“No, no- it is absolutely fine. Having a good reminder of him makes me glad, now, please sit down and eat while the fish is still warm!”

They did. They shared a few laughs, and Andrescu told them about his sprawling butchery and farming business in the days before the war. He talked about them with a long-lost pride, and admitted that, although Dario Jankovic wasn’t the best leader, he did–although not morally–the right things to prevent events such as the War from happening. Mr. Andrescu had friends and family on all three sides of the war, and, because of that, he decided that taking part in a conflict that had needlessly taken so many lives and wage suffering on not only the fighting men but also the innocent, was utterly pointless.

“Besides, I would leave my family! And these children matter the world to me.” He said with a glad, fatherly smile. “What about any of you?”

“Of us what, Mr. Andrescu?” Asked Pedersen. His black hair was revealed now, having slipped his beret into the shoulder straps of his camouflage jacket.

“Have you had a family, lieutenant?”

“Oh, no. I’m not married, but I could say I have someone waiting for me back home.”

Mr. Andrescu laughed. “Ah, a bit of a romantic, aren’t you?”

“Should check the lieutenant’s drawer, Mr. Andrescu,” said Rickie, as he munched on the fish. He drank down his glass of water to clear it away. “There aren’t only letters in them!”

The table, except for the three children, shared a good amount of laughter.

“What about you, Kostopolous? Have anybody home?”

“Some friends. But you know, sir, haven’t found the right one yet. I’m still in school, anyway.”

“In school? Interesting. Which school specifically, perhaps?”

“The Unviersity of Greater Albion, sir.”

“Greater Albion! You must be very smart!” his wife said. UGA was one of the most selective, top-of-the-line academic institutions in the world. Subsidized by government incentives, now people like Rickie – who came from a middle class family – could go there without paying hefty fees like they had to years ago.

“Oh, please, miss, just got a bit lucky that’s all.”

“What are you studying, then?” asked Mr. Andrescu.

“Law, sir.”

“Splendid. All of you are well-educated people. It is very fortunate that the UK has that kind of thing; here, it’s either you believe in Marx or you get shot. Ustovaks don’t really get the chance to think outside the box like you Britons…”

“We’re trying to have our part in making a difference, Mr. Andrescu.” Said Charlotte Faye. The children couldn’t stop looking at her. She was tall, blue eyed, and pretty, but most importantly, to the kids, that she was blonde. Blondes are held in high regard in Ustovakia.

Before Mr. Andrescu could ask Faye a question, there was a banging on the door, and there was a sense of urgency to it.

“I’ll get it.” Rickie said. He picked up his rifle and headed to the door. He opened it only to find Sergeant Cowden on the other side.

“Where’s the lef-tenant?”

“Inside, sergeant.”

“Get him. Fucking quickly. Camelot’s on the line.”

Rickie ran back to the dining room. All eyes were on him. “Boss, Major Warwick is on the line. Sergeant Cowden needs you immediately.”

“Damned.” He went on his feet and put his beret on. “Sorry to be abrupt, Mr. Andrescu, but I have an urgency I must attend to. I cannot thank you more.”

“My pleasure, lieutenant.” Andrescu too, had risen from his seat.

The lieutenant half-jogged out of the house, and upon meeting Sergeant Cowden, quickly ran towards his command Warrior. The major was still on the line.

“Camelot, this is Hunter Five-Zero. Any news, sir?”

“Hunter Five Zero, this is Camelot. Direct order from the top of the chain. You are to withdraw upon sunrise. I say again, you are to withdraw upon sunrise. How copy?”

“Solid, sir, but may I ask why? Over.”

“Lieutenant, I’ve ringed Battalion HQ and Battalion HQ has ringed to UK Forces Command UNPROFOR and them to the big bosses on the top of the ring. That’s enough reason for you to get out of there. Is that understood? Over.”

A pause came from the lieutenant. It was between anger, disappointment, and outrage; if they left tomorrow, the paramilitaries would come here again and possibly act in retaliation. Charlie Coy of the 3rd Battalion The Queen’s Own Hussars were officially an enemy of the Black Hand, and everyone knew what the Black Hand did to their enemies – or those who supported them.

“Can you repeat that order, sir?”

“Jonatan, get the hell out of there. I will not have myself repeat that another time. Are we clear?”

“Certainly, sir. Over.”

“Good. Camelot out.”

Pedersen threw the headset away. He swore.

“What happened, sir? Any help coming?” Asked Cowden.

“They want us to leave next morning.”

“With all due respect, sir, but that’s bollocks!”

“The major didn’t seem to like it either. But we don’t have a choice. It came from the top.”

“Fucking bastards. Pass over the orders to the lads.”

“Roger, sir.” Cowden said. He went away, then, to go to the posts manned by each section.

Pedersen sat there silently, in absolute disappointment. He was sure that, UN presence in Socora would politically imply the UN’s support against the Black Hand, and in turn, the Ustovaks. He hated it. It was bullshit. He was sure something would happen to Socora sooner or later, and he was all but powerless to stop it. He put his head in his hands. Not before long, he didn’t notice that he had slouched down the Warrior, sleeping next to its rugged tracks, his back on the steel.

***

Daylight came at 0600 Hours. The men knew that it was time to go. They packed up and dismantled their machinegun positions. Rickie, Alley, Pedersen, and Faye went to give Mr. Andrescu a goodbye before leaving.

“I wish you could’ve stayed.” Said Andrescu to Pedersen. Rickie stood on his flank.

“We will come back. I’ll try my best.”

“No, no, it’s fine. I understand. I served my time as well, and I know. Don’t worry. We can protect ourselves.”

Pedersen and Rickie knew he was lying. The lieutenant sighed. Then, he took out a piece of paper from his pocket, and embraced Andrescu as he held his hand.

“That is my number. When anything happens, ring me. I’ll do my best to help.”

“Thank you, lieutenant. I cannot tell you how glad I am to know this.”

The Warriors started up. The men went into the small 8-man hulls behind them. With one of the Warriors down, Corporal Galbraith’s section volunteered to distribute his men to ride atop the remaining three Warriors. 5 Platoon were cheered away by the Socora villagers as if they were on parade. Rickie, who sat on top of the rear Warrior with John, waved away the Andrescu family, whose children chased after the Warriors to the edges of town.

They were sent away like heroes, but neither of them felt like one.

***

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