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.
***
ns 15.158.61.20da2
