08-03-2016, 10:35 PM
Approx. 25Kms East of Freetown
Major Jengo Abrams, of General Katlego's Mende rebels, sat in the main passenger compartment of his command vehicle, studying the maps tacked to the various cork boards. Lengths of red cordage marked the arks of fire of his battery of guns, with a series of pins held a rough circle of blue strong to mark the main area of impact of their shells fired into Freetown.
One of two hard-mounted computers, of which only one actually still worked, had an open word file in which his junior officer was painstakingly studying the expected impact area and marking grids and names of important buildings that may have been damaged. When Wallace-Johnson surrendered, General Katlego would need to know what priority repair work would be needed in the city.
The guns were, for the moment, silent, having finished their initial fire mission. The men worked to inspect their M777s or to ready the next allotment of ammo. The General doubted that Wallace-Johnson would surrender after the soft-gloved initial barrage, after all.
With Wallace-Johnson's forces caught up fighting the Legion in the streets of the city, they had little fear of Wallace-Johnson launching a sortie, even if the fools could have figured out where the Howitzer battery was located. Wallace-Johnson's forces would have had to head east along the highway, past the Major's position before finding the service road that his convoy of trucks had taken to reach their firing position. And his sentries would see them along the highway.
Of course, his sentries to the south wouldn't notice a convoy of Legion Panhards coming from the north-east.
His men outside, tending their guns, heard the sound of engines approaching long before Major Abrams and his command staff. At first, they wrought it off as nothing of importance; probably just more of their own forces. When one of the gunnery sergeants finally clue'd in that no such direction had been given by the Major, the man thought to stop by the command vehicle and open the back hatch, poking his head into the vehicle.
"Sir? Are we expecting company?"
The three officers turned to eye the sergeant in confusion. With the door open, the sound of the approaching convoy of some two dozen armoured vehicles grew dangerously louder. The Major glanced at one junior officer, who still wore the headset of their onboard radio, who offered a shrug, "Nothing from command, sir?"
"TURN THE GUNS! Direct fire! GO!"
The command was without any hope of success. The few seconds it took the sergeant to realize just what the Major had said wouldn't have made any real difference in the long run. The man turned and yelled the command; the artillery crews hesitated a moment before leaping into action, and then the first of the Legion Panhards burst into the clearing, blowing past the sentries posted there.
Small arms fire tore through the clearing. The third Panhard into the field swiveled its Mk19 automatic grenade launcher on Major Abrams' command vehicle, and explosions tore along the armoured vehicle's hull. The driver was killed, standing in his hatch. The remote weapon system was shredded, and one junior officer in the rear of the vehicle was first sprayed with blood from the sergeant that still stood outside, then put hands to his throat to find a piece of shrapnel embedded in his jugular.
The ex-Moroccan APCs burst into the clearing next; Russian-made BMP3s, tracked and easily able to move through the dense jungle foliage, entered the clearing from the northern flank, sections of dismounted Legionnaires advancing in the cover the vehicles provided before fanning out into extended lines, gunning down the gunnery crews that tried to flee or sought to use the M777s as cover.
Within minutes, the combat was over. Legionnaires swarmed through the Mende camp. Survivors were gathered up and given medical attention. Provost Boipello over saw the handling of the POWs, while Sergeant Jackson stood with the Legion convoy commander, Captain Espen Pedersen, a former CCD military infantry officer from Switzerland.
Two Legionnaires held Major Abrams. The Major had refused to surrender, and one of the two Legionnaires had a rather fresh gouge in his helmet where the Major had sought to shoot the man before they had simply decided to flash-bang the interior of the command vehicle.
"Are you the commanding officer here, Major?"
Captain Pedersen studied the Major with a cold, hateful expression. Reports out of Freetown were sketchy, but they were close enough to the city to pick up some of the Legion radio chatter there. Casualty reports sounded steep.
"I do not answer to mercenaries! General Katlego will see you all hanged!"
The Major stood with all the arrogant confidence he could muster, considering he had just recently managed to stop wailing from the affects of the flash-bang that had driven him out of his hiding place.
"Yes, well. Sergeant, any indications of a senior officer?"
"No Sir. Just this ass-hat, throat-cancer, and that mewling baby over there."
Throat-cancer was in reference to the junior officer who had taken shrapnel to the throat. The man's body was laid out beside the command vehicle, where the other junior officer was being tended for gunshot wounds. He also had refused to surrender quietly.
"So be it. As the senior officer on ground, you are found guilty of crimes against humanity. Willingly firing on civilian targets."
Captain Pedersen's hand went to his holstered pistol, and the Major's attitude suddenly began to crack.
"I am a soldier of the Sierra Leonean military! I was following my orders!"
"Following orders. Many 'good Germans' said the same thing in a hundred or so years ago."
He drew the pistol, spat on the Major's boots, then extended the weapon and fired a round into the Major's forehead in one smooth motion.
Sergeant Jackson raised an eyebrow at the rather cold display; he wasn't about to argue over the decision, after all. Hell, it was okay'd by Commandant Tuft before they had even stormed the position. The Legion was not going to pull many punches on men like Wallace-Johnson and Katlego, it seemed.
Major Jengo Abrams, of General Katlego's Mende rebels, sat in the main passenger compartment of his command vehicle, studying the maps tacked to the various cork boards. Lengths of red cordage marked the arks of fire of his battery of guns, with a series of pins held a rough circle of blue strong to mark the main area of impact of their shells fired into Freetown.
One of two hard-mounted computers, of which only one actually still worked, had an open word file in which his junior officer was painstakingly studying the expected impact area and marking grids and names of important buildings that may have been damaged. When Wallace-Johnson surrendered, General Katlego would need to know what priority repair work would be needed in the city.
The guns were, for the moment, silent, having finished their initial fire mission. The men worked to inspect their M777s or to ready the next allotment of ammo. The General doubted that Wallace-Johnson would surrender after the soft-gloved initial barrage, after all.
With Wallace-Johnson's forces caught up fighting the Legion in the streets of the city, they had little fear of Wallace-Johnson launching a sortie, even if the fools could have figured out where the Howitzer battery was located. Wallace-Johnson's forces would have had to head east along the highway, past the Major's position before finding the service road that his convoy of trucks had taken to reach their firing position. And his sentries would see them along the highway.
Of course, his sentries to the south wouldn't notice a convoy of Legion Panhards coming from the north-east.
His men outside, tending their guns, heard the sound of engines approaching long before Major Abrams and his command staff. At first, they wrought it off as nothing of importance; probably just more of their own forces. When one of the gunnery sergeants finally clue'd in that no such direction had been given by the Major, the man thought to stop by the command vehicle and open the back hatch, poking his head into the vehicle.
"Sir? Are we expecting company?"
The three officers turned to eye the sergeant in confusion. With the door open, the sound of the approaching convoy of some two dozen armoured vehicles grew dangerously louder. The Major glanced at one junior officer, who still wore the headset of their onboard radio, who offered a shrug, "Nothing from command, sir?"
"TURN THE GUNS! Direct fire! GO!"
The command was without any hope of success. The few seconds it took the sergeant to realize just what the Major had said wouldn't have made any real difference in the long run. The man turned and yelled the command; the artillery crews hesitated a moment before leaping into action, and then the first of the Legion Panhards burst into the clearing, blowing past the sentries posted there.
Small arms fire tore through the clearing. The third Panhard into the field swiveled its Mk19 automatic grenade launcher on Major Abrams' command vehicle, and explosions tore along the armoured vehicle's hull. The driver was killed, standing in his hatch. The remote weapon system was shredded, and one junior officer in the rear of the vehicle was first sprayed with blood from the sergeant that still stood outside, then put hands to his throat to find a piece of shrapnel embedded in his jugular.
The ex-Moroccan APCs burst into the clearing next; Russian-made BMP3s, tracked and easily able to move through the dense jungle foliage, entered the clearing from the northern flank, sections of dismounted Legionnaires advancing in the cover the vehicles provided before fanning out into extended lines, gunning down the gunnery crews that tried to flee or sought to use the M777s as cover.
Within minutes, the combat was over. Legionnaires swarmed through the Mende camp. Survivors were gathered up and given medical attention. Provost Boipello over saw the handling of the POWs, while Sergeant Jackson stood with the Legion convoy commander, Captain Espen Pedersen, a former CCD military infantry officer from Switzerland.
Two Legionnaires held Major Abrams. The Major had refused to surrender, and one of the two Legionnaires had a rather fresh gouge in his helmet where the Major had sought to shoot the man before they had simply decided to flash-bang the interior of the command vehicle.
"Are you the commanding officer here, Major?"
Captain Pedersen studied the Major with a cold, hateful expression. Reports out of Freetown were sketchy, but they were close enough to the city to pick up some of the Legion radio chatter there. Casualty reports sounded steep.
"I do not answer to mercenaries! General Katlego will see you all hanged!"
The Major stood with all the arrogant confidence he could muster, considering he had just recently managed to stop wailing from the affects of the flash-bang that had driven him out of his hiding place.
"Yes, well. Sergeant, any indications of a senior officer?"
"No Sir. Just this ass-hat, throat-cancer, and that mewling baby over there."
Throat-cancer was in reference to the junior officer who had taken shrapnel to the throat. The man's body was laid out beside the command vehicle, where the other junior officer was being tended for gunshot wounds. He also had refused to surrender quietly.
"So be it. As the senior officer on ground, you are found guilty of crimes against humanity. Willingly firing on civilian targets."
Captain Pedersen's hand went to his holstered pistol, and the Major's attitude suddenly began to crack.
"I am a soldier of the Sierra Leonean military! I was following my orders!"
"Following orders. Many 'good Germans' said the same thing in a hundred or so years ago."
He drew the pistol, spat on the Major's boots, then extended the weapon and fired a round into the Major's forehead in one smooth motion.
Sergeant Jackson raised an eyebrow at the rather cold display; he wasn't about to argue over the decision, after all. Hell, it was okay'd by Commandant Tuft before they had even stormed the position. The Legion was not going to pull many punches on men like Wallace-Johnson and Katlego, it seemed.