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.”
***
ns 15.158.61.48da2
