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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