1984, The year for heroes, the year of "The War"
Ooc- A flashback, to 1984.
It was a stormy night, January 22nd 1984, in the jungles of Cambodia, the 1st Parachute Division had deployed to confront guerilla forces, to block them from reaching the capital city of Phnom Penh, it was a pointless war, one that thousand of whites would die in. The parachute divisions were entirely white formations, formed of right-wing whites the Marxist government wanted out of Mississippi, but not out of their control. They pushed them into joining the parachute units, then sent them out to fight their wars. It was a fine system for the Marxists, getting the elite military skills of the whites and keeping them out of Mississippi at the same time. But the system was flawed…
In Syria, the 3rd Parachute Division was fighting hard against anti-Zionist forces, the Marxist government of Mississippi decided it was better whites die in the war, rather than Israelis.
In Peru, the 2nd Parachute Division was fighting hard against right-wing guerillas based out of Colombia and Bolivia. It was a war the soldiers didn’t want, these were right-wing men, being forced to fight right-wing guerillas.
In Iran, the 4th Parachute Division was fighting hard against radical Muslim forces, Israel had lobbied for war against them, calling them part of “The axis of evil”, a term coined by the Jews of Mississippi to describe those they wanted to dehumanize as evil monsters, not good men like everybody else, so it made it easier to call for their destruction.
On the night of January 22nd 1984, something happened, something that had never happened before. The whites across Mississippi, 90% of the population, the vast majority, yet kept in chains by the legal system and the oppressive black and white Marxist “Home Guard Army”, 38 divisions of poorly trained soldiers that were only good for killing unarmed civilians, rose up in open revolt.
The pent up rage of two decades of oppression, atrocities, of seeing their wives, sisters, daughters, and mothers, raped in the streets and nobody caring, had all exploded overnight. A people could only be pushed so far, before they started pushing back, and the whites would not be content with merely rocking the boat, they were out to capsize it. They wanted the whole rotten structure to come collapsing down, the greed, corruption, the sickness of Jewish capitalism and Jewish Marxism, allied together, to come crashing down. It was ironic that the Jews controlled both communism and capitalism, no matter who won, they always came out ahead. Controlling the objects of their criticism, and then the suggested alternatives. They ran the opposition parties; everything had to be approved by them. But no more, the whites were pushed over the edge, beyond the point of no return. The abolition of elections, the last façade of freedom left by the Jewish-mason cabal, had been too much and now, it was time to fight.
The orders arrived at the headquarters of the 1st Parachute division, “Campaign in Cambodia canceled, immediately begin airlifting division to Mississippi, to crush white rebels.”
The division had been assembled; twenty Marxist commissars were standing around, submachine guns at the ready. The division commander, a mason, stooge of the Jews, took the podium in front of the men.
(General) “It is with great delight I inform you the campaign in Cambodia is over!”
The men broke into cheers, shouting loudly, tossing their caps into the air, the rain washed over their bare heads, cleaning some of the caked on dirt away.
(General) “We are going back to Mississippi, there is a rebellion there, and it needs to be crushed.”
One of the majors (the highest rank a right-wing white could achieve, even in the all right-wing white units) shouted, “Who the hell is rebelling?”
The general smirked back, “White trash!”
A fury of rage across all eighteen thousand of the division, assembled at the airfield.
The twenty commissars cocked their MP-5s and readied for trouble, the crowd started to calm, that is after a burst was fired into the air.
The men were all talking amongst themselves, “We can’t kill whites! Can we?” one of the captains asked… The general heard him and shouted back, “You’ll do as you’re ordered!”
All seemed to be peaceful for the next thirty seconds, then almost as in slow motion, something unreal happened, a young 2nd lieutenant, about 23 years old, stepped forward in the line, shouted, “For the white race!” and then he emptied his 1911 pistol into the general. Eight holes had been put into the general, each shot was deadly accurate, crimson red blood flew freely from his wounds, he clutched his chest, attempting to mutter, “Kill that man”, but instead, he just collapsed where he stood.
The commissars were taken completely by surprise as the paratroopers surged forward, overrunning them and beating them to death. Knocked to the ground in a fury of kicks and punches, the commissars finally learned the true meaning of pain. They had thought their clubs and rifle butts had sufficiently beaten the men into submission, but nothing could tame their warrior spirit. The threat of racial annihilation had proven strong enough to enable the paratroopers to overcome any fears and misgivings that they might have had about attempting to topple the government, it was just “the government”, not “their government” it did nothing for them, never working for them, always against them. The vile government had no right to exist, it had the same rights as a leech, to be wiped out as soon as it was realized for what it was, a parasite.
The young 2nd lieutenant was elevated on the shoulders of his comrades, they started to cheer, “Fabus!” “Fabus!”
One of the captains, shouted, “Fabus should lead us into battle! For Mississippi, for God and Country!”
The others all shouted, “Yes, yes, let him lead us!”
A cocky and arrogant, but much respected and much feared captain, whose bright red uniform revealed his sheer contempt for enemy snipers, stepped out of the line, “My name is Captain Reginald Smith, and I pledge my undying loyalty to Curtis Fabus! Now! Let us liberate Mississippi!” The soldiers started to chant, “Fabus!” “Fabus!”.
The captain stepped back a few feet, raised his left hand straight into the air, and shouted, “Hail Fabus!” The others all followed suit, the collective noise drowned out the storm, drowned out the plane engines, drowned out everything. They were pledging their allegiance to Mississippi’s most well-known racist, Curtis Fabus, the author of dozens of books, the artist who as a child had painted Francisco Franco’s portrait shortly before he died, the young boy who at 17, caused a national stir by assassinating the two black thugs who brutally raped his older sister.
Curtis remembered well what had happened, his older sister, Mary, had been brought home by two white farmers, they found her unconscious in a field, when she came to, she related her story. Curtis went to his room, took a 308 bolt action rifle out from under his bed, and then the 17 year old sat and waited, on a rooftop overlooking the courthouse…Twelve hours later, the two rapists had been acquitted on the grounds that, “Post-Traumatic slave disorder” was to blame. As they walked out of the courthouse, smiles on their faces, the young boy pulled the trigged once, quickly worked the bolt, found his next target, then pulled the trigged again, both shots were made from almost 800 meters away. He was caught shortly thereafter, and he was given the chance to join the paratroopers to avoid prison… He took the offer, and now, five years later, here he was, the head of the rebel cause, the freedom fighters, the armies of righteousness stood united behind him.
He shook himself out of the memories; there would be time for that later, not now… Now, he had a revolution to organize.
The soldiers ran to board the C-130s, the young 2nd lieutenant walked over to the nearby officer’s houses, where his home was, he wanted to see his wife before he left. The families had been living in Cambodia with the soldiers since the campaign had been going on for many months and it was thought it’d help the soldiers morale to have their families close. Also, they’d fight harder, knowing if they lost, their families would perish at the hands of guerilla fighters.
Curtis jogged over to Julia, beautiful Julia, the love of his life; no woman had come close to her grace and elegance. She smiled at him, “Curtis, do I sense a civil war coming?”
He took her in his arms and kissed her for over thirty seconds. Then he gently started running his hand through her hair, soaked from the rain; “You shouldn’t be outside in this weather, not in your condition…” He looked down at her stomach; she was pregnant again, and starting to show. She smiled, “Another son perhaps?” He grinned, “I can always hope.”
She hugged him as they started to walk inside, “What shall we name him?”
Curtis thought for a moment, his memory went to a comrade, one who was killed by a commissar for refusing to commit atrocities against white civilians in Colombia, several years ago. After the thoughts left his head, he was back in the here and now, he immediately replied, “Roger, we’ll name him Roger.”
All across the base, the commissars, Marxists, and any of questionable loyalty had been murdered, the bodies left where they fell, nobody cared enough to bury a Marxist, let them rot, it was more than they deserved.
Inside, the house, Curtis called his assistant to assemble his children.
The assistant brought down George and Eleanor, and Julia carried Henry.
Curtis smiled as he saw his children, just babies now, small little children who needed to be constantly looked after. He turned to Julia, “Take care of them while I am gone, God willing, they’ll soon live in Mississippi, safely, in a land of peace. Not in a Jew corrupted, nig—r infested wasteland, but in a land fit for great men with great ideals. A land fit to be called their own.”
Julia held back her tears, but a few seconds later, she started to weep, she threw her arms around Curtis, kissed him, then whispered, “Go now, Curtis, and move swift and true, God speed to Mississippi.”
He turned and walked out of the house, another lieutenant was waiting for him outside.
(Lieutenant) “Fabus sir, we are readying to leave.”
(Fabus) “Very good Bertrand, very good.”
(Navarre) “Sir, how do you plan to bypass the commissars reporting code? If People’s Command in Jackson doesn’t receive the chief commissars report every twenty-four hours, the C-130s, they’ll freeze up. We could all plunge into the Pacific.”
(Fabus) “Fear not, Bertrand, a brilliant man is working on that problem right now.”
Curtis escorted Bertrand Navarre over to a covered position where electronics equipment was stored. A captain was working on cracking the codes; he turned and looked at Fabus and Navarre… “Hey Curtis, Bertrand, nice to see you two are alive and well. Reminds me of high school, us three always getting into trouble…”
Another voice spoke up, “Ernst, you left me out, you mean us four.”
Captain Wilhelm Ernst looked at the man, working on some computer codes, and then he replied, “Damnit Baldur, when did you ever get into trouble? You were always busy studying and mixing chemicals.”
Schacht held back a laugh, “Remember in 10th grade, the school had to be evacuated for two weeks because I was experimenting with VX and Mustard and they leaked out of the lab. Remember?”
Ernst reluctantly nodded, “Okay, so you’ve done a few crazy things.”
Curtis was tapping his foot, “Gentlemen, are we good to go? Will the codes be broken?”
Schacht nodded, “About five more minutes, tops…”
(Curtis) “Good, make it quick, we need to get moving, before something happens.”
The remaining soldiers loaded into the C-130s and when the codes were finally broken, the impressive force was off, leaving Cambodia behind, except for a few companies of soldiers to guard the families and other civilians at the base, the men were all heading home…. To Mississippi…
Across the world, three other parachute divisions were also in similar situations, the rebellion had spread, it was growing as a snowball rolling down a hill, and it built on itself. When the 1st Parachute Division told the 2nd Parachute Division that the time for rebellion had come, they messaged the 3rd and 4th Parachute Divisions and then within two hours, all four of the parachute divisions were on their way, to Mississippi.
To be continued...
In the jungles of Peru, a twenty-three year old 1st lieutenant was readying to take his platoon out on a routine patrol. The 2nd parachute division had been in this godforsaken hellhole of a jungle for over nine months, fighting elusive right-wing guerillas whom they’d much rather be helping. But if they didn’t fight, it would be taken out on their families back in Mississippi.
Philippe Bon moved quietly through the densely packed jungle underbrush, keeping his M-14A rifle tightly gripped with both his hands. He was paranoid as hell that there was an ambush lurking around any corner, and he had good cause to be. In the last two weeks of fighting, his platoon had been reduced from thirty-four to twenty-two.
One of the sergeants snuck up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder. Bon fired a burst from his rifle, startling everybody and sending them diving to the ground, looking for cover.
Bon quickly apologized, the sergeant joyfully said, “Sir, sir, the 1st parachute division operating in Cambodia…”
Bon snapped at the man, “Yes, I know the 1st parachute division in Cambodia, what about it?”
The sergeant could hardly contain himself, “Sir, they have risen up, the civil war, she begins!”
Bon and his men slowly made their way back to the base, where a battalion under the command of Major Antonio Don Juan Miguel, was readying to assault into the base, kill the commissars, and then seize the C-130s.
Bon and Miguel both met outside the base and spoke for a few minutes, working out the details of their plans. Everything went over well-enough, not a single paratrooper fell in the operation to take the base, and every commissar was killed. They had been caught totally off-guard, it was flawless, better than flawless, the stuff of legend.
The mutilated corpses of approximately twelve commissars and two hundred Marxists littered the 3rd Brigade base of the 2nd Parachute Division. 70 C-130s were in the air now, heading towards Mississippi with 5,000 fully equipped paratroopers, more from the 2nd Division would soon join them.
Bon sat in the back of one of the C-130s, smiling as he looked at picture of his wife, son, and daughter; he was doing this for them, for their future. He had always hoped and prayed that Mississippi would be a place worth raising a family in, worth living in, and now his prayers had been answered…
He tapped the shoulder on Major Miguel, as he asked, “Sir, who is leading this rebellion?”
The major replied, “Somebody named Fabus, Curtis Fabus, an officer from the 1st Parachute Division.”
Bon bowed his head, then whispered, “God bless you, Curtis Fabus.”
In the Gulf of Mexico on routine maneuvers, aboard the People’s Navy, “Mao Tse Tung” Class Battleship, a young officer and a young seaman were readying their plan to seize the ship.
The twenty-year old lieutenant Ernst Raedar, and the seventeen year old Gunther Lindemann were organizing approximately one-hundred sailors and twelve officers into parties of three men each. They were going to seize the massive battleship and station a team of men at each crucial spot on the ship.
Each team of men had only one pistol between the three men, the other two were armed with knives of clubs, but still, they knew they’d succeed, God was with them.
Gunther Lindemann and Ernst Raedar, accompanied by five men, all armed with pistols, made their way to the bridge. There were two ship’s marines with MP-5s on duty, the captain was fearful of a possible mutiny.
One of the Marines pointed his MP-5 at the approaching group, and shouted, “Drop those weapons now! Face flat on the deck!”
The other marine stuck his MP-5 against the side of the marine with his weapon aimed at the approaching men and whispered, “Put it down, real slow or else your guts get splattered all over the deck.”
The marine complied and slowly dropped his MP-5. Lindemann approached and asked the twenty-one year old marine, the one who had helped them, “What is your name, son?” The marine snapped to attention, “Paul Stahlecker, sir!”
Lindemann replied, “Well, Stahlecker, you’re with us now, comprende?”
Stahlecker nodded, picked the other MP-5 up, handed it to the lieutenant, then he turned and smacked the other marine unconscious with the butt of his weapon.
The party of men stormed the bridge, the sergeant of the guard jumped for the pistol at the desk in front of him. Stahlecker cut the sergeant down without hesitation. The captain, a race mixer, shouted at Stahlecker, “Are you mad! You’re in so much shit it isn’t funny!”
Stahlecker spat a wad of tobacco juice into his face, shouted, “You filthy race traitor!” and then the unloaded his MP-5 into the captain before he could reply.
Throughout the ship, two dozen of the ten dozen marines had sided with the mutiny. The marines with the mutiny had mostly all been on duty at the time it went down, the others were silenced in their sleep with a knife to the throat.
Lindemann announced over the com, “This is Lieutenant Gunther Lindemann, I am assuming command of this vessel, we are going to liberate Mississippi. All men are to restrict movement unless absolutely necessary, and even then they are to move in two man teams. If anybody wants out of this, just say so now and we’ll toss you over the side and save you the trouble of having to fight for what is right, having to fight for your fathers, your mothers, your brothers, your sisters, your wives, your sweethearts, for Mississippi!”
The ship made a sharp turn and headed straight for the southern coast of Mississippi. Warning signals were going off at High Command in Jackson, but they couldn’t raise the ship, they’d send a few fighters in low to the water to see if they could visually determine what was going on.
Two F-16 fighters were soon to be dispatched to see what was wrong with the battleship, and to ascertain why it wasn't responding to attempts to raise it on the radio.
The two pilots were getting ready at their base in southern Mississippi, near the coast.
One of them men shouted to the other one, "Hey Gunther, what the hell do you think is wrong with the boat?"
Gunther Thaller smiled, and then said, "Hell if I know, but let's go find out, they might need help."
Twenty-five year old Captain Gunther Thaller climbed into the cockpit of his F-16, slowly inched towards the runway, and he waited for the signal telling him he was clear to go.
Twenty-year old 2nd lieutenant Hans Kaltenbrunner was also climbing into the cockpit of his own F-16, also readying to launch into the sky and travel south to intercept the battleship.
The two men were given the clear; each one took off, using a different runway. They quickly gained altitude and flew abreast of each other, both men staying in constant contact with one another.
Looking out, all they could see was blue, nothing but blue, and the white of the clouds.
Thaller switched over to a secret communications channel that would be between him and Kaltenbrunner.
(Gunther) "Hans, I know what is wrong with the battleship... I know you will support us, yes?"
(Hans) "The WKM, right?"
(Gunther) "Yes, do we have your support?"
(Hans) "Yes, my undying support."
(Gunther) "Good, I'm glad to hear it."
They quickly switched back to the standard channel, "Sorry HQ, communications glitch for a second there, problem corrected though."
They flew in low over the battleship, so low they were able to wave to Raedar and Lindemann.
The sailors on the deck cheered and laughed at the F-16s going overhead, they knew what was going on.
As soon as Thaller and Kaltenbrunner arrived back at base, they reported the following.
(Thaller) "The ship is fine sir, her communication is just in bad condition, they're going to need to dock and repair it. They messaged us via lights."
(Kaltenbrunner) "The ship seemed okay, except they communicated with lights that their radio is down, they need to dock and make repairs."
A T-72M tank roared across the hills of Mississippi, on maneuvers, the tank was going the wrong way, one of the commanders in another tank shouted through the radio, “Goddamnit, Lieutenant Mladic, come in, damn you, get back in line, stick to the plan, you’re supposed to be the lead tank!”
Twenty year old 2nd lieutenant Joseph Mladic was directing his tank as to which way to go. They weren’t following the other tanks, rather they were diverting from the path and heading into an ideal spot to get good side armor hits against the convoy as it moved by them.
Mladic’s T-72 came to a halt perpendicular to the loyal tanks, and waited for them to start moving by.
The tanks were part of a massive armored war game going on, with over three-hundred T-72 tanks involved. Mladic smiled, he spoke to the driver, “We are sticking to the plan!”
The WKM loyalists knew it was time when Mladic replied over the radio, “But Major sir, we are sticking to the plan!” He chuckled as he finished the sentence.
The gunners in fifty of the tanks loaded live shells that they brought into their tanks, no single government tank had a live shell in it, but the WKM tanks, half their shells were live.
Enraged, the major spat into the radio mic, “Mladic, I’ll bust you down so far you’ll be worse than enlisted! We’re not going to lose these games because of you!”
Mladic chuckled back into the radio, “I’m sorry, there are things more important than games, this being one of them.”
Mladic shut the radio off, and then shouted, “Now!”
A massive “Boom” echoed throughout the air, the major’s tank erupted into the flames, the other rebel tanks set to work, slaughtering the helpless government tanks, picking them off one at a time. The government soldiers shouting over the radio, “Stop, stop, you’re using live ammunition!”
One of the commanders of another rebel tank replied with a grin, “We know!”
Inside the presidential residence in Jackson, soon to become Jackson City, the president, a mason, was worried sick. He had thought there might be a white revolution in the nation, and he knew his Home Guard army of poorly equipped and utterly inexperienced blacks and Marxists would be wholly inadequate to put down the revolution.
He had no choice; he made the call hours ago to get the right-wing white parachute divisions back to Mississippi. Now he was hoping they'd obey their orders, he would have prayed, had he believed in God.
A young twenty-nine year old Captain of the Guards Company assigned to protect the president, a one Vladimir Markovic, was making his rounds about the palace grounds. He stopped walking and waited for three other guards to come by, each of them had five fellow conspirators waiting for their orders to make their move. Markovic had arranged that the eighteen guards loyal to the WKM were all simultaneously on duty, and that guards who were known Marxists, were either on leave, or asleep.
One of the three guards to meet with Markovic came slowly by, his feet impacting quietly on the gravel path that went around the circumference of the palace. He drew a finger slowly across his own neck and made a slitting sound, the sign that his five-man team had silenced the guards assigned to them to kill. Markovic smiled, and waited for the other two men.
When the other two men finally gave him the signal, each of them joined him and strode into the house; they fired MP-5SD (Integral Silencer version) into a group of servants moving through the front room.
One of them stayed at the bottom of the stairs, Markovic quickly but stealthily rushed up the stairs, two men following close behind him.
He gently pushed open the door to the president’s room. The fifty-year-old mason was sitting in an armchair, his back to the door; he heard the door open, “Is that you John? He called out, expecting a servant.
Markovic cocked his MP-5, “No, it’s death.”
The president didn’t turn around, he sighed, and said, “I never figured it’d be you, Vladimir, why?”
Vladimir replied with a grin and a chuckle, “You’re a disgusting mason, a piece of Jew-loving trash, I could go on about your record of allowing whites to die in droves, but it’s all just too shitty to bring up. Don’t bother saying your prayers, you don’t believe in God, and either way, He’s not going to save you from this fate, and He won’t save you from hell.”
The President had nothing to say, he sat there silently while Markovic read him his death sentence, then he opened his mouth to speak, a last minute attempt to plead with his killer. However, Markovic was no longer in the mood to speak, he let his MP-5 do the talking, the silent clang of the bolt operating was all that was heard, as he emptied the entire magazine into the president.
The mason fell forward in the chair, his bright blood staining the pink rug the chair was on, pools of it spilled out; quickly the carpet and rug were drenched in his blood.
Markovic looked at the shell of what was once a man, he looked down, then he spat into the man’s face while whispering, “Burn in hell, Marxist swine!”
Near a lake outside of Jackson, a seventeen year old boy was training with his Long-Rang-Reconnaissance Patrol unit… The usual age to enter was eighteen, but his father was more than wealthy enough to afford not only buying his son’s way in, but also buying his son a commission as 2nd lieutenant.
The vibrant and young boy ran forward, leading the unit of his elders forward.
One of them tapped the other on the shoulder, “Fucking Felben’s, they think they own the world cause they’re rich!”
Herman spun around, he’d heard the remark, he was just seventeen, but he was taller and stronger than some of the men in his unit, not all, but some. He wasn’t just some rich kid playing soldier, his father had him training for this since he was ten, and he was here early because he couldn’t wait another day, and he had the money so he didn’t have to wait.
Herman Von Felben walked up to the black LRRP who made the remark, and smashed a clenched fist into his face, before following up with ½ dozen blows to the stomach, all in rapid succession. Two of the whites in the six man unit, were with the WKM, they saw this opportunity is as good as any they’d get, they fired their pistols into the other three men in the unit, killing all of them. Then they dragged Felben up against a tree, “Well Lieutenant, where do you want it? Daddy can’t buy your way out this, can he?”
Felben, not sure who or what they were, took a chance, he flashed them a secret WKM hand signal. They immediately dropped him gently onto the ground and quickly apologized, then they ran off into the woods, readying to join other units that would assault and seize the Jackson International Airport so that C-130s could land to unload the heavier weapons that couldn’t be airdropped.
Felben and his two comrades were outside the city, when a voice called out to young Herman, and he saw a cross form in the sky, the voice said, “I shall grant you victory, if you shall conquer in my name.”
Felben fell to his knees, made the sign of the cross, and whispered, “Lord, I shall enter your church and rise so high as to be a bishop one day!”
One of the other two men tapped him on the shoulder, “You okay lieutenant?” He nodded and then they moved forward towards the sewer system that would take them under the airport.
OOC: Still good, and getting better
OOC: If I might just make a little comment here...
I can't say anything that wouldn't get me banned by the mods regarding this screwed up post.
Itinerate Tree Dweller
Bump, next post will be a real post, not a bump.
A young eighteen-year old paratrooper was in Syria, getting ready to load onto the plane that would take his unit to Mississippi and the coup that was waiting. He was a 2nd lieutenant, he’d joined the parachute units at age sixteen and he managed to get a direct commission (battlefield commission) he was one of few people to have achieved such fame and success in battle.
He was looking off into the distance, dreaming of future glory, he was going to fight for ideals, always defend his people, and achieve more fame and success than he had already done.
A captain smacked him on the back of the head, “Damnit Tallmadge, you may be famous and something of a celebrity, but you’re still a cocky kid to me, get your ass on the plane and don’t let your rank go to your head, lieutenant.”
Lieutenant John Tallmadge smiled as he boarded the C-130, he knew this was the good fight, and he was going to be a part of it. He was ready now, readying his mind for the battle ahead, he had been hoping and praying for this day for years, the chance to liberate his homeland from the Marxists. Ever since he came home from school one day, to find his father brutally beaten, and his mother being raped, by a black unit of so-called “Home Guard”, he’d known for sure who the enemy was. He shot all of them dead with a pistol, all four of them, but then the government had declared him an enemy of the state and like many others, he’d been forced into the parachute units. Well he’d have joined anyway, but still, he wasn’t quite ready to join at the time.
His father WAS one of the richest men in the nation, the Tallmadges had a well-established wealth going back generations. However, the Marxist government turned his father from a Duke into a peasant, but he had managed to hide enough money to take care of his family. He purchased his son the rank of Staff Sergeant in the parachute units. His son had earned the rank of 2nd lieutenant when his company was so badly decimated that the captain, all the lieutenants, and all sergeants ranked above him were killed. The regiment colonel came by to review the remnants of the battle-bloodied company, about one platoon’s worth of men. The colonel asked, “Sergeant, where is your CO?” Tallmadge pointed to a pile of corpses and solemnly said, “If you dig through there, you might find a few pieces of him.” The colonel didn’t like his smart-ass answer, but he loved the way he fought, and promptly gave him a battlefield commission as 2nd lieutenant.
Tallmadge sat on the plane, reading the bible, his favorite book, nothing else put him to ease as did reading the bible. He cried out, “God is with us!” Cheers and shouts of “God is great!” were heard up and down the plane.
John spent about four hours reading his bible before he decided to catch some sleep and wait for the plane to reach Mississippi.
In a chemical weapons depot, outside of Jackson, a young twenty-three year old captain was lying on the bed in his quarters. A large Portuguese flag hung on one wall and the other side was adorned by posters of António de Oliveira Salazar.
A major, a Marxist originally from Cuba, came walking by the quarters, knocked on the door, “Hey Frankie, get your ass moving, we might have some problems, we could need some gas.”
The quarters were mostly deserted, the other officers were all in town, getting drunk and whoring it up. Francisco was disgusted with their conducts. Disgraces to the uniform and the nation. But what the hell, the government was nothing but a disgrace, a facade of freedom, a fallacy, a lie, not even a half-truth. The modern whore of Babylon, something nobody wanted to fight against, because going along was pleasant, the games and circuses kept the masses amused. The government controlled religions taught the people to be docile sheep. Francisco's religion taught him to smite the enemies of the Lord, listen not to the heathen, rather you smite him.
Francisco couldn't blame the idiots for whoring around; they were all brainwashed lemmings, ignorant people with poor natural inclinations. They were spoon-fed the government lies from the cradle to the grave, the mind poison more deadly than a bullet. The government didn't allow their enemies to have their own bullets though, or even their own ideas. Why allow enemies to have ideas if you don't allow them to have guns? The masses were most enslaved when they were tricked into believing they were free, when they couldn't even see the chains. Salazar knew what he had to do; he had cast his lot in with the WKM years ago...
Francisco opened the door, stepped out in his uniform and walked off towards the main storage locked, while he muttered under his breath, “My name is Francisco, you asshole.”
The major tapped him on the shoulder, “What did you say?”
Francisco turned around, looked him dead in the eye, then asked, “Why do we need gas all of the sudden?”
The major smiled, “White rebellion, we need to put them down, we’re going to kill some whites.”
Francisco thought to himself, “This is my chance, it is time, the time has come, I shall make mother and father proud. For the memory of uncle Antonio! For our brethren who fell in Mozambique and Angola!”
Salazar faked a smile, and then the major asked him, “You’re a Mexican, right? So I bet you’re looking forward to killing some gringos, eh?”
Salazar drew a knife behind his back from a concealed sheath, then he grinned while he calmly said, “You know something?” The major asked, “What?” Then Salazar, he shouted into the major’s face as he jammed the knife into his neck, “My name is Francisco Salazar! It’s a white name! I’m Portuguese, white! And my ancestry is entirely white! Remember that, Francisco Salazar, the last name you’ll ever hear!” He ripped the knife out, then jammed it into the man again, then ripped it out again, he proceeded to stab him two dozen more times. He dragged the dead major into a nearby supply room and jammed the door shut when he was done hiding the body.
Salazar quickly showered, washing the blood off of himself, then after he dressed, he ran off to meet up with a group of soldiers on the base who were planning to secure a large cache of chemical weapons to shell areas determined to be government strongholds. They were also going to help provide support for landing parachute units when the invasion was set to begin in a few hours.
The captain walked briskly out to meet with the men, all the while singing in Portuguese and old war song from Angola. He was eager to finally end the Marxist madness that had taken hold over Mississippi. The time of change was at hand, the most drastic of change, the revolution. He had watched it for some while now, and he had the seen it coming. The evolution of a revolution. The first time a black on white rape went unpunished on the principle that blacks were not responsible for crimes against whites, due to past white oppression of blacks. The first time the draft was declared applicable only to whites, because blacks had suffered under slavery. The first time masons were pardoned simply for being masons. The government had set in motion the events that cascaded into this, the revolution, and white revolution.
Salazar walked down to the main storage bunker, the two guards on duty were now dead and inside the bunker. Two men loyal to the revolution had taken their place to divert suspicion. Inside, there were three trucks being loaded with chemical artillery shells, things to become very valuable in the coming days.
The twenty-six year old captain George Nelson kissed his wife goodbye, “Take care of Arthur while I’m gone.” She nodded but with a hint of melancholy, she was already worried sick about George and he hadn’t even left. She whispered the unthinkable, “George, what if you… You don’t come back?”
He looked at her, and then firmly said, “Then raise Arthur to be a proud and strong white man, and to standup for what he knows to be right. And someday when he is older, tell him, tell him that his father died so that he might live free, free from Masonic oppression.”
She was almost in tears, the two embraced, and then he turned to his son, just seven years old, too young to understand what was going on, and he picked him up in his arms.
(George) “Arthur, your daddy is going away for a while, okay… I’ll be back though.”
(Arthur) “Where are you going daddy?”
(George) “There are some bad people who have been doing bad things for far too long, and your daddy is going to help stop them.”
Arthur smiled, proud of his father, but then he frowned, “But what if they try to do bad things to you?”
George quickly replied, “I won’t let them, I won’t let them keep me from getting back to you and your mom, okay, don’t you worry, I’ll be back.”
He kissed his son on the forehead, set him down gently, he jumped up, so he could get a better view of his father’s face and said, “Okay daddy, but hurry back, and be safe.”
George patted his son on the head, and replied, “I’ll be back soon.”
Arthur then tugged on his father’s sleeve, “Daddy, when will I be tall, like you?”
George turned to him, lifted him up again, and then chuckled, “Son, one day you shall be taller than a king.”
Arthur didn’t know exactly what that meant, but he figured it meant really tall, he smiled, his father kissed him on the forehead again, set him back down, and then turned to his mother.
He motioned for her to come to him, he took her in his arms, kissed her deeply, then cheerfully said, “I’m leaving now dear, fear not, I’ll soon come back to you.”
He finished gathering his gear, his paramilitary uniform, he was part of an organization called the National People’s Republican Guard, a paramilitary unit tasked with protection of right-wing political leaders who were frequent targets of leftists thugs. He grabbed his M-14A rifle and ran off into the night, to meet up with his unit.
She sat in the house, nearly worrying herself to death. Arthur was sleeping peacefully now. She wondered when George would come back, come back to her, back to Arthur. She cursed the war for taking him away from her, even if it was just temporarily. She hoped and prayed he’d come back to her.
She’d never see him alive again…
Shortly after the T-72 incident with Mladic, the rebel armored unit seized a radio station, Mladic had always been a good orator, and he decided it was time to make a call to arms. A call to the white people to rise up and smash their oppressors.
Eight BMP-2s and 4 T-72 tanks surrounded a radio station, one of the major ones in the nation, already paratroopers were starting to land in Jackson. Already gas attacks had been carried out against the largely black communities on the outskirts of Jackson. Already the campaign was underway.
Mladic strode into the radio station, two of the radiomen objected, "This is a government owned station, you can't just barge in here and play soldier! Get out!"
Mladic motioned with his hand and two soldiers following behind him raised their M-14C rifles (Compact version given to BMP infantry) and silenced both of the men with a hail of bullets.
Mladic turned to the third man and with a grin, asked him, "Any objections to me broadcasting?"
The man rapidly shook his head, "No sir! I'll even get it ready for you!"
Mladic smiled, "Good, do it, you have three minutes."
The man rushed to get things ready for Mladic, and he was able to do so within the three minutes. Mladic smacked him on the back and told him, "Get out of here, before I change my mind!"
Pissing his pants with fear, literally, the man ran as fast as his legs could carry him. A gazelle hoping to avoid the lion through sheer speed alone. He managed to get outside fine and was allowed to leave, as Mladic promised.
Mladic cracked his knuckles, sat down in front of the system, and readied to speak.
"Attention citizens of Mississippi... This is... This is..." He hesitated, not knowing what to say, then it came to him, in a flash, a revelation. "This is Lieutenant Joseph Mladic and this is the White People's Radio, bringing you the news of the white revolution... We are on the march, our race is marching on, the revolution has begun, and it will not end until the mechanisms of the state have been subordinated to serving us, rather than oppressing us. We will not eat, we will not rest, we will not stop, we will do nothing except fight, and we will fight until victory, or until the cold embrace of death strikes us down. This movement will succeed, already we have landed forces throughout the nation, the president is dead, the cabinet is dead, the legislators are dead, the supreme court was killed in a VX gas attack. There is no government left for whom you need owe your allegiance. Instead, forsake the old, and pledge your allegiance to your race, your people, for God and people, we march onwards to victory!"
bump, next post will be about the war, not a lame bump.
The cool morning breeze of January 23rd, 1984, rushed over the 2nd lieutenant, he was now elevated to commander of an entire army, it was almost too good to be true, but then here he was. Right now however, he was standing in the doorway of a C-130, about two miles outside of the center of Jackson in Mississippi. He was thinking of his wife and the other whites left behind in Cambodia, praying the three companies of paratroopers would be sufficient to hold the base until the families could be brought back to Mississippi as the government was chased out.
He was suddenly shaken from his thoughts by a loud voice, "Sir, jump, we're over the Drop zone, go, go, go."
The man behind him gave Curtis a gentle push, he fell out the door, tucking his arms in as the air rushed against him, nearly knocking him unconscious at the first thud as his parachute ripped open and immediately slowed his descent.
He looked around and was amazed by the enormity of it all. Over eighteen thousand parachutes were falling down to the Earth, all around him, each one safely carrying a warrior ready for combat...
Fabus smiled as he thought about it, "What a way to start the day", he thought to himself, as the morning sun started to peek out from behind the all-concealing clouds of the night.
On an Ohio Class SSBN in the mid-Atlantic, the crew was restless, the captain could sense a mutiny was brewing, or already well underway.
The thirty-two year old Lieutenant Juan Carlos De Rivera was sitting in the officers’ mess, talking with twelve other conspirators; they were going to seize the submarine, intact, with nuclear missiles and all.
There were also two other key personnel in the officer’s mess at the time, the twenty-eight year old Radomir Stevanovic, and the twenty-year-old Slobodan Karloff. Stevanovic was the weapons officer, in charge of the key to the weapons locker, and as such, he was one of the most important men to have on the side of the plot. Two WKM members were hanging around outside the officer’s mess, attempting to act casual, but actually keeping a silent watch for any possible problems that might come walking by. Karloff was the marine sergeant of the guard, and as such, he was also a very important person to have involved with the plot.
The conspirators worked out their plan, Stevanovic was going to open the weapons locked, give each of the thirty total conspirators an MP-5 or an M-16, and a pistol. They were going to position themselves on crucial spots throughout he submarine, the bridge, the engine room, the operations room, etc.
It was going to go down hard and fast, the captain was in his quarters, already three men with pistols should be in there, silencing him, quietly, they all had silencers, homemade but still effective.
Rivera and the others walked slowly and casually out of the officers’ mess, each man walking back to his quarters to make the final preparations.
About twenty minutes later, Rivera gave the first signal by announcing over the comm. A joke, as was usual each night, but this joke was different, he didn’t give the answer for over two minutes, he asked, “What is the difference between a dead lawyer and a dead dog in the road… I’ll let you all ponder that one for a few seconds.” While he was waiting to reply, the others jumped into action, moving rapidly to the weapons locker. Stevanovic quickly unlocked it and started handing out weapons, helmets, and body armor. The men started to move to their appointed positions. Finally, when the men were about ten seconds from the bridge, River announced over the speaker, “The difference is skid marks in front of the dog, nobody brakes for lawyers, just like we don’t brake for communist scum!” That was the second signal, across the ship, the teams jumped into their positions, taking everybody else by surprise. Suddenly across the submarine, the crew was facing down three-dozen guns from the mutineers.
Rivera walked up to the captain, “Give me the missile key!” he barked.
The captain looked at him defiantly, “You won’t get away with this.” He sternly said.
Rivera smiled, “I already have”, he boasted, before cutting the captain down right where he stood, with a 9mm pistol.
Rivera took the key off the body, and then he started to walk towards the operations room, where the missiles could be launched. They were going to detonate six nuclear missiles, ground detonations, not air detonations, against government bunkers and hardened installations. He quickly stopped, turned around, handed the key to Stevanovic and told him, “You have the comm., get ready to launch, keep the captain’s key here, insert it into the command panel when I tell you, listen for the radio.”
bump for more to read, next post will be about the war, not a bump.
When is that war post coming?
When is that war post coming?
Time constraints, and I've got a lot of RL work to tend to, and other such. Expect a post within 6-24 hours.
In Jackson the government, well what was left of the government, was in complete and utter disarray. The president was dead, the legislature was dead, the cabinet was dead, the supreme court was dead, this raised the question as to who the central authority figure would be, essentially there was nobody in charge, nobody who had the ultimate say.
The ohio class submarine mutiny would prove to be a crucial part of the revolution. The nuclear missiles she was carrying would soon come crashing down on the major government military installations, razing them to the ground, totally obliterating them beyond all recognition.
Curtis Fabus and his command unit were busily directing the campaign from an old mansion in Jackson, He was issuing dozens of orders every hour, and often he’d issue one order, and then quickly counter the order with new contradicting orders.
Meanwhile, Francisco Salazar was well on his way to earning his nickname, he’d used Sarin gas against two dozen cities that were identified as government strongholds. The war had only been going on for a few days and already under his orders, over two hundred thousand civilians.
The remnants of the government leadership apparatus were frantically attempting to pull the situation together and rally their 38 divisions to defend their corrupt and ill-fated regime. They were considering looking to the Eastern Bloc and the Afro-Asiatic bloc of the Marxist nations and of international jewish finance, for assistance in their civil war. However jewry was busy making a killing selling weapons to both sides in Iran and Iraq, and the personification of jewry, Israel, was still reeling from the conflict in Lebanon. As for the USSR and the Eastern Bloc, the USSR was having troubles in Afghanistan and the Eastern Bloc nations had piss poor economies that were barely able to stay solvent.
The only help that the Marxist regime would receive would be in the form of 800 T-72 tanks, 2,000 BMPs, and 300 assorted MiG fighters from the USSR and the Eastern Block. However most of these weapons would be seized by the white rebel army and guerilla forces as they arrived at the ports.
Ooc- More to come soon
The warm Gulf air blew over Mao Island, the manmade island south of Mississippi that was of such importance an entire brigade of white militia and a regiment of white marines had been tasked to take it. But it was going to require a great effort to storm the beaches as approximately forty thousand government soldiers defended the island. However the government soldiers had no high command left, they’d been destroyed when a nuclear missile crashed into High Command in Northwestern Mississippi, and then entire federal government had been crushed by the paratrooper drop into Jackson on the opening day of the revolution. The defenders also were poorly trained, lacked proper equipment, and really were only motivated by the knowledge that capture meant a painful execution at the hands of the whites they had so long oppressed.
The landing craft sped towards the beaches; Sergeant Paul Stahlecker was part of the 18th Marine Regiment that was going to be hitting the beach to open it up for the arrival of the five regiments of white paramilitaries later in the day. They’d been given eight hours time to blast their way two miles inland and then entrench and wait for the paramilitaries. They’d also have the help of approximately two hundred white men that were citizens on the island.
Paul tightly clutched his M-16A2 as the craft bounced with each wave, it was an understatement to say the waves that morning were rough, they were brutal… He leaned forward and vomited profusely as the craft crashed down on the next wave.
One the beach his company was to seize, codenamed “Tiger”, the two platoons of enemy soldiers were just starting to awake from the previous night of heavy drinking, they were anticipating a day of relaxation, perhaps some swimming in the warm waters of the Gulf that surrounded their island outpost. There were two bunkers, three pillboxes, and eight machine guns nests on their section of beach, but only one of the bunkers and one of the pillboxes were actually ready to be used, the others were just empty shells without equipment or weapons in them yet.
Eight miles behind the beach lines, there had been a fearsome battery of guns, eighteen 155mm howitzers, four 255mm howitzers, defended by two rifle companies, five bunkers, twelve pill boxes, a razor wire fence, and all surrounded by a minefield. The plan had been for the battery to be silenced by the two hundred white rebels already on the island, and supported by two squads of Peoples National Republican Guard (PNRG) commandos.
The plan had gone down without a hitch, at 4:45 am, approximately thirty minutes before the marines were to start hitting the first beaches, the twenty PNRG and two-hundred rebels launched a brilliantly executed assault against the massive artillery position, codenamed, “Lenin Heights” (The position was about one hundred and sixty-seven feet above sea-level)
As the first perimeter guard ran after his dog that had obviously smelled out the PNRG, they opened fire and thus began the assault. They had caught the Lenin Heights garrison off-guard, unprepared, the soldiers rushed from the barracks and bunker cots to main their weapons, all of them in various stages of undress, their white undershirts stood out particularly well in the black of night. The PNRG managed to fire rifle grenades into the bunkers while the rebels used deadly accurate sniper fire to suppress the machine gunners, anybody attempting to stick their head up long enough to aim his rifle was instantly shot dead by a rebel sniper. Within twelve minutes, the installation’s garrison had been neutralized and the PNRG and rebel taskforce, codenamed, “Taskforce Fabus”, had taken control of the most immediately important combat installation on the island.
At about 5:15 in the morning, the ramp of the landing craft Paul was on flung down into the surf and then men surged out, amidst a hail of machine gun and rifle fire from the groggy enemy units on the hills overlooking the beaches. Paul clutched his rifle tightly in both hands, firing on the run as he waded quickly through the waist deep water, around him soldiers were diving behind the beach obstacles, bodies of the dead, or bombed out landing craft. The blood was already starting to stain the beach.
Paul wound up in large artillery crater about twenty yards from the waters edge. He held a knife up and looked in the reflection, seeing the position of the most dangerous enemy machine gun, the one that was massacring the company. He aimed his rifle out, using the knife to pinpoint his aim, and fired a grenade from the M-203, the grenade slammed into the machine gun nest and the crew of the gun slumped over, fragments embedded in them.
Two more soldiers came running into the crater Paul was in; they dove in just as a mortar shell landed where they had been.
One of them was the regimental colonel, he looked at Paul, “Where is your company captain!” he shouted, trying to be heard over the sounds of the battle.
Paul shook his head and drew his finger across his neck while shouting, “A sniper got him!”
The colonel shouted, “Where is the lieutenant?”
Paul shook his head again, “Machine gun!”
The colonel patted him on the back, “Well sergeant, you’re a captain, now. Move your men off this beach before you have no men left!”
Paul nodded and shouted, “Yes sir!”
The colonel rolled out of the crater and ran off further down the beach before diving into another crater where a makeshift communications post had been established. A few minutes later, the battleship Paul had been on began laying down a massive fire against the beach bunkers. Under the cover of this fire the platoons in his company advanced to the edge of the hill with minimal losses.
Paul looked up and could see two of the bunkers were still full of life, he personally tossed a hand grenade up at one but it fell short, impacting on the outside and doing only cosmetic damage to the concrete…
After using bundles of C4 to clear a path through the razor wire, two squads of combat engineers moved into position to assault the two bunkers.
One of the men tossed a bundle of C4 at the door of the first bunker and the squad dove for cover as the bunker door and wall were blown inwards. A dozen screaming government soldiers came charging out, submachine guns and rifles blazing… However the M-60 and flamethrower made short work of them. Paul shouted, “Let the bastards burn!” as he noticed a soldier in his unit was leveling his MP-5 to strafe the government soldiers on fire.
The next bunker was stormed after a dozen or more hand grenades were thrown through the door that was blown off by the simultaneous impact of six RPG-7s. The two shocked survivors quickly threw up their arms into the air and shouted “We surrender!” a young corporal unholstered his 1911 and shot both of them, one in the head, the other in the chest, before he tucked his pistol away and chuckled, “Duly noted.”
From the commanding heights that Paul now commanded, he looked out over the beach, it was littered with weapons and equipment dropped by the dead, the wounded and dying could be heard crying for help. The shrieks of rocket artillery and mortars was still going overhead. In the distance he could see the flash of the big guns of the battleship. In the not so distant, he could see the red blood of dozens of martyrs from his company washing up against the shore, splashing against the sand with the crest of each new wave, the crimson salt water crashing against the golden sands of the island.
A young lieutenant looked at Paul, “Sir, shall we report to high command that we’ve landed successfully at Mao Island?”
Paul shook his head, “No… We’ve landed on Fabus Island.”
Kick-ass thread, DA!
Kick-ass thread, DA!
Ooc- Thank you. :D Also note that the terms People's National Republican Guard (PNRG) and National People's Republican Guard (NPRG) are interchangable as the group was known by either name. It later became not a paramilitary unit, but a quasi-military elite formation known simply as "Republican Guard" and then there was the "Special Republican Guard"
Just wondering Did the Whites lose a single major engagment? anyway vary good read the post about George and his wife and kid makes me feel sorry for the wife and aurther. Did Aurther ever make something of big of his life? also how did George die if thats not to much to ask (just wondering).
Just wondering Did the Whites lose a single major engagment? anyway vary good read the post about George and his wife and kid makes me feel sorry for the wife and aurther. Did Aurther ever make something of big of his life? also how did George die if thats not to much to ask (just wondering).
Ooc- Arthur Nelson is the Captain of the Curtis Fabus Alpha Company, the Special Republican Guard unit tasked with immediate 24 hour security of Curtis Fabus, from 1984-2004, they were with him EVERYWHERE he went. At least one squad was. You will see how his father died, you will see. Arthur Nelson is the most well-known of the SRG members.
Captain Arthur Nelson (27) He is the Captain of Curtis Fabus’s Personal Guard Company, Alpha Company of the Special RG Division “Curtis Fabus”. Captain Nelson is fiercely loyal to the Curtis Fabus and Nelson along with the company will always accompany Curtis, wherever he is at, the Alpha Company is near him. 6’8. 256lbs. Black hair, blue eyes. IQ 143.
The entire militia brigade and the entire 18th Marine regiment were fighting their way towards their objectives on the recently renamed Fabus Island. Major Paul Stahlecker, (recently promoted when an artillery shell hit the original Major’s staff car) was readying his battalion to advance inland and seize “Mao City”, they were to take four companies of marine infantry, two platoons of mortars would provide support, and six companies of white militia would provide a diversionary attack along the southern sector of the city, while simultaneously, twelve companies of white militia would assault the eastern defenses and overwhelm them in close-quarters combat.
Paul and his command platoon were dashing from building to building inside Mao City, well the bombed out ruins of Mao City. Twenty-four hours of constant air and artillery attacks had turned the once bustling city of four hundred thousand into a pile of twisted rubble and ruins, with most of the citizens having fled into the surround countryside. The White militia had setup a “Sniper alley” along the eastern and southern roads leading into and out of the city, anybody they didn’t think should be leaving was stopped dead in their tracks, quite literally.
The unit Paul was commanding was gradually sweeping their way towards the center of the city, overcoming the horrible weather, rains driven by hurricane force winds, and the enemies horrible yet horribly inaccurate artillery fire.
Suddenly a sniper round rang out, a bullet impacted and tore into the cement curb about six inches from Paul’s leg, he rolled and dove behind the wreck of a car. A corporal nearby dove for cover as he shouted, “Sniper!”, while diving, a round tore into his stomach, he was kicking around in pain, the medic shouted, “Stay still, stay still, keep pressure on it!” the media rolled out from behind a truck while six other soldiers fired their M-14 rifles against where they suspected the sniper was. Fortunately the sniper had ducked to avoid a lucky barrage that hit against the wall near him. The medic made it to the corporal and started working on the wound.
Another soldier wasn’t as lucky, he realized he dropped his rifle in the middle of the street; he jumped up to go get it, Paul shouted, “Get down! Leave the rifle!” the man took a bullet right between the eyes. The enemy sniper was an expert, whoever he was.
For the next twenty minutes nobody dared move and inch, everything was quiet, except for the rain smashing against the cement, but it had died up over the last ten minutes, so now a surprisingly ironic calm pervaded. The weather was calm, but every soldier was almost literally shitting his pants with fear and anticipation of what would happen.
The sniper had the entire platoon pinned down, one soldier tried to get a view of what was going on by slipping a mirror taped on a knife up above the steel dumpster he was behind. The sniper put a round right through his hand, he’d stuck his hand too far out. The man screamed in pain, “Ah Fuck! Somebody do something!”
Suddenly from across the street, about twelve hand meters away, another shot rang out, they saw a man about six hundred meters in front of them fall from his perch in a clock tower down about sixteen stories to the ground, his body smashing hard against the pavement. About five minutes later they saw an unusually tall teenage boy walking towards them, he was six foot even and only fourteen years old. He was cradling a custom made M82A1A .50 caliber Barrett rifle in his arms.
Paul looked at the young boy, “Who the hell are you?”
The boy smiled, “I am Karl Von Konig, I leave here on this island, I thought your unit was in trouble, I’d been tracking that man all day trying to get a good shoot on him…”
Paul sighed, “Aren’t you a little young to be out here all alone?”
The boy shook his head, “No, I’m fourteen, I’ve been shooting since I was four. I think I can handle myself, I’ve spent the last six months in the woods, living off the land, the government, I don’t trust them, they’re up to something… I’ve been picking them off one at a time over the last six months as well.” The boy let them see the stock of his rifle, there were at least sixty notches on the stock, thirty on each side.
Paul smiled, “Ah, so you must be that sniper that kept making the news, eh? Well you’re a big kid for your age, are you in the militia?”
Karl smiled and shoot his head, “Nah, I’m my own militia, I only have a spotter, that is all I need.”
Stahlecker was puzzled, “Where is he?”
The boy smiled, “Ah, he is covering us, you don’t think I’d be foolish enough to come out like this without somebody to provide anti-sniper cover for us, do you?”
Paul nodded, “Good idea, so what are you going to do now?”
The boy grinned, “Go hunting, it’s open season.”
Paul smiled, “Okay, well take care, and have fun.”
The boy ran off down the road, and then Paul saw him climbing a ladder onto the roof of a tall building. He then saw a man running from where the boy had previously been and moving towards the new position.
Paul signaled his unit to move out, they heard the young sniper’s rifle firing away at an approaching battalion of enemy soldiers. Over the next four hours, he neutralized four hundred and twelve of the five hundred enemy soldiers in the battalion, effectively destroying the most significant opposition to the white forces in Stahlecker’s area of operation.
Young Karl had run out of .50 caliber ammunition after he made his two hundredth kill for the day, he set his 50 caliber Barrett aside and made a mental note of where it was so he could retrieve it at a later date. His spotter gave him one of the two rifles he carried (The spotter carries a scoped M-14 and a bolt action Remington 700 caliber 308)
He was now about three miles away from where he’d been earlier in the day when he met Stahlecker and his unit.
Karl was walking along slowly through an alley when suddenly heard a noise from almost five hundred meters away, somebody working the bolt on a rifle, he knew what it meant, he dove for cover and fired once as a shot rang out and impacted where he had been. He’d let his guard down and it almost cost him, he quickly worked the bolt on his rifle to reload it. He knew where the shot had come from, he raised his rifle and used a mirror to look through the scope as he aimed it. He eased back the trigger and he heard the sound of a helmet and a rifle impacting against concrete. He looked out with his binoculars and saw the dead man, hunched over the side of a balcony, his helmet and rifle on the ground below.
The boy smiled as he reached into his right BDU pocket to remove a small tin of nasal snuff, he took a quick sniff of it and then tucked it away and moved off into the increasingly dark and calm city. The sun was rapidly retreating behind the clouds and already in just twenty-four hours, the white militia regiments and the marine battalion had secured over thirty percent of the city. Over twelve thousand government soldiers were dead and the command center had nearly been overrun. The white militia forces were entrenched in a park about six hundred meters from the government forces corps command station, they would start the assault at about 4:30 the next morning, just before sunrise.
bump for more to read, next post probably won't just be a lame bump but rather the RP info about the civil war going nuclear. :)
Bump, the next post (to be posted in a few days at the most) will be about the nuclear release, the fightings on Mao (Now Fabus) Island, and a few other interesting things. I thank you all for your patience.
Maybe you can make some maps. :D
The Ohio SSBN submarine in the Gulf of Mexico crept silently forward, it was three hundred miles from Mississippi, it came to a halt. Lieutenant Juan Carlos De Rivera was now the captain of the ship, the Marxist captain was lying in his quarters, four holes in his head from a silenced pistol. Radomir Stevanovic was on the bridge, he had the comm. As for Slobodan Karloff, he was in the engine room.
Rivera inserted the missile key into the panel, he and Stevanovic were speaking over the radio, Rivera wiped the beads of dripping sweat from his forehead before saying, “On my mark… Three… Two… One… Mark.” The two men turned their keys simultaneously and the control board to enable the launch lit up like a Christmas tree.
Six Trident C-4 missiles, each with eight MIRVs, the main target had now been shifted away from military bases and to the black ghettoes and the white liberals and moderates in Jackson. Fabus wanted Jackson completely wiped out; the stain of Marxism would be permanently removed from Mississippi. He would rebuild the city after the war, a shining beacon of hope and light for the white movement. But now, now, the sick city of urban decay and perversion, it would have to be wiped out. Forty million people lived in Jackson, well Fabus only counted ten million of them as people, although they probably shouldn’t even have been counted, they’d forsaken their white roots, they deserved no quarter, and they’d get none.
Suddenly the surface of the ocean above the submarine was broken, as the tubular objects cut through the surf and the waves, flames streaking behind them. The government radar, well what was left of the government command and control in Mississippi, detected the launch. There was nothing that could be done, there was nobody to counter-launch against, these were rebels, and they had no real base of support. However one thing was known, Stahlecker Munitions Company was based in South Africa and Argentina, perhaps the government should retaliate against them.
The government ordered their four remaining missile bases (three siloes in each base, each missile has 8 MIRVs) to target Johannesburg, Pretoria, Cape Town, Durban, East London, Kimberly, Bloemfontein, Port Elizabeth, Upington, Pietersburg, Buenos Aires, Cordoba, Salta, Mendoza, Bahia Blanca, Viedma, Mar del Plata, Santa Fe, San Juan, and Corrientes.
The missiles were being readied for launch when Jackson was wiped off the face of the earth in a magnificent streak of white, blinding light, incinerating all in it’s path. Nothing was left of Jackson and nothing was left of Hinds County. The port cities, Marx City, Lenin City, and Trotsky City, were all leveled by the MIRVs. Over two hundred million people had died in a matter of minutes, and millions more would die in the coming days from horrible and unspeakable radiation side effects.
As the silo bases were readying to launch against Argentina and South Africa, the WPSAAS (White Peoples Special Air Assault Squads) were readying to storm each silo and seize or destroy them before they could do anything that might endanger the campaign. They had no way of knowing that the missiles were being fueled for launch and would be ready within an hour.
Meanwhile, on Mao Island, the young Karl Von Konig was creeping forward, he’d crawled two miles in the last three days, inching his way closer and closer to the Head Quarters of the Field Marshal of “Army Group Mao Island” as the government had designated his command. In reality, he had no army group, his forces were falling apart at the seams, they were losing ground on all fronts, being squeezed into narrow pockets throughout the island, even though they outnumbered the white rebels by at least 7 to 1, they had been outmaneuvered and outfought, and now they were being surrounded by them.
The white forces on the island were bolstered by approximately 300 T-72 tanks that they had seized at the main port on Mao, now Fabus, Island, as they were being sent via transports from the USSR to the government forces.
The only problem was that two battalions of Cuban paratroopers, and one brigade of Eastern Bloc paratroopers had dropped into the island after the whites started seizing the shipments intended for the government forces. Thus the government army had 30,000 of her original 40,000 soldiers still alive, and now had 1,000 Cubans and 5,000 Eastern Bloc soldiers to bolster their effort against 700 of the original 1000 white marines and 3900 of the original 5000 white militia.
But there were a few things they weren’t counting on, and one of them was Karl Von Konig. The white forces had the government soldiers surrounded, but now the Eastern Bloc and Cuban paratroopers essentially had the white forces pinned down in a few sections of the city, the airfields, the initial beachhead, and a few other small sections of the island. But Konig was going to change that. He continued to crawl forward until he found what he considered the “perfect spot”. He pulled his ghillie suit tight over his body, only the barrel of his rifle stuck out from under the camo suit, but the entire barrel was expertly covered with the right amount and type of local foliage.
The field marshal of the government forces, along with the brigadier general (An East German) his five colonels (Polish, East German, East German, Russian, Russian), the Cuban colonel was also present as were his two majors. It was a golden opportunity for Konig. He found the range to be 1,000 meters, they were going to be tough shots, but in all his years of shooting, the boy had never failed to hit his mark if he took his time and did it right.
The fourteen year old Konig lightly clicked the safety off.
The field marshal of the government forces was pointing to a map and shouting, demanding that the Russians colonels get their regiments in position to relieve two brigades of government soldiers that were under rebel mortar and artillery barrage.
He was now demanding the East Germans and Poles attack and take a hill that was crucial for artillery spotting, currently held by two companies of white militia and two platoons of marine infantry, yet eight regiments of government forces had attacked it twenty-six time over the last three days, all they had achieved was four thousand wounded and two thousand dead, effectively striking six regiments from their order of battle, managing to kill or wound only about fifty of the white defenders.
He moved his hand towards the map again, it was the last thing he did before a 308 round from Konig’s rifle tore into his head, blasting his brains out against the board and the map. The other present were almost too shocked to move. As the East German brigadier general attempted to dive behind a nearby crate, he was shot once through the neck and then a second shot and he was hit between the eyes as he was collapsing down from the neck wound.
The Russian colonels both ran for a nearby building’s door, the first man was shot in the shoulder blade, a quick follow-up shot struck him in the side of the head. Konig swung the M-14 slightly to the right and drilled another round, aimed at the second Russian colonel, hitting him square in the temple as he was just entering the doorway, the door swung back and knocked him down the small staircase, he was dead before he hit the ground, blood seeping out of the side of his head.
The Polish and two East German colonels had taken cover behind some crates, Konig placed where they were behind the crates by looking at their shadows. Suddenly six rounds were fired in rapid succession and three colonels slumped over, each had been hit by at least one round in the chest.
The Cubans panicked and ran for their staff car, all three of them were killed by headshots, nothing special for Konig, just most of the usual. The entire base was thrown into chaos, the alarms were raised, an entire regiment sized force was pulled out of the barracks (four companies were government, one East German, one Russian, and three were Cuban)
Konig checked the magazine on his M-14S rifle (S=Sniper model, 24 inch barrel and it’s made of heavier and more solid metal, a deadly accurate scope, bipod, total weight of the weapon system, 29 lbs)
Konig had been keeping a mental count, he realized he had five left in the current magazine and then he had twelve more 20 round magazines with him. 308 rounds were heavy, and he couldn’t carry nearly as many as he wanted, but he’d make them all count.
He picked his next target, an NCO rallying a squad to attempt to place where the fire was coming from. He blew a round directly into the man’s mouth as he was shouting at his men. The entire squard broke ranks and started to scurry away, terrified that if their commanders could be killed so easily, there was no hope for them.
Konig started firing in rapid succession, as any man stuck his head up of moved and inch, he was hit. Over the next hour, Konig neutralized two hundred enemy soldiers, before he faded off quickly into the encroaching night.
The enemy had believed that they were under attack by at least a brigade sized force, but that made no sense to them, the whites only had less than 4500 soldiers, and they were all scattered throughout he island, mostly pinned down… The government would name this “The Battle of the Phantom Brigade” because none of the soldiers in the base had actually seen a single enemy soldier. But surely, for the volume of fire, and the accuracy of the fire, there had to have been enemy soldiers lying in wait all around the base.
Konig was asleep now, his scout/spotter keeping watch, they were four miles away from the base now and Konig smiled in his sleep as he thought about his exploits of the day. He could very well have been killed, not managed to escape, and it still may be a real possibility… But at least he would be able to have made a very valuable contribution, neutralizing the entire senior command structure of the Eastern Bloc forces and the most senior commander of the government forces.
(All East Bloc ranked colonel and above were at the meeting, as were all Cubans ranked major and above) They let their guard down because they had been in a base well away from the front, the nearest white units were a few companies of militia and platoons of marines on a hill eight miles away, surrounded by government forces, being starved into submission, so the commander had told his Eastern friends…. But they were wrong, on Hill 98, the marines and militia were dug in and ready to fight to the death.
Paul Stahlecker and two platoons of his marines were on Hill 98, they’d been in the area when an understrength battalion of white militia on the hill put out a desperate call for assistance, they were being attacked by three regiments of government soldiers and needed any and all help. Stahlecker detached the majority of his battalion to stay and fight in the main cities while he led three platoons towards the hill.
On the way to the hill, which was six miles from the small suburb of the main city which they’d been in, his company sized force ended up marching headlong into a battalion of government soldiers and two companies of Cuban paratroopers. The Marxists were all sitting down to lunch, not having posted any security except for a few soldiers here and there, but over ninety-five percent of them were eating at the same time, and right alongside the main road!
Paul’s men were surprised by the size of the enemy force they’d blundered into, but even more surprised by the total lack of professionalism the enemy had shown. Stahlecker shouted, “Forward!” as he raced across the road, diving into the ditch alongside, firing away with his M-14 rifle as the Cubans raced for their rifles which they’d left leaning against the wooden fence that was above the ditches on either side of the road.
Stahlecker rushed forward, throwing a grenade at the squad of Cubans, killing all nine of them, they were so close and tightly packed the blast had no trouble blowing them all to pieces. Now smoke and dust flew into his face as he continued to run. A man aimed a submachine gun at him but the soldier behind Paul dropped the Cuban with a burst from his rifle, the Cuban contorted backwards as the heavy FMJ 308 round tore through his chest.
The government troops were taken completely unprepared by the rapid assault against three sides and they broke ranks and ran, stripping their equipment off to gain speed. Only one company of government soldiers, and the Cubans, put up anything that could even be considered resistance. After twenty minutes, it was over, six hundred enemy dead, but at the cost of twenty-eight dead marines. The Cubans had put up the most resistance, appropriating an abandoned barn to make their last stand before they were overrun and killed in hand-to-hand combat or with grenades.
Now Paul and his two surviving platoons were entrenched on Hill 98, the most commanding position between the suburbs to the city to the east, and the four camps/bases of government soldiers to the west. From here, he could shell the main government airstrips and shut them down to supplies.
The two white militia companies had four 155mm howitzers and twelve 120mm mortars on the hill; they had managed to lug the guns up the hill with little more than determination and sheer muscle power. And the method they’d use to get the guns, it was a feat they were more than proud of.
Early in the morning of the initial beach invasion, a battalion of white militia, “Rhino Battalion” had been skirmishing with government soldiers near the northwestern swamp regions, about four miles west of the hills. They’d been under incessant fire all morning from mortars and howitzer, but it was horribly inaccurate and finally two companies from the battalion launched a feign frontal assault, going prone and providing a massive amount of suppressive fire, while one company maneuvered around and hit the right flank, and another company maneuvered around and hit the left flank.
As the enemy stripped soldiers from the center of their line to counter-attack on the flanks, the two companies in front of the enemy position launched a frontal assault and through sheer fanaticism and disregard for losses, they managed to break the enemy line up.
What was left of the enemy regiment promptly surrendered and they were then left to hang from nearby trees. The “Rhino Battalion” was no longer a battalion on anything except paper, they’d lost at least fifty-five percent of their strength in the assault, but they managed to capture the important artillery guns, and intact at that, and now they’d turn the guns against their former masters.
Now Hill 98 was a mess. Paul hadn’t slept in three days, they’d fought over almost thirty enemy assaults. When the enemy realized how important the hill was, they’d thrown every nearby regiment against it, less than three hundred whites, two hundred and forty of whom were militia, had held the hill and repulsed the first assaults by two thousand government soldiers, and then a series of wave attacks, ultimately culminating in an assault by eight thousand government soldiers, which was soundly defeated by direct fire artillery support.
Paul struggled to keep his eyes open and struggled to breathe, the stench of decaying flesh hung in the air, it made him physically sick. He’d lost count of how many enemies he’d killed in the last few days, but it was sort of a good feeling. What wasn’t a good feeling was how many of his men he’d seen die, and the thoughts of how many of his men in the cities were dying each day, each hour, each minute…
Suddenly an aide shouted, “Enemy armor! Incoming enemy armor!”
Paul looked through his binoculars to see no less than fifty enemy T-55 tanks accompanied by four hundred BTRs and two hundred BMPs moving towards the hill in a massive wedge formation. Paul’s jaw dropped and he thought to himself, “This is about to get very interesting…”
bump for more to read, update soon.
Hill 98 was being assaulted by a government armored brigade and six government infantry regiments. Against this assaulting force, there were only about one hundred and twelve of the original two hundred and forty of the white militia still alive, and Paul’s marine detachment was done from sixty-one, to about twenty-nine.
There were two MILAN teams in the marine unit and six RPG teams in the militia, it was all the anti-tank weapons that they had to stop no less than six hundred armored vehicles, at least fifty of which were T-55 tanks.
There were six regiments of enemy infantry moving alongside the armored vehicles, attempting to gain some protection from the shelling that was going on. The 155mm howitzers and 120mm mortars were mercilessly pound away at the approaching massed infantry. Howitzer gunners had a field day as they lowered their guns and used them as anti-tank weapons, picking off no less than sixty BTRs, forty BMPs, and ten of the T-55s, as they were still approaching the base of the hill.
Suddenly, the BMPs and BTRs accelerated forward and raced up the hill. The RPGs and MILANs came to life, silencing an addition fifty of the BTRs and twenty of the BMPs. The rest poured forward, proving to be far too numerous for the Anti-tank teams to stop. The BMPs and BTRs doors were flung open and over two thousand infantry poured out of the vehicles, surging forward against the first line of trenches.
The eight medium and light machine guns in the sandbagged positions opened fired, cutting a swathe into the waves of government soldiers. Paul directed the fire from his command position on the middle of the hill, in the center of the other trenches are firing positions. He didn’t like the recent developments. He realized at this rate, he’d be out of soldiers in a matter of hours at the most.
What he didn’t know was that right before the nuclear attacks against all the major port cities and the capital in Mississippi, the paratroopers had evacuated the regions around there and gone into the hills. But he was about to receive reinforcements from 2nd regiment of the 1st Brigade of the 1st Parachute Division.
For now though, Paul and his soldiers were alone. The hiss of the machine guns and the shouts of the dying was all that existed in his world. He didn’t even notice at first when two Mirage F1s flew in flow overhead and fired their 30mm cannons against any armored vehicles and enemy personnel they could identify. Nor did he quite realize what was going on as they dropped 500 lb bombs against clusters of enemy infantry, killing hundreds… But what they did that was most important, they each dropped two napalm bombs, setting over five hundred tightly packed enemy soldiers on fire.
But it wasn’t enough, Paul drew his pistol as his rifle had been empty for quite some time now. Most of his men were down to pistols and bayonets, just as he was. He ran forward, holding his pistol extended out in his right hand, four of the government soldiers ran out from behind a smoking BMP, he shot the first man twice in the body without even hesitating, he quickly shot the other two that went left, while a friend next to him shot the last man that went to the right.
Gunther Thaller and Hans Kaltenbrunner flew back over the battlefield again to strafe the enemy lines with their dual 30mm cannons.
Suddenly, Paul looked up and realized than about twenty C-130s were flying along at an altitude of perhaps four thousand feet… He suddenly noticed hundreds of men jumping out and floating down towards the earth, it was the 1,000-man reinforcement contingent from the 1st Parachute Division. At about the same time, he noticed that at least thirty T-72 tanks were arriving from the rear of the approaching government army… They were doomed now; there was nothing they could do… Paul watched as one by one the government vehicles and T-55s went up in large balls of flames.
The entire Mao Island Western Command, 18,000 soldiers, well the 7,000 still left in the Western Command were on the breaking point. They were being pressed into the guns of Hill 98, being pressed on the sides by paratroopers, and being pressed in the rear by a group of thirty tanks and about two hundred militiamen.
Paul urged his men on as he stopped briefly to pick up an AKM rifle from a dead Cuban advisor that had been with the government infantry. He chambered a round and then aimed it at the first group of government soldiers and opened fired, cutting six of them down before the others in the platoon knew what hit them. They all dove for cover, thinking they were under machine gun fire, not expecting the militia and marines to have any rifle ammunition left…
All the remaining militia on the hill dropped their largely empty rifles and appropriated whatever was available, mostly AKM rifles. They loaded up with enemy gear, which was scattered across the slopes of the hills in such large numbers it was impossible to miss, and they surged down the hill, firing wildly into the last remnants of the government infantry regiments pinned on the hill slope.
Within ten minutes, the remnants of the government Mao Island Western Command, a forces that had started out the campaign at a strength of 18,000 soldiers, 300 tanks, 800 trucks, 200 howitzers, and over 500 armored vehicles, had been reduced to nothing more than two battalions that promptly surrendered.
Paul motioned with his AKM as over one thousand government soldiers walked forward with their hands on their heads. They were being marched down the slope to an anti-tank ditch. The 1,000 rebel paratroopers were by now also deployed in full force.
The government commander looked at Paul, “Sir, what facilities will you be housing my men in?”
Paul smiled, “The same ones that the president housed the twenty thousand whites his goons took out of Jackson last month…” The colonel suddenly gasped, he knew what that meant, the president had twenty thousand whites shot and tossed into anti-tank ditches just to show the whites that he was in charge… Paul now intended to have all the government prisoners killed.
The colonel shouted to his men, “He’s going to kill us all, run!” before he bolted off down the hill. He only made it about twenty feet before Paul drilled him in the back with a burst from his AKM rifle. The other soldiers all around joined in, cutting into the lines of prisoners with their rifles. About forty seconds later, nothing was moving in the groups of the prisoners, Paul shouted, “Cease fire! Cease fire!” and moved his hand in the signal for “Cease fire”… All the firing immediately died down, except for a few trigger happy soldiers who received kicks in the pants from their NCOs for not ceasing soon enough.
Paul sighed, the battle of Hill 98 was over… He’d later find out the exact casualty report.
Government Forces Involved:
50 T-55s (Arrived on day 3)
400 BTRs (Arrived on day 3)
200 BMPs (Arrived on day 3)
60 Cuban advisors (Arrived on day 2)
600 Cuban infantry (All 600 were killed in a fight with marines a few hours before the battle began)
7,328 infantry killed.
3528 infantry wounded and survived (mostly by retreating into the woods)
1144 surrendered but executed immediately after.
50 T-55s knocked out (beyond repair, totally destroyed)
382 BTRs knocked out (beyond repair, totally destroyed)
176 BMPs knocked out (beyond repair, totally destroyed)
42 Cuban advisors killed.
18 Cuban advisors wounded and survived (mostly by fleeing in the few BTRs left intact)
Rebel/Militia forces involved:
89 Marine Infantry (note, 28 marines were killed fighting cubans on the way to the hill, a few hours before the hill battle began)
4: 155mm Howitzers
12: 120mm Mortars
1,000 Parachute Infantry (Arrived on day 3)
30 T-72 Tanks (Arrived on day 3)
200 militiamen (Arrived on day 3)
38 Marines killed.
23 Marines wounded.
192 Militiamen killed.
48 Militiamen wounded.
2 Howitzers knocked out.
5 Mortars knocked out.
96 Paratroopers killed
154 Paratroopers wounded
2 T-72s damaged (repaired)
17 militiamen killed
103 militiamen wounded
The entire western half of Mao Island was now secured. Paul wanted to smile as he was carried off the hill in a stretcher by the two marines still able to walk, but he couldn’t… Most of his men would never walk off the hill, those few from the original 81 marines he’d led towards the hill that were still alive, needed help to walk off the hill, or they had to be carried, as he was now being carried. He had been hit in each leg at least once and twice in the chest. One of the medics smiled at him, “Sir, how are you doing? Are you okay? Did you hear the good news…”
Paul shook his head, and whispered, “What, news, what could be good?”
The medic smiled, “Sir, we captured Mao City… They’ve renamed it Fabus City… The government forces are being pushed back onto the extreme eastern tip of the island… We have the government and their communist allies on the run…”
That was indeed how it was going, but the government was about to reinforce Mao Island with no less than twenty thousand soldiers.
Paul finally smiled and gave the medic a thumbs up, trying meekly to sit up, but losing his strength as he collapsed back into the stretcher. He was being taken to a nearby civilian hospital that had agreed to treat wounded rebels.
As the government was moving to reinforce Mao Island, so too were the rebels. Curtis had already sent one parachute regiment to the island, the one that helped out at Hill 98, and now three more parachute regiments were being sent to help secure the rest of Mao City against any attempts by the government forces to take it back.
Lieutenant John Tallmadge shrugged right before jumping off the C-130 at ten thousand feet above Mao City, it didn’t seem that great to him… His commander had shown him pictures of the city. As he got down to about one thousand feet, he realized that no less than ninety percent of the city had been leveled and ruined by artillery fire, it was a city in name only. It would be more appropriate to call it a pile of rubble that happened to have some order to it in that the piles were laid out as a city plan would be expected, in neat rows… Rows of rubble, that’s all it was now. A city of over five hundred thousand, reduced to rubble.
Near the ruins of a Jackson suburb that managed to avoid being totally destroyed by the nuclear blast by the fact it was fortunate to have been located on the extreme west of Jackson, while the warheads hit mostly along the eastern edge of the city, the battle was still raging. Two entire brigades of white paratroopers were in the thick of fighting against no less than four government divisions.
Navarre shouted as loud as he could, “RPG!” before he grabbed Fabus by his back harness and leapt out of the trench they were in seconds before a government RPG sailed into it. Navarre ended throwing Curtis down and jumping over him as the blast blew them clear away from the trench. They both rolled over from the from the blast.
Curtis smiled as he was laying on top of Bertrand, “Thanks pal…” Navarre sighed and pushed him off, “Get off, I don’t swing that way…” Curtis chuckled, “Neither do I. But really, thank you for saving me.”
Navarre shook his head, “It was nothing, sir, besides, you’ll do great things for our nation, if you died now, we’d all die, and our cause would die… Anyway, we’re best friends, you’ve always helped me, all throughout school…”
Curtis nodded, surprised that their section of the line was relatively quiet enough for him and Navarre to talk.. Suddenly he realized that it was just their luck that the enemy wasn’t pouring troops against their area. He shook his head, “Bertrand…” he raised his rifle and put three bursts down range, one each into an approaching enemy soldier, “We can talk later, we have a war to fight.”
As Curtis and Bertrand fired away, leading their units forward through the rubble, a LRRP team led by Herman Von Felben was making its way to the main dam on the Mississippian river. They’d already done their job involving the main airport, they’d done that weeks ago when the revolution started, they’d seized the airport so that dozens upon dozens of C-130s could land.
Felben moved forward slowly, he suddenly froze and motioned with a hand signal for his fire team to do likewise. They immediately froze in place, all four of the men were now frozen in place. The other two nearby teams also froze. There were only twelve of them, and already they could count at least a reinforced government rifle company coming down the main trail towards them. They’d have to go through the government soldiers to get to the dam.
Each fire team had two Squad Automatic Weapons to maximize their firepower. That meant six M-249 SAWs with 200 round magazines and 6 men with M-14K rifles (K=Kommando: Folding stock, 30 round magazine, grenade launcher under the barrel, early night vision scope and laser sights)
The M-249 operators got ready, and Felben managed to give hand signals for the men to ready their grenade launchers. As the government company was winding the trail and the most men that would ever be in the kill zone, entered the kill zone, Felben sprung the ambush by firing a grenade from his rifle.
Immediately all hell broke loose, five other grenades sailed into the enemy company, twenty enemy soldiers were dead instantly and thirty wounded. They had been far too close together in their formation.
The SAW’s had a field day as they tore into the tightly packed government forces. The government forces scrambled for cover in the ditches of either side of the road. However they weren’t counting on the ditches being flooded by recent heavy rains. They were bogged down in the chest deep waters as the SAWs and M-14s took heavy tolls on their units. More grenades continued to explode against them. Then hand grenades were tossed in against them when Felben’s men ran out of rifle grenades. Over twenty hand grenades had been thrown against the government forces lying in the ditches.
The government company commander, now a lieutenant as the captain was the first man killed, ordered a full retreat. The forty men left alive in his unit broke ranks, dropped all of their gear except for their rifles, and bolted off back the way they came, leaving their dead and wounded behind.
Herman couldn’t help but chuckle as his teams started to advance in the cover/advance manner. Two men on each fire team would go prone or kneel down and cover the other two men on the team as they darted forward for two to three seconds. After they made it to the ditches, they saw at least thirty wounded government soldiers lying around.
One of the wounded men, a white man, looked up at Herman, and struggled to talk as he coughed up blood. Herman’s sergeant pointed his rifle at the man’s head and asked, “Sir, do we take prisoners?”
Herman shook his head, “No, kill all that fight against us and eventually they’ll stop fighting against us…”
The sergeant immediately pulled the trigger and the man’s brains splattered all over Herman’s boots.
The rest of the unit fired bursts into all the other wounded. The men twisted and contorted as the heavy 308 FMJ extra-loaded rounds tore into them. (More powder and a longer cartridge, that is what the M-14K is, basically we call it “308 Long”, the other M-14 series (A,B,C, etc) are all regular 308, aka 7.62mm NATO. But the LRRPS prefer the range and power that the 308 Long gives them. 308 Long is a 225 grain round)
After they finished killing the wounded, Felben and his LRRP team continued to advance forward in the three man fire teams, stopping every few minutes to listen if they were being followed or if they were coming up on sounds of movement so they didn’t blunder into an ambush or into marching enemy soldiers. They grew closer to the dam…
In the remaining government missile silos, the WPSAAS (White Peoples Special Air Assault Squads) had launched their assaults, moving quickly to secure each of the missile silos before anything could be done with them. Those operations went well enough, what wasn’t going to go too well was the attempt to stop more eastern bloc forces from arriving in Mississippi to support the government forces.
Curtis Fabus and the White Knights of Mississippi had already been condemned by the United Nations for launching Mississippi into Civil War. The USSR had readied twenty-two infantry divisions to send to Mississippi to help the government “finish off” the “fascist rebels”, in reality, it was the government who was being finished off… Finished off by rebels that wouldn’t take anymore, they wouldn’t stand for seeing their sisters and wives raped and abused, their daughters and sons made slaves. They wouldn’t stand for it and so they were rising up.
After the aborted government forces attempts to launch nuclear attacks against South Africa and Argentina, both South Africa and Argentina dispatched forces to support the rebels. The total amount they sent was around two thousand from Argentina, one thousand from South Africa with ten Oliphant tanks and one hundred Eland MK-7s.
Cuba poured twenty thousand more “volunteers” into the conflict to support the government.
Mexico sent thirty thousand “volunteers” to support the government.
Bolivia, Chile, Paraguay, and Uruguay sent a total of about six thousand “volunteers” to support the rebel forces.
The Mississippian civil war, at least the Campaign for Mao Island, quickly became a slugging match for a large number of foreign powers.
Before the Soviet divisions could embark on their ships, the war in Afghanistan took a turn for the worse and almost simultaneously the Eastern Bloc nations revolted. Romania, Hungary, Bulgaria, Czechoslovakia, Poland, and East Germany all demanded large reforms and large measures of autonomy. East Germany and Poland, requested from Fabus, and were granted, the opportunity to withdraw all of their forces (a few thousand parachute infantry) from Mao Island. After they withdrew (and all the sides that were pouring reinforcements in, did so), it left the forces on the island at approximately.
45,600 Government soldiers (mostly infantry at this point as most of their vehicles and armor were wiped out in air attacks or by commando forces)
20,300 Cubans (2,000 paratroopers and 18,000 infantry)
30,000 Mexicans (20,000 banditos pressed into service, 10,000 regulars)
2,000 Soviets (All paratroopers)
3,900 white militia
560 white marines
3,400 white paratroopers
500 NPRG (National People's Republican Guard)
90 WPSAAS (White People's Special Air Assault Squads)
6,000 South American “Volunteers”
2,000 Argentine regulars
1,000 South African elite soldiers
The only real threat was from the now reinforced two Soviet Parachute regiments which were more than holding their own on the eastern extreme of the island on “Mount Mao” a very command location that allowed them to see the entire island and direct artillery fire against almost any location on the island. The mountain was four thousand, six hundred and twelve feet high (4,612 feet) and the soviets had airlifted heavy artillery onto the summit after a combat engineer company attached to the parachute units, constructed two airstrips. The positions along the slopes of the mountain were believed to be impregnable.
But Lieutenant General Paul Stahlecker, now overall commander of the joint multinational forces on the island, named “Task Fore Fabus Island” was going to prove them wrong. Paul had more than proven his worth as a field commander and as a man who could show initiative and snatch victory from the jaws of defeat, and thus he had become one of the most rapidly promoted men in the history of the Mississippian Armed Forces.
The task of seizing the mountaintop had been given to four regiments of South America, two regiments of white paratroopers, two regiments of white militia, and two companies of South Africa. A force of about 8,280 men total. Paul would have liked to send more men against the mountain, but his forces were already spread thin, and with Cubans and Mexicans landing all across the island, there just were not any soldiers to spare.
He turned the light off in his command tent and set the pencil that he was making marks on his map with down on the map. He would come back to it in a few minutes
Paul chuckled a little as he heard the news from Mississippi, the largest and most important dam in the nation had been blown up by what the government was calling, “Racist white terrorists” and it had flooded the massive string of Mississippi River area ghettoes and military bases. Over two million blacks had been killed when the dam burst and over ten thousand government soldiers were also killed when their barracks were washed away in the middle of the night, with them still inside.
Paul turned off the radio and went back to the maps, he finally decided on the best way to storm the mountain, an aerial assault combined with an assault by South American mountain battalions, in conjunction with a flanking assault by the South Africa, while the militia provided suppressing fire as they moved straight up the main passes. This would be preceded by a massive barrage of artillery, including chemical weapons such as VX, Soman, Sarin, Mustard, Tabun, Chlorine, and anything else they had in their arsenal that was in a shell and ready to go.
The battle for “Mount Mao” was about to begin, it would later be realized to have been the most costly battle (for the rebels) of the entire war, but possibly also the most decisive and important.
bump for the night
bump for more to read, next post will be an update, and it will come within 12-36 hours, possibly 1-4 updates in that time frame depending on how my schedule looks.
Mount Mao, she stood at an imposing four thousand, six hundred and twelve feet (4,612) feet above sea level. And today, she was to be taken, well that was the idea.
Paul looked out as the units slated to initiate the assault, made their final preparations.
The eight thousand, two hundred and eight soldiers tasked with launching the assault were all under the command of Paul Stahlecker, now a full General.
The assault began in earnest with a massive bombardment from over four mortars and fifty howitzers, in addition to direct support from twelve Mi-24s and three Su-25s, it was the most aerial support the rebels had on the island at the time, so it would have to do.
The units immediately assaulting the sheer cliff back side of the mountain, about forty South Africa commands, supported by the entire five hundred strong National Peoples Republican Guard, commanded by George Nelson, launched their assault, straight into six Soviet heavy machine guns.
The battalion immediately froze as the guns erupted with a roar, they all went prone. Nelson shouted, "Damnit! Forward! Come on men, do you want to live forever! Follow me!" He stood up and surged over the ditch they had all taken cover in, running straight for the nearest machine-gun nest, his M-14B rifle blazing away. The rounds seemed to whiz by him, nothing seemed to be able to touch him or the five hundred and forty behind him. The men started pouring more fire against the machine gun nests, rifles, SAWS, light machine guns, and grenades, until finally, one by one, each of the six nests had fallen.
It had taken four hours of close combat, eventually getting into hand-to-hand combat, often requiring that they physically overpower the defenders, to silence the six nests. But now, the NPRG and the South African commando teams had successfully taken the rear cliff of the mountain, cutting off all hope of retreat for the Soviet parachute regiment on the peak.
George sat down on, leaning his back against a rock, he struggled to take his pack off, it had been weighing him down all day and it felt good to get it off. He eased open his cigarette holder and took one out, lighting it up with a match before he let the match fly off into the strong wind that had recently started to sweep across the battlefield.
A captain came by to report to him the casualties suffered thus far, forty-six killed, one-hundred and twelve wounded, and four missing but presumed to have fallen off of the cliff and into the ocean, most likely dead.
George silently nodded, not knowing what to say, he had no answer for the captain, nothing he could say to make his subordinates feel better about the heavy losses their companies suffered, nothing he could say to make himself feel better. His units had been assigned some of the most difficult tasks for day one, and they'd accomplished most of them thus far. It had to be done, the task had to be done. They had to reach the summit, they had to, the campaign hinged on it. If the Soviets could get an operational airstrip on the summit, they could fly in thousands of reinforcements.
Currently, across the island, the entire government and foreign pro-government forces had been pushed into a small pocket, shaped like a clenched fist, with the thumb raised up and towering over the knuckles. Mount Mao was that thumb, and if it could be taken, the rebels could use it to rain death down on the entire pocket. Over ninety thousand soldiers crammed into a three by four mile pocket, trapped, praying for hope, but most realizing only death awaited them.
Ninety thousand soldiers, surrounded by fewer than ten thousand, the two forces were totally unequal. On paper the government and pro-government forces should have won this without effort, but in practice it was completely different. Only four thousand of the pro-government soldiers really were anything to worry about, they were 2,000 Cuban paratroopers and 2,000 Soviet paratroopers, elite soldiers. However, the Cubans were elite within their own armed forces, but not in comparison to others. The Missisippian militia were still better than the Cubans.
George was thinking about his wife and his son, Arthur was just a boy, George hoped he'd make it back to his wife and his son, he didn't want them having to worry about him, he knew if he died here on this rock, that it'd be months before they received word. And he didn't want his son not growing up without a father. But he also didn't want his son to have to live in a land of oppression and grow up in a program of marxist indoctrination.
He was suddenly shaken from his thoughts as AKM fire erupted all-around, it was an entire company of Soviets, supported by four battalions of Cuban infantry, and they were surging down from the summit, right towards Nelson's command. How the Cubans made it to the summit with the Soviets, without being noticed by Mississippian scouts, was beyond George, but he had no time to think about that, his forces were being attacked by well over two thousand men, and his own forces were already tired and strained from the previous hours of heavy fighting.
He raised his M-14B and started to fire, dropping Cuban after Cuban, and an occasional Soviet. His men were keeping up a good volume of fire, they'd been exchanging blows with the Cubans for about twenty minutes now, they'd already blunted the Cuban/Soviet plan to sweep down and overrun them, but now the Cubans were trying to overwhelm them with sheer firepower, an idea which might of worked had the Cubans been able to shoot worth a damn.
Nelson stood up and ran, counting to three before he dove down and fired, after a few seconds, he rolled, jumped back up and ran for three more seconds. He repeated this process until he arrived at the side of the South African captain in command of the Commando unit, shouting, "I need your men to flank the Soviets, get in amongst their command units and the Cuban command units, and take out as many of their leaders as you can..."
The captain nodded his head in acknowledgement, and then crawled off to get his unit ready and to coordinate the attack.
The NPRG continued to lay fire down against the Cubans and Soviets, as the South Africans maneuvered into position. Crawling well off to the side and coming up on the Soviets flank. They crawled for seemed an eternity, suddenly, through the tall grass, they could see Soviet radioes and they realized they were at the forward command, and they were looking at the company command post, there were a few Cuban commanders as well.
They fanned out and suddenly and without warning they crashed down upon the unsuspecting Cubans and Soviets, killing a dozen officers within second, and then dispatching almost two companies of Cuban infantry over the next ten minutes, before they faded back through the grass into cover and concealment of a nearby ditch.
Nelson smiled as he saw the flare shoot up into the air, knowing it meant the attacking force was without immediate coordination as the officers leading it were now all dead or incapacitated.
Nelson shouted, "Follow me men! Come on! Attack!" as he jumped up and ran forward, firing away again with his M-14 rifle, two companies (120 each) of his soldiers joining him, as the rest provided covering fire.
It was at that moment that Nelson stopped dead in his tracks and spat a red stream of blood out of his mouth, he sank to his knees, and then his head hit the ground, he was coughing up more blood, and trembling as he did so. He'd been hit by a burst of AKM rounds, shot in the left lung, the stomach, and the arm.
A nearby officer, a captain, rushed to his side, "The colonel's down!" he shouted as he dropped his own rifle when he got close enough to take the dying Nelson into his arms.
Nelson looked up, grabbing his collar tightly, "Captain, you get that flag up to the summit, and you fly it high, do you hear me... Raise that flag high, high... Press on, carry this attack home, do you understand? You're in command now..." He suddenly spat up more blood, shaking his head he said, "Don't let this all be in vain, get us a better nation so my boy can have a good life..."
The captain nodded his head and started to nervously and rapidly speak, mostly to try to reassure himself, "Yes colonel, yes sir, don't worry though, we'll get you a medic, you'll be okay, you'll be fine."
Nelson shook his head as his grip on the captain started to ease, "No, I won't... Now go, get the flag, get to... To... Summit... Raise it...High..."
Nelson's eyes froze open, the captain gently closed them and eased his body from his arms, softly back to the ground.
He took the flag out of the colonel's pack and tucked it into his own, then he shouted, "The colonel is dead! Follow me!"
He drew his pistol and the men surged forward.
bump for more to read, next post won't be a bump.
It was May 1st, Mount Mao, lay in rebel hands, the entire soviet parachute regiment at the summit of the mountain was dead, as were all the other government forces on Mao Island.
It had taken nine weeks to secure the last sections of Mount Mao, the Soviets would have poured reinforcements in but they had to use all available soldiers to attempt to hold the Eastern Bloc nations communist regimes together, as they were rapidly collapsing. And they also had to keep nearly 200,000 soldiers in Afghanistan as the situation there had gotten far out of control, the Mujahaden were giving them more than a run for their money.
Mount Mao had been fought well enough, the WPSAAS and South African Commandos had taken out the enemy command units in week one, through a series of lightning fast raids, sniper attacks, and deadly accurate mortar attacks. It had been tough going, over 200 South African soldiers and 40 of the WPSAAS were dead within the first week, but they’d managed to gain enough ground to get within near point-blank artillery range of enemy primary lines about 1,200 feet from the summit. (1,200 feet is basically near point-blank for 155mm howitzers)
It was a turning point, a crucial point, as the blood flowed red down the sides of the mountain, past the twisted and jagged rocks, the heavy howitzers were dragged up the footpaths of the mountain, into positions barely a stones throw to the enemy held summit, the main Soviet and Cuban position.
For the next seven weeks, there was a twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, non-stop, constant bombardment against the summit, hundreds of Soviets were killed and easily twice that many more were wounded. A total of 2,000 Soviets and 2,000 Cubans had taken refuge on the summit, praying for aerial reinforcement or better yet, aerial evacuation, but their hopes were dashed when on the second day of the siege, the airstrips were all cratered by heavy artillery.19
There was only one problem, there was a slight wedge in the lines where a reinforced Soviet parachute company, supported by a Cuban rifle company, had entrenched and dug in. This bulge jutted out into the lines of the South Africans and Argentines, and it would need to be crushed if the attack could press on, closer to the summit.
The entire 500 man National Peoples Republican Guard battalion present on the island at the time, the “Judgement Day” Battalion, the best of the white militia, and the unit tasked with providing a platoon to guard Curtis Fabus whenever he was making public appearances of speeches on behalf of the Mississippian National Front Party (Also known as the Mississippian National Stalinist Party or by its nickname “The Black Shirts”)
There were a total of six NPRG battalions in the entire NPRG formation, it was an elite force, and very selective. There were two battalions that specialized in operation of tanks, combined arms assaults, anti-infantry combat, and assaulting, they were the “Judgement Day” and “White Knights of Mississippi” Battalions. Then there were two battalions that specialized in counter-insurgency and anti-guerilla warfare, “The Black Shirts” and “The Empire” Battalions. Then there were two battalions that specialized in mechanized infantry combat, and close cooperation between mechanized forces and armored forces, the “Tours” and “Granada” Battalions.
The entire NPRG had only approximately 3,000 soldiers at the time, and 2,500 of them were in Mississippi crushing the remnants of the government forces near Biloxi and Philadelphia, before getting ready to push north towards the Tennessee border, along with two parachute divisions (about 22,000 per parachute division), where nearly 400,000 government soldiers were dug-in and ready to receive an assault, counting on Tennessee to provide support against the white rebels, if required.
But back to Mount Mao, and how it was finally stormed… For seven weeks, the Soviets and Cubans scarcely slept, scarcely ate, and eventually they ran low on food, water, medical supplies, and most importantly, ammunition. The white rebels had ringed the approaches around the hill with SA-7 teams and ZSU-23 AAA, of which the government forces had been provided ample supplies of, by the soviets. And now since most of the government forces on Mao Island were dead, the weapons could be turned against their former masters and used for the cause of liberty and freedom from Marxist oppression.
The NPRG battalion had been tasked with reducing the bulge of the nearly 280 Soviet and Cuban soldiers… It was going to be a frontal attack, supported by flank attacks to be made by Argentines, South Africans, and some special friends of Curtis, 100 Mujahaden, who had been fighting against the Soviets since 1979, had agreed to take part in the attack, and they had been on Mount Mao for four weeks now, to repay their friend Curtis for his efforts to help Mujahaden guerillas in 1982 and 1983.
At 4:50 a.m. on March 22nd, 1984, the “Battle of the Big Rock” began, that is what the fight to reduce the bulge came to be known as, because of the big collection of rocks central to the bulge position.
Time and time again, the NPRG attacked, only to be driven back with heavy losses by the enemy machine gun fire and other heavy weapons. Over fifty men were dead in two hours of heavy fighting. Finally it was decided that two regiments of Argentines would provide fire support and suppressing fire as the NPRG rapidly closed the distance so they could get into close quarters with the two enemy companies, now down to about a total of 240 men due to the heavy fighting.
The NPRG managed to ram right into the enemy units in front of them, although they suffered 60% casualties (killed or wounded) in the charge across the several hundred meters of “No mans land”, through sheer grit and determination they silenced the enemy positions in the “bulge”, but there was little left of the 1st NPRG battalion, not much left at all, the eighty or so men still able to fight dug in and readied for an enemy counter-attack.
Over the next twelve hours, twenty enemy platoons were thrown against the recently captured, “bulge” positions, a total of 600 soldiers, mostly Cubans but some soviets, were repulsed time and time again. The key, the NPRG were wearing a very good body armor, capable of stopping the 7.62x39mm and 5.45x39mm rounds of the Cubans and Soviets. Once they had taken the positions and the heavy machine guns were silenced, and they switched from attacking to defending, they only had to worry about infantrymen’s weapons as the soviets couldn’t attack carrying heavy machine guns.
The armor was called, “VG-HS83” (Volunteer Guard- Hans Stahlecker 1983) it was primarily intended for the Volunteer Guard, by the Stahlecker Munitions Company in 1983 in South Africa. Over 40,000 of the vests were distributed to South African soldiers, and over 20,000 made it into the hands of various Mississippian Rebels. The system incorporated a vest (weight 5lbs) with a front and back pocket for a “Rifle protection plate” (each weighing 4lbs) that would stop rifle rounds including calibers 7.62mm Nato, 5.56mm Nato, 5.45x39, 7.62x39, 30’06, etc. It was a revolutionary design, primarily the work of Baldur Von Schacht, Hans Stahlecker, and engineers for Hans’s company. It was something that other nations wouldn’t even come close to matching until 2000-2004.
Schacht had spent three years working on the armor, at least three years, and it was something that would later make him a very wealthy man, his chemical solutions had been used to strengthen and protect the materials in the vest, and so he had steady customers when Curtis finally secured his power in Mississippi.
The Soviets and Cubans had been amazed to find that their rifles failed to do anything serious to the NPRG, one Cuban commander shouted what translated into, “They’re not men! They’re devils!” before he dropped his rifle and ran. The armored men then launched a counter-attack and drove the Soviets and Cubans back, inflicting heavy losses.
Eventually, over time, the last remnants of the Soviet position began to crumble, WPSAAS and South African commandos put pressure all along the rear and flanks while the Argentines and White militia, and what was left of a white marines company, just drove straight into the enemy lines, the jaws of death. The task of making the final push against the last stand being made by a remnants of a Soviet battalion (About 300 strong) was given to 500 Argentines, 2,000 Mississippians, and 100 Afghan Mujahaden who believed they were repaying their debt to Curtis Fabus for his help from November of 1982 to March of 1983.
The soviets were scrambling back and forth, attempting to use flares and lights to signal their ships off the coast of the island, desperately requesting they make attempts to blast a corridor through for the trapped men to get to the beaches and possible extraction. However captured government shore batteries, and the arrival of eight captured frigates, and one battle ship, had proven enough to deter the soviets from attempting any serious amphibious operations.
However they weren’t about to abandon the men, 24 Mi-24 helicopters were dispatched from “Mississippian Front” (a force of 20 rifle divisions and 2 armored divisions based in Florida, readying to invade Mississippi himself) As the Mi-24s were coming in, each one was targeted by a Stinger team, one by one the helicopters were hit, and they fell from the sky. One of the hits was delivered by a Mujahaden team, who promptly started to shout, “Allah Ackbar!” and fire their AK rifles into the air. A nearby team of WPSAAS joined in shouting “God is great!” As well as firing their rifles. Thus ended the soviet attempt to relieve the pressure on the doomed men by aerial support.
For the next six hours, the Mujahaden dug trenches perpendicular to the soviet position, digging ever closer and closer, as did the white militia and other attacking units. Finally they were within 200 meters of the Soviets, they leveled RPGs and MILANS and began to fire, mortars came into action, rocket artillery streaking across the battlefield, men running from shell crater to shell crater as machine gun rounds impacted all around them. The dead were too numerous the count, the screams of the dying blended too much to distinguish individuals, it was a mass of dead, a mass of dying.
One ambitious soviet lieutenant decided to launch a counter-attack, he had assumed command of another lieutenant’s platoon after he had been shot, he led his fifty men out and across 50 meters of field, taking cover in shell holes, attempting to get close to the main Mujahaden attack to pour fire onto them and then get in closer for close-quarters combat. Two heavy machine guns, the last two soviet heavy machine guns, provided support and suppression fire for this maneuver. However suddenly rounds from 1500 meters away began coming in, it was a sniper, the machine gun crew of one of the heavy machine guns was dead before they knew what happened, all 3 men killed within 6 seconds by 50 caliber rounds to the head.
Konig adjusted his scope and took aim at the next gun crew, but not before he put a 50 caliber round right through the receiver of the now empty first machine gun, so nobody else could crew it. He then did likewise with the second machine gun and its crew, sparing none of them.
The soviet lieutenant suddenly realized his two platoons were hopelessly pinned down, he raised a white cloth, white cloths began to be raised everywhere along the disintegrating soviet perimeter, over two hundred men surrendered…
They were all taken to the edge of the cliff, made to fall on their knees and either renounce communism, accept Christ as their savior and declare that Curtis Fabus was their earthly leader, or they were shot in the back of the head and kicked off the cliff. Only two commissars and three officers refused, the entire mass of enlisted men all accepted the deal, they would go on to form the core of a new unit, called, “The Mississippian Foreign Legion” the battalion they formed would be called, “The Russian Free Corps”, and they would serve with distinction throughout the rest of the war.
All of the Cubans that surrendered, who were determined to not be of pure or nearly pure white ancestry, were mowed down where they stood, the rest (about 50) accepted membership in a support unit for the “Russian Free Corps”.
War reporters would show footage to the entire world of Mujahaden jumping up and down on top of wrecked Mi-24s and Mi-17, firing rifles into the air, shouting, “Allah Ackbar! Allah Ackbar!” before rolling out their prayer mats to pray, while Mississippian soldiers feel down to their knees and were blessed en masse by preachers and/or priests.
Every soldier who had fought under the rebel banner was at least wounded, nobody who served on Mao Island (Fabus Island) left without at least a minor wound, a scrape, flesh wound, infection, or something of the sort… But many who fought there, would never leave.
With the end of the battle for Mount Mao, whatever isolated forces remained on Mao Island, now officially recognized by most of the world as “Fabus Island” quickly surrendered or if possible dropped their equipment and fled for the shore, commandeering anything that would float…
But the Soviet Union was not to be bested, “Mississippian Front” comprised of 20 Rifle Divisions and 2 Armored Divisions was ordered to “Go ahead” with the planned invasion of Mississippi himself. The government army was on the verge of collapse, already the losses for the war amongst the militaries had been as follows.
Communist Forces of Oppression:
Government of the Peoples Socialist Republic of Mississippi: (Note most of these losses were incurred in the on-going fight for control of Mississippi, only about 10% of these losses occurred on Mao Island)
Captured: 200,000 (Executed unless white and pledged allegiance)
Wounded and evacuated: 200
Eastern Bloc Nations (Note that all Eastern Bloc nations withdrew from the war, except later Romania, Hungary, and Bulgaria will rejoin after their nations have new leaders placed in power by Soviet forces)
Captured: 600 (all returned)
Note that most Eastern Bloc forces were committed to Mississippi and not Mao Island.
Captured: 500 (Mostly executed)
Wounded: 14,000 (Mostly captured and later executed, some evacuated or escaped)
Captured: 4,000 (Mostly executed)
Freedom Fighting Rebels united under the banner of the outlawed “Mississippian National Front Party” and/or the “Volunteer Guard”.
White Militia: (a total of 100,000 militia had been mobilized by the end of Mao Island Campaign, the losses from that 100,000 were thus, note that these losses include White Militia killed/wounded in Mississippi and other theatres, where about 95% of white militia losses had occurred by this point)
Captured: 100 (executed)
White Marines (there was a total of 1,000 white marines at the start of Mao Island, due to the small number, exact figures are available)
Nation Peoples Republican Guard (500 took part in Mao Island)
White Peoples Special Air Assault Squads (90 took part in Mao Island)
White Paratroopers (about 4,000 took part in Mao Island)
South African Soldiers (approximately 1,000 fought on Mao Island)
Argentine Regulars (About 2,000 served on Mao Island)
South American “Volunteers” (Mercenaries and assorted soldiers. About 8,000 took part)
With her defeat on Mao Island, the U.S.S.R. officially declared war on the Mississippian National Front Party on May 3rd, 1984.
On May 5th, 1984, Argentina and South Africa officially declared war on the U.S.S.R.
On May 6th the recently reunited Germany, and many nations of the former Eastern Bloc (Poland, Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania, Czechoslovakia, Romania, Hungary, Bulgaria, etc) declared war on the USSR.
However the USSR toppled the regimes in Romania, Hungary, and Bulgaria, replacing them with Pro-soviet (soviet puppet) governments that immediately declared the USSR to be “Our glorious comrades and allies”.
However with the fascist regimes in Spain and Portugal still enduring, they joined what the free nations of Europe were calling, “The Great Crusade against Soviet aggression” by officially declaring war on May 8th, 1984.
France and Italy followed with their own declarations of war against the USSR on May 12th, 1984.
Netherlands, Belgium, and Luxembourg followed with their declarations of war on the USSR on May 14th, 1984.
Denmark, Sweden, Norway, and Finland all declared war on the USSR on May 16th, 1984.
Bolivia, Chile, and Paraguay all declared war on the USSR on May 19th, 1984.
Austria declared war on the USSR on May 21st, 1984.
Turkey and Greece declared war on the USSR on May 23rd, 1984.
Switzerland declared war on the USSR on June 5th, 1984, when it was obvious the war was for real and wouldn't be avoided.
The powers of the world were siding against the USSR. Only a few major players remained out of the game, England, still reeling from her defeat in the Falklands war and the aborted 1981 attempted invasion of South Africa, would take neither side in the war. However England was pissed as hell at the Mississippian rebels for her use of the Volunteer Guard to help Argentina and South Africa. Two thousand members of the Volunteer Guard, formed into two regiments, alongside Argentine regulars, invaded the Falklands in 1982, England crushed them and pushed them out, but then made the mistake of invading Argentina herself, the Volunteer Guard used 10 regiments to carry out a 2 year guerilla war that ended in early 1984, right before the Mississippian civil war began. England left Argentina in disgrace and agreed to pay 200 billion in restitution. She left over 20,000 dead in Argentina, and 2 years of war production wasted. It was almost as bad as the aborted invasion of South Africa in 1981.
In 1981, the Botha regime of South Africa invaded and annexed, Botswana, Lesotho, Mozambique, Zimbabwe, and parts of Angola, the world tied up with the Iran-Iraq war and the “Great Arab Coalition War” against Israel, and the 2nd Korean War, could do little to stop South Africa. However, England decided to act unilaterally, sending 200,000 soldiers and over 100 ships to land in South Africa. The objective was to seize Cape Town, and rapidly advance to Pretoria, Johannesburg, and Bloemfontein before the South Africans could shift forces from their new acquisitions. However it backfired badly, a British intelligence officer, who happened to be a klansmen and a good friend of a WKM member, sent the exact date, location, and hour of the invasion to those who could put it to best use.
South African military satellites had long known the armada of ships was heading for them, but they said nothing, making public statements assuming the armada was headed to intimidate Argentina into backing down over the Falklands issue.
What happened next was perhaps one of the greatest deceptions in modern warfare, while making it appear, through use of dummy tanks and mock-up life size soldiers, that the bulk of the South African armed forces were in foreign theatres of operation, over 30,000 South African soldiers and their equipment were quietly moved into positions along the coast of the Cape. As were 5,000 soldiers of the Volunteer Guard.
When the English finally landed, over 20,000 of them were killed or wounded on the first day, it was a blunder on unprecedented scales, called, “Dieppe one-hundred fold” by some of the military historians of the time, England quickly made peace with South Africa and withdrew back to the rapidly disintegrating United Kingdom of hers. The Scots, Welsh, and Irish all having been incited by South African, Argentine, and MNFP agents to ethnic rebellion, were demanding independence from the UK, and by 1990, they would have it, one way or another.
But for now, the Soviet “Mississippian Front” was moving by transport ships, planes, and through Alabama via Florida, towards Mississippi herself. The sleeping bear was readying to deal a crippling backhand blow to her enemy. While half a world away, in the Soviet Union herself, the government had changed hands, a hard-line Ex-KGB officer being placed in charge in the “turbulent times” of war with most of the rest of Europe. It was going to be tough going ahead, but their fathers had bested the awesome power of Nazi Germany, surely they could best the decadent and weak capitalist swine of the West…
Time would tell…
bump for more to read, update soon, next post probably will be update.
just a bump to move it up on my subscription list so I remember to update this soon. Update to come shortly (ideally soon) the next post won't be a bump. That is the Fabus Guarantee. :)
It was early July, the Soviets were occupying most of Mississippi, except for Philadelphia and Biloxi, both the major strongholds of the rebellion, and thus the Soviets didn’t dare venture there. The war in North America was going well for the Soviets, well compared to the war in Europe. Ukraine and Crimea had fallen, Ukraine to the German armed forces, and Crimea to a combined Spanish and Portuguese efforts. But the extreme summer heat was extracting a terrible toll on the combined forces of the anti-soviet powers. Their offensives were grinding to a halt as the men were utterly exhausted by the heat and the soviet resistance was intensifying.
In Mississippi himself, Biloxi was firmly in the hands of the rebels, except for a few isolated government strongholds, propped up by Soviet airborne units. There were nearly 40,000 white militia and 8,000 white paratroopers in Biloxi, against 3,000 Soviets and 50,000 government conscripts, but the government forces had been digging into excellent positions throughout the city, readying and waiting for what they knew would be a coming massive attack by the rebel forces.
A young lieutenant, John Tallmadge, was leading his platoon through a murderous hail of fire in the main industrial district of downtown Biloxi, most of his men were strung out over an entire city block, pinned down by inaccurate, but massive amounts of government machine gun fire.
Tallmadge ordered his men to pop smoke and then count to three and begin firing at any windows, alleys, anything across the street on the other side that was moving. He knew it was a long shot, but they had to suppress the enemy long enough for at least one of the platoon’s five squads to cross. He had 50 men under his command ever since the remnants of Platoon Alpha had folded into his own Platoon Bravo after their lieutenant had been killed and the entire command squad wiped out by a barrage of 155s.
Tallmadge was lying on his back, behind a concrete curb no higher than 14 inches; he was trying to get all the cover out of it that he could. He raised his captured G-3 rifle above the curb and let loose a barrage of fire, he got three lucky shots, hitting and killing two enemy grenadiers, and seriously wounding an enemy sniper who had been in the alley across the street, he’d been hit when the round ricocheted off the brick wall. All in all, John had gotten very luck, any enemies immediately in front of him were now ducking for cover, thinking they were under deadly accurate fire.
The rest of the squad under his immediate command rolled onto their stomachs took aim and started to fire away. The squad to his right and to his left also did likewise. While on the roofs of buildings, the fourth squad poured fire down onto the machine gun positions the enemies had on the roofs. Tallmadge saw the place he wanted to get his unit to, a large shell crater hole about fifty meters away, it was within hand grenade range of the loading docks to the primary industrial building in the city, the tractor factory had to be taken, taken at all costs.
He switched his G-3 for an MP-5 with a 100 round drum magazine, and took a magazine pouch containing eight 30 round magazines, he clamped it onto his tactical belt, he then took one more 100 round drum and slung the pouch it was in over his shoulder… He stood up as the SAWs went to work suppressing the enemies in the windows, and he charged for the crater hole, his MP-5 blazing away as he did so.
He dove into the hole as two other soldiers near him did likewise.
Tallmadge then stood up to rush forward again, wanting to get closer to the door so he could toss a grenade right in. No sooner had he cleared the top of the crater hole then a three round burst of 7.62x39 rounds from an AK-47 smacked against his chest, about three inches between each hit. He immediately hit the ground, and was winded, his armor had stopped all three rounds. However he could barely move, he felt as though he’d just been hit with a sledge hammer. His entire body burned with pain.
He heard the shrieking of enemy artillery rockets sailing in, and he knew what they were. One of the men about sixty feet back and still running forward shouted, “Organs! Incoming!” He dove for the hole closest to him just as the rounds started to impact all around.
Then it was quiet for a few seconds, they were finding their mark. It was almost too awful, the two men in the hole with their nearly unconscious lieutenant could tell their hole had just been bracketed for attack by the rockets and by 155mms. They heard the artillery shells and rockets approaching. One of the men grabbed Tallmadge by the back “Downed comrade” strap and dragged him up and out of the hole, the other man helped by picking up his feet. No sooner had they cleared the hole and made it about twenty feet away, when it erupted in a blaze of explosions as the artillery rounds impacted.
A medic came running by, to the new hole that the two men had dragged Tallmadge too, he ran fast, tracers impacting in his projected path, but he zigzagged and thus made it to the hole alive…
He shouted to Tallmadge, “Lieutenant, sir, are you okay?”
Tallmadge shook his head then nodded, not sure, “The armor stopped the bullets, but I’ve got at least one broken rib and I think a piece of shrapnel hit me in the ass…”
The medic chuckled, “No time for lying around sir, this will perk you up…” He popped the top off of the syringe and then jammed it into Tallmadge’s upper right leg, slowly injecting the combat enhancing drugs into him.
Almost immediately, Tallmadge’s pains went away, replaced by a burning desire to kill the enemies, to slay them mercilessly… He checked his magazine, 87 rounds left, he jumped out, shouted, “Follow me!” And under the cover of 81mm mortars, his 46 men still alive rushed forward into the factory.
There was at least four companies of government soldiers inside the factory, but most were worthless soldiers, only being able to “spray and pray” and hit things that were immediately in front of them, they were useless except in static defense operations, and even then, they were almost useless. But these were some of the better government soldiers, considered the elite amongst the government soldiers, they were part of a unit called, “The Red Brigade”, a 5000 strong unit of government soldiers that had been training alongside Soviet units, and later fighting in Afghanistan, since the breakup of the USA in April of 1976.
The Red Brigade were the most notorious of the government forces, they were well-known for the habit of riding around in open-topped vehicles, or sitting on top of BMPs and other light armored vehicles, and just mowing down any whites who looked at them funny or didn’t salute and shout, “Comrade!” quick enough. Tallmadge already knew going into the factory, that none of the RB would walk out alive.
The first thing that happened as he rushed through the door after his grenades went off was two men charged out from behind a half-wall that separated the entry room from the bathroom. Tallmadge put them both down with a ten round burst that swept across both men.
He pressed on, into the next room, waiting for the “Doorman” in his unit to breach the door with a 12-gauge slug and then kicking it inwards before six soldiers each tossed a grenade inside the door. The point man for his squad (Tallmadge himself) then would rush in, taking the left side, as the next man took right and the third man took center, and they’d clear the room.
This went on for nearly an hour, until eighty of the ninety, first floor rooms had been cleared, they had counted two hundred and twenty enemies dead, and only six of their own had been lost.
It was time to clear out the second floor, third floor, and finally, the roof.
As his squad advanced towards the stairs, their weapons ready, a barrage of RPGs and heavy machine gun fire from the top of the stairs forced his squad back, but already two men were dead, such losses would be unacceptable, unsustainable, if he hoped to preserve enough men to not only take the remaining floors, but then to hold the building against the counter-attack sure to come.
He decided on a novel solution, if they couldn’t storm the second floor that easily, they’d collapse the sections they could spot men in… Tallmadge happened to have something he’d managed to get from a South African based defense company (Stahlecker Munitions Company). He had a pair of thermal vision goggles, model HSSA-82D (Hans Stahlecker South Africa 1982 series D) a rather advanced design compared to what other countries had.
Tallmadge started walking around the cleared out first floor, periodically stopping and pointing to a specific place on the ceiling, and then waiting while an engineer would wire that part of the ceiling with a small charge.
After about and hour of this, the entire platoon retreated into the first room and once they were all inside, the charges were setoff. A massive and deafening, “Boom” sounded throughout the building as a significant portion of the second floor came collapsing down into the first floor, pieces of ceiling smashed against the floor and furniture, and pieces of furniture from the second floor came crashing down onto anything and everything scattered across the first floor.
Tallmadge and his men surged forward, sweeping through the stairwells located in three separate places, and quickly seizing the second floor after dispatching the few stunned survivors.
One of the RB soldiers was attempting to crawl towards the stairs to the third floor, Tallmadge walked up to the man, looked down at the wounded wretch lying before him, “What is your name, communist swine…”
The man shook his head and tried to speak, but he only coughed up blood, he then managed to do one thing, give Tallmadge the finger… Tallmadge dragged the man to the stairs, but him so his body was on a stair and his head hanging over the edge, he then walked to the side, raised high his boot and brought it down hard on the man’s head, taking his head clean off his shoulders and splattering pieces of brain and tissue everywhere.
It would take several hours more to finally clear and secure the third floor and the roof, Tallmadge and his men spared none of the RB, the wounded, those attempting to surrender, they killed them all, and without mercy.
John counted his magazines, four 30 rounders left, and one 100 round drum he’d been given by another soldier who plucked it from a dead enemy. He had also found six 1911 magazines and tucked them into his pockets, in addition to five more 30 round magazines for his MP-5, he would need every last round before the day was out.
The building was theirs, they had taken it, but now they’d have to hold it against the counter-attack they knew would come.
Suddenly the radioman started shouting, “Three blocks away, at least four enemy battalions, government soldiers, closing on our position fast… We have to get ready…”
Tallmadge counted his soldiers, he had 39 soldiers left in his unit and 12 from another unit that had stumbled into the building after losing their way. Thus he had 51 soldiers with which to oppose about 2,000 enemy soldiers. Although he had a few aces to play, mainly 2 A-130 Spectre gunships and 5 Mi-24 helicopter gunships to provide air support.
It was going to be a hellish battle to come, but it was a hellish war, so what could he say, tell his men most of them would probably be dead before the day was done, how would that boost morale.
Tallmadge quickly gathered his men around, “Men, listen up, they’re coming…” One of his soldiers asked, “How many?”
Tallmadge frowned a bit, “At least four battalions.”
The soldiers all smiled, a sergeant spoke up, “Good, then soon they’ll have four battalions less… Let’s kick some ass.”
John continued, “Well, the thing is, we will win, yes, but I want you boys to keep in this building, stick to good cover, the walls are thick, they won’t get penetration into here, even if they have 308s, anyway, just don’t let them breach the perimeter, hold tight, keep down when the A-130s and Mi-24s are firing their heavy weapons, just incase they fire short… Fan out, and hold until relieved, come on, let’s show them what we’re made of…”
All the men took up positions facing the direction the enemy battalion was going to be coming from. However, 4 men deployed on each flank side of the building, and 2 men deployed to cover the front doors, the doors opposite the side the enemy was coming from.
Whatever happened, it was going to be a great fight. Tallmadge knew this and so he readied a 100 round drum in his MP-5, checked his pistol, and then checked his knife, his pistol holster was on snugly, and his knife was also in good shape, ready to tear into anybody foolish enough to get close enough to him.
Suddenly outside they could hear the sounds of boots hitting the pavement, large amounts of boots, moving fast… Then they could hear the telltale signs of Eastern Bloc manufactured AK-47s, probably being fired at the few men placed on the roofs, it had begun…
OOC: Good... Very Good...
Update in progress, will be posting within 30-90 minutes.
Tallmadge raced back and forth along the wall of the building he knew the attack was to come against, making sure his men had their positions ready to receive a major assault.
His 51 men were ready to receive whatever the 2,000 enemies were ready to dish out. It was going to be hell for both sides.
The opening shots were fired as an entire company of the advanced guard of the enemy regiment brought their weapons to bear against several of the soldiers on the roof of the building. The soldiers of the roof immediately fired back with grenades and one fired a captured RPG, another lobbed at least half a dozen hand grenades in rapid succession, one right after the other.
They sailed through the air, bursting over the heads of the enemy soldiers, causing such chaos and confusion as the fragments tore into the company, that parts of the unit fell back in disarray while the rest of them surged forward and into the jaws of a waiting M-60, the gunner had a field day cutting down the 60 or 70 men of the company that had foolishly charged against the gun position in the back area of the building.
The enemy kept coming, for every dozen that fell, there seemed to be at least four dozen to take their place, it was a meat grinder, and the enemy could just keep tossing more meat in, more and more, it didn’t matter, they were counting on using numbers to overwhelm the defenders.
Tallmadge knew their ammunition probably would never hold out, in most situations, Mississippian paratroopers could probably manage two or three rounds per kill, but this situation was a chaotic mess, a frenzy of bloody combat, with massed amounts of shells and firepower seeming to be raining down from everywhere.
The communists slammed four companies against the right side of the building, right from Tallmadge’s perspective as they simultaneously launched six companies right at the front of the building, again, front from Tallmadge’s perspective, the attack was meant to quickly overwhelm the defenders and leave none alive.
The communists were using well over half their attacking force in this one massive thrust, they were staking a lot on it.
Tallmadge knew it would be nearly impossible to hold if they knew what they were doing and attacked the other side or God forbid, the rear, at the same time as the other two attacks went down. But the two communist colonels, each in command of one of the two attacking regiments, could only really agree on their mutual hatred of the right-wing, and little else. Thus they seemed to be competing more than helping each other.
One of the men on the side defense of the building shouted “RPG!” before his position was obliterated as six communist RPGs sailed against the side positions of the buildings. The man’s sacrifice had warned the half dozen paratroopers on that side of the building, and they’d had time to vacate their positions. But now they were in the open street, and four companies of communists were barreling down on them, not even a block away, less than four hundred yards away, nearly five hundred communists charging down on six paratroopers.
The paratroopers raised their rifles and used their laser sights and night vision goggles to good affect, they owned the night. Communist soldiers flew backwards as the heavy 308 rounds smashed into their chests and heads, not knowing where or how they were being targeted in the increasingly dim environment. The power to most of the city was out, and so the streetlights were almost universally off, and the sun had been setting for a few hours now, it was nearly totally dark out.
The communist side attack began to stall as their losses topped over ninety from the four companies assigned to the attack, and they hadn’t even closed to the building yet. They were scrambling for cover. But they’d find none, the 2 Spectre gunships on station overhead, immediately opened fire on them, 20mm rounds and 105mm artillery shells crashing down all through their ranks; the night air was filled with men screaming as they were torn apart by large rounds or right as they were blown to pieces by artillery, death was right in the midst.
The communist side attack completely floundered, and as the smoke from the 105s cleared, it was evident why it floundered, most of them were dead or cowering for cover in nearby buildings, at least two hundred of the four-hundred and eighty were dead, many more wounded.
One of the commissars in their unit jumped up, fired a pistol into the air, shouted, “Come on you dogs! Are you going to let the elites hold you down! So what if they have control of the air, our soviet comrades will surely send MiGs to help wrench back control of the air! We need only do our part here on the ground, for the great proletariat struggle! We shall never bow to this armies raised by aristocrats, let us crush this fascist rebellion! Follow me!”
The men all cheered and rushed forward as their commissar and his command squad surged out of the building they had been taking cover in. About two thirds of the two-hundred and eighty men managed to make it through the hail of machine-gun fire and rifle-grenades, and then finally pistol fire, submachine gun fire, and hand grenades, to assault the side of the building.
The half-dozen paratroopers were by now down to using pistols and knives, as nearly two-hundred men rushed forward at their hastily assumed positions near where their old positions had been before they were hit by RPG squads.
One of them six raised up two 1911 pistols, one in each hand, and fired eight rounds out of each, as fast as he could find targets to fire at, which didn’t prove too difficult in the target-rich environment they were in. Before he was cut down by a burst from an AK-47 which ended up taking the top of his head off, he had claimed at least fourteen enemies with his pistols and had previously killed at least twenty with his rifle.
Several of his comrades met similar fates, there were only three men on the side left, they had retreated to the side entrance door to the factory and were holding it open as they fired their pistols out into the onrushing enemy swarms. The enemy soldiers simply surged against the doors, rifles blazing, and after two minutes of intense combat, they just physically overpowered the defenders who tried to brace the doors with their own bodies while firing through one of the broken windows on the door.
Their struggles had been ended when one of the soldiers outside managed to slip a grenade through the window the men were firing pistols through. It thudded to the ground, clanging metal against the hard and cold factory floor. One of the paratroopers shouted, “Grenade!” and tried to pick it up, but it was too late, it erupted and a fury of shrapnel flew out, killing the three paratroopers holding the door.
The enemy then surged in, readying to take the factory back by storm, quickly running into opposition and stalling again as they made their way down the narrow side hallway into a barrage of bullets from two machine guns and a half dozen rifles being fired by men from behind heavy wooden crates that had taken up new positions as they realized a few minutes ago that the side door was about to fall.
At the front of the building, the other communist commander had finally relented, and the six company attack was joined by six other companies, nearly fifteen hundred men pouring forward against Tallmadge and some 30 odd men. The communists were sure of victory…
Tallmadge slammed the bolt closed on his MP-5 as he reloaded another magazine into it, and immediately sent a burst into the two communists who had tried to rush the door he was watching. Immediately two more tried to rush through, he put each of them down, three rounds in each, they flipped backwards and landed to the side of the door. Immediately again, more surged forward, he continued firing, losing counting of how many he or the soldiers to his side killed and losing counting of how many times he changed magazines.
Outside, the Mi-24s were flying in low, strafing the rushing masses of the combined regiments, 57mm rockets were crashing straight into the packed ranks as they bottlenecked at the tight intersection right before the building entrance. Men were flying left and right as the rockets impacted and exploded, countless had already fallen, countless more were falling.
Tallmadge felt rounds impacting against him, he’d been hit no less than half a dozen times, he could feel the armor stopping the rounds, but he could also feel numerous ribs breaking from the sheer force of the rounds smacking into him. He staggered back and collapsed to the ground. The man immediately to his side, a sergeant, thought he had been hit and killed.
He shouted over the radio, “The commander is down!” he looked down the hall, seeing the half dozen men and two machine gun teams falling back under heavy fire. Suddenly he heard gunfire at the other end of the hall, the other side door. He feared all was over, the enemy was hitting both sides and the front at once. He shouted over the radio, “Position Comprised! Position Comprised! Thor’s Hammer, repeat Thor’s Hammer! Authorization Alpha Delta Six Bravo Charlie Eleven…”
Upon hearing “Thor’s Hammer” every bomber and ground-attack aircraft in the area was immediately diverted by regional command and ordered to head for the industrial district, and to begin arming all available weapons.
Tallmadge staggered back to his feet, shaking his head at the man, “You didn’t just… Thor’s hammer… Call a Thor’s hammer? Did you?”
The sergeant nodded his head shouting over the gunfire, “Yes sir!” he then meekly said, “I’m sorry…”
Tallmadge shook his head, “No need to be sorry, we have to get out of here, now, get the men to fall back in good order, fast but in good order.” (Thor’s Hammer can’t be called off in the event the enemy were to capture the position with the radio and try to call it off)
The sergeant shouted for all nearby men to pass the word. Over the firing and the sounds of men engaged in hand-to-hand combat, the men immediately spread the word and began to fall back, running backwards, firing their rifles at the advancing enemies as they fell back.
I politely ask that you please listen to this as you read this part of the RP, it really helps get you in the right mindset to better appreciate this. Thank you, and I hope you’re enjoying reading this so far, and continue enjoying it.
Tallmadge had run out of submachine gun ammunition a while ago, and was down to his 1911 pistol and knife. As he was moving by an interior room, two enemy sappers that had climbed in through a blown out window and been waiting in the room, rushed through the door. Tallmadge kicked the second man back and ran into the first man, the one in the doorway, jamming his rifle against the side of the door as he fired his 1911 into the man’s stomach and jammed the knife into his neck. The warm blood splattered out across his face, he had to close his eyes to avoid being temporarily blinded by the warm liquid.
He immediately opened his eyes and fired four rounds at the man he had kicked backwards, who had caught his balance and was swinging his rifle to fire. The man flew backwards from the impact of the heavy 45 caliber hollow point rounds (Tallmadge insisted on using HP rounds in his pistol and Armor Piercing only in his rifle, he figured if you got close enough to somebody to use a pistol, it’d mattered more to put more damage on them, then to get more range and penetration since you were so close already to be in pistol range)
Holding his pistol firmly in his right-hand and his knife tight in his left, he continued to move towards the exit at the side opposite the one being assaulted. The communists had by now, gotten about twelve hundred soldiers right up against the building and were spilling over the few handfuls of men who volunteered to stay behind and hold them off while the rest of the men fell back. The AC-130s and Mi-24s had been sowing havoc all throughout the exposed communist formations, having killed nearly six hundred of them by this point in the battle. Whichever way the battle went, one thing was certain, the communists were losing far more men in the attacking force than they could afford to lose if they wanted to have any chance of holding the building against the paratrooper attack they were counting on coming.
Indeed Curtis had already slated two parachute battalions, a total of nearly one thousand men, to assault and recapture the factory should it fall to the communists. They would begin the assault against the ruins of the factory about thirty minutes after the upcoming aerial attack had ceased. They weren’t so much concerned with capturing it intact as they were with denying it to the enemy, and having a position in the center of the industrial district, even if the position was a building that was a pile of rubble.
Tallmadge turned and ran for the door, it was only forty yards away, his men were moving fast behind him. He was the first one out, immediately shocked to see an entire communist platoon waiting right outside the door for them, it was an ambush, but they were close, too close for the ones in the back to fire without hitting their comrades. He slashed his knife across the first man as he fired a pistol round into his chest. The man dropped to his knees as the one next to him tried to unsling his rifle which he’d slung over his shoulder so he could lit a cigarette. Tallmadge threw his knife at the man, it landed in the side of his neck the man vainly gasped for air, as though he was in a futile search for life, instead he found only death as he collapsed over and was dead before he hit the ground.
He then raised up his pistol and in rapid succession, fired seven rounds, dropping seven more men, each with headshots. By this time, he had been joined outside by a handful of his men, at least three or four, who immediately proceeded to unleash volleys from their G-3s and MP-5s against the platoon that was supposed to be waiting to ambush them, not sitting around and chit-chatting as it seemed they had been when the paratroopers and Tallmadge had exited the building.
Tallmadge grabbed an entrenching shovel out of web gear of a dead communist and bound through the air, bringing it down heavily against the side of the head of a man about to fire his AK-74 at him. The man fell to the ground, Tallmadge raised up the shovel and brought it down again, and again, and again, until tissue and bone had splattered up into his face and he was brought back to his senses and realized the man was dead and he was just “Beating a dead horse”.
The other men were mostly cut down as they tried to get their rifles off of their shoulders, they weren’t real soldiers, real soldiers were disciplined, these men were a rabble of peasant conscripts, but they had one thing in common with real soldiers, they were just as mortal.
He could hear overhead, that the planes were nearly here, they were starting their final approach on their bomb-runs, some had possibly already released their bombs. He had to put distance between himself and the factory.
Tallmadge grabbed a Tokarev pistol out of one of the dead man’s holsters and proceeded to empty the pistol into a platoon rounding the corner of the building, killing five men and wounded two bad enough to put them down on the ground in pain. As one of the men dropped to his knee to fire an RPG, Tallmadge gasped and jumped for the nearest crater hole. As he was in flight towards the hole, sailing through the air suddenly the entire block erupted in flames and roars of death as dozens of 500 and 1000 pound bombs crashed down all throughout the area, and against the factory.
The next thing he remembered, he was awoken by a medic from another company in his battalion, gently shaking him on the shoulder as he knelt by his side in the deep hole, “Lieutenant sir, are you okay?”
Tallmadge shook his head, “What… What, happened? Bombs… I remember, bombs.”
The medic nodded his head and looked up, it was daylight now, he could see perfectly without his Night Vision goggles, which were broken anyway. The medic directed his gaze to the ruins of the tractor factory, there were MS paratroopers digging positions around it and in it, but there was only one floor now, the rest had collapsed down on the first floor, it was a mess of twisted metal and pieces of partially assembled tractors.
Tallmadge whispered meekly, “Platoon… My Platoon…”
The medic frowned, “Sorry sir, only ten of them made it, eleven counting you… You’re lucky the aerial support arrived when it did, we caught those enemy regiments in the open and butchered them…” He then cheerfully patted John Tallmadge on the shoulder and said, “You’ll probably make captain for this…”
John felt as though he was going to be sick, he didn’t want to make captain, he just wanted to be able to turn his head and look somewhere without seeing pieces of bodies, be they from his men or the enemy. He turned his head away from the medic and vomited profusely against the other side of the hole as he started to silently cry, tears running down his face.
bump for more to read.
Sorry to those who enjoy reading this, I have been busy, and then RL stuff came up and I just didn't feel much like writing, or at least writing for this. And, well... I guess as soon as I have the time and can sit down and think straight, and feel like writing, I'll update this.
I'd like some feedback though, since after the "battle of the borders" (massive battle near the Tennesse border, with the last remnants of the government army, and a few Cuban and Soviet units, it pretty much ends, except a few more small skirmishes and the mopping up phase)
Although the 1984 War, in Europe, didn't end until 1986 with the threat of further nuclear strikes against the USSR. (MS forced USSR to sign a peace treaty in 1984 after the USSR suffered the destruction of several cities, mainly Volgograd and a few cities in Siberia, and then the threat of the same fate befalling Moscow and St. Petersburg)
Anyway, feedback on where you all would like to see this go after the war in MS ends, I mean, do you want to see the other theatres in the world the war was still raging in?
Whatever your thoughts are, please IM or TG me. Feedback and comments are most appreciated.
The Revolutionary Command Council was meeting in New Orleans, in friendly Louisiana, to discuss writing a charter and a constitution since victory seemed assured now. The end was in sight, things were developing quickly, it was just a matter of time before the inevitable triumph of the rebels became fact.
Curtis Fabus, Baldur Von Schacht, and Bertrand Navarre had all left their command posts in Mississippi, having to go attend the charter meeting. Curtis obviously had to be there, since he was the chairman of the Mississippian National Front Party.
On the way to the old state senate building, which had been in New Orleans ever since the original state senate building was blown up by rightists in the early 70s, Bertrand wondered about what would be discussed. He had heard a few issues would be brought up, and he was very worried about them. These issues might cause a rift in the party.
After a few minutes of quiet contemplation as he and his two friends walked the last few blocks to the senate building, he turned to Curtis, tapped him on the shoulder, and asked, "Curtis, is it true... What they're saying about, well the party membership regulations?"
Curtis spat a small stream of tobacco juice onto the sidewalk before scornfully answering, "Bah! Women in our MNFP, never, it won't come to vote, trust me."
Baldur grinned, happy with that, "Good, the sex of Eve doesn't deserve to be in our party."
Bertrand sighed and rolled his eyes, neither of his two friends offering any sort of room for compromise, rather they were holding fast to their position. While it was good to stand one's ground, Bertrand figured they should have at least been open to compromise. But it wasn't for him to decide, Curtis was party chairman, they'd have to remove him to get around that, and who would want to remove the founder and the spokesman for the MNFP in the middle of a war, when victory was so close at hand.
As they approached within eyesight of the marble white building, they could see it wasn't as large as they had originally expected, but what it lacked in size it made up for in the way it was so imposing. The way the columns were arranged, the stairs leading into the building, the way the gardens in front were laid out. It was small, but still it was imposing, making its presence felt through the sheer beauty of the structure and of the symmetry it possessed.
Inside the building, on the senate floor, a young party member, the leader of the faction lobbying for allowing women into the party was debating several colleagues. It was rapidly turning into a heated debate, but immediately everything became silent when Curtis was seen walking through the opened doors.
All eyes turned to him as every man rose, came to attention, and saluted him.
He walked by them, eyes locked forward, not diverting to look at either of them, casually and effortlessly returning their collective salute, with one quick throw back of his left arm, the wrist curving slightly back as he moved it towards his shoulder.
He had removed his cap, and since tucked it under his right arm, alongside with his baton, he had been a Field Marshal in the Revolutionary Peoples Army since after the first week of the campaign, he was in charge of all Revolutionary units, militia and regulars.
Curtis walked over to the elevated speaker's chair and took his seat, saying, "Let us come together in prayer before we begin this session, for it is right to give God thanks and praise for the great fortune we've enjoyed thus far, and for the great fortune we are sure to continue enjoying, for we do His work."
They all bowed their heads and closed their eyes as he led them in prayer, saying the Pater Noster.
After the Pater Noster was over, Curtis said his own prayer, "May the grace of God shine down on His people in Mississippi who are currently engaged in the greatest struggle of all time. Of the struggle of the believer against evil, the struggle of good against evil. May the forces fighting for their cause, the cause of God, be granted the strength and fortitude to carry-on the struggle and see it through. God save the white race. Amen."
He opened his eyes and looked up, he could tell the day was going to shape up to be rather interesting. Already some of the men in the factions that had formed earlier were whispering back and forth to each other.
One of them finally stood up and shouted, "We demand you open the party to all whites, regardless of class or gender!"
Immediately a wave of commotion swept the room, gasps and cries of, "Utter madness!" could be heard.
One man shouted, "Put it to vote! Put it to vote!" confident they could shoot down the "radical upstarts" by getting the matter voted on.
After the vote returned results of 53% in favor of the implementations of the proposes changes, Curtis decided to take action.
He rose from his seat and boldly said, "Fine, have all the women and poor trash you want, by tomorrow you will have my resignation on your desk. I have no desire to be, nor will I be in any party that admits women into its ranks, and the same can go for peasants."
The room was so filled with shouts and screams, pleas for him to stay, that nothing else could be heard. Curtis had known exactly what he was doing, nobody would want him to leave the party, let alone resign as the chairman, it was a calculated move, designed to get him total control. If they let him go, the party would have died.
The man who proposed the changes immediately rose, shouted, "Sir, sir, reconsider, I'm sorry, I motion we forget the whole vote, all those changes, stay, stay!"
After twenty minutes of people pleading with him to stay, ending with a vote granting him total power over the party, Curtis smiled, shouted back to them, "I will indeed stay!" and then sat down, a grin on his face.
Curtis and Bertrand were back in the hotel they were staying at for the night, a luxurious hotel that was a testament to the popularity of Victorian architecture in Louisiana at the time.
Navarre was in Curtis’s room, the two men were talking, it had been a long war thus far, and things were shaping up just fine. Bertrand was a bit worried though, he sensed Curtis was on edge about something, and he just had to know what it was. He tapped his friend on the shoulder as both men exhaled on their cigarettes.
Bertrand sighed as he said, “Curtis, what is bothering you? If you’re lonely, go see Julia, you haven’t seen here since we left Cambodia… You know, she misses you Curtis, she’s lonely…”
Curtis scoffed, “Meh, she’ll manage… Anyway, I haven’t time to be consorting with women, I have a revolution to run, she’s not going anywhere, she’ll still be here in a few months.”
Bertrand was depressed by his friend’s attitude, but didn’t want to offend him, but he couldn’t help it, he just had to say what he thought, “Curtis! How can you say that, it’s not consorting with a woman, it’d be spending time with your wife. And these are troubled times, anything could happen to either of you… Hell, you haven’t even seen your son Roger; you missed his being born… You sent me instead, remember?”
Curtis frowned, he didn’t want to hear this, “Yes, Bertrand I know I sent you, and I thank you for going, and I thank you for helping her through these tough times. Don’t worry though; she’ll manage just fine. You ought to go check up on her again though, make sure she is doing okay, can you do that for me, please…”
Bertrand sighed, he didn’t want to see Julia, being around her when she was like this, it was very depressing to him… But suddenly he was overcome with a sense of guilt, she needed help, whether or not it depressed him shouldn’t matter, she was his best friend’s wife and she was also a close friend, he ought to be there to for her if she needed somebody to talk to.
After a few seconds of silence, he nodded his head, “Yeah, Curtis, I can do that…” He knew right where to go, a hotel about six blocks away. She had been in New Orleans since early February. Curtis had often been less than a ten-minute walk away from where she was, but still he persisted in not seeing her. Bertrand knew that Curtis was not involved with other women, he hadn’t been with anybody but Julia since 1976 or was it 1977, Bertrand really couldn’t remember right now, but at any rate, he wasn’t sure why Curtis was avoiding his own wife. It just didn’t make sense to him.
Curtis smiled as he walked towards the door, saying, “Well then, great, I’m going to go see what Baldur is up to… You just get on over and spend a while with Julia, see how she’s doing, keep an eye on her, you know?”
Bertrand sighed and as soon as Curtis had left, since he didn’t wait for an answer (did he even want one?), he just left after he finished his sentence; he looked at his watch and figured he might as well walk the twenty minutes to go see how Julia was doing.
As Curtis and Baldur were sitting around in a smoking lounge in their hotel, Bertrand was walking fast down the street, about five minutes away from the hotel Julia was in. She had heard Curtis was in the city and was hoping he’d come visit her, she really missed him, and she hadn’t seen him in months, nearly a year. She couldn’t help but wonder why he hadn’t so much as sent her a letter in that time. All she could do was hope the war would soon be over, and then she would be with him again.
Suddenly there was a knock at the door, she sat up, hoping it was Curtis, but figuring it probably wasn’t. But she had to see who it was. She raced to the door and flung it open, her heart sank, it was Bertrand Navarre, not that he was a bad person or that she didn’t want to see him, just that she wanted to see Curtis, her husband, the one she loved.
He could tell she was disappointed that it wasn’t Curtis. It was awkward, and he didn’t like being here anymore than she liked being here alone. She invited him inside in a most depressing manner, by saying, “Well, you might as well come in, huh?”
She looked down at the ground and led him in. He nodded his head, following, trying to put a good spin on things with a forced smile as he said, “Yes, thank you. So tell me, how are you doing today?”
She shrugged, “Meh, how can I be well, I’m not doing well… How can I be well, I haven’t seen my husband in months…” She started to plead with him, “Bertrand tell me, honestly, is he tired of me, is he with other women?”
Bertrand answered honestly, giving only the truth, “No, he is neither tired of you nor is he involved with other women. You’re the only woman for him, you know that, Julia…”
Julia sighed, she just didn’t know what to believe, she wanted to believe Bertrand, but she wasn’t sure. She looked up at him, needing to be reassured, asking, “Bertrand, am I still pretty?”
His answer was the truth, “Yes, Julia, you’re as beautiful as the day Curtis first introduced the two of us… And I know what you’re thinking, yes, Curtis still finds you attractive, how could he not? And yes, he still loves you, perhaps more than ever…”
She was pretty certain about all of those answers, except for the part about Curtis still loving her, she just didn’t feel it was possible for him to love her but be spending all his time fighting and then when he wasn’t fighting, visiting foreign nations and meeting with foreign leaders. If he had to focus solely on war with his time, that was fine, she could deal with that. But whenever there was a lull in the fighting, he’d take off to South Africa or Argentina for a few days and mingle with top military and government brass there, shake some hands, make a speech or two at some parades, cut a few ribbons for new buildings named after him. Why was he off doing that instead of being with her?
Of course she didn’t realize it when she married Curtis, he was already married, to the cause, to the Mississippian National Front Party, she was, in times of a lack of party activity, at best, second fiddle, and when times were fast developing, she was just pushed into the background while Curtis handled the problems that needed handling.
The results of this would be painfully obvious in the later years by looking at each individual member of the Fabus family. They say the measure of a man is his family. If that is the case, one need look no further than the children of Curtis and Julia, to see what sort of man Curtis was.
His son Henry would turn to communism as a result of a bitter resentment and hatred of his father for never being around. He never would forgive his father for ignoring his mother and his own children in favor of paying more attention to Mississippi. Henry would grow up hating, yet loving, his father at the same time, if such were possible. Wanting so much to tell him how he felt, but always feeling so distant from the man right next to him. Henry’s thoughts never seemed to be able to manifest themselves in words.
His yet to be conceived daughter Victoria, happy to be married at such a young age for it ended her loneliness, but distraught and ruined emotionally after Curtis had her first husband shot, causing her to turn to the bottle and sparking a streak of promiscuous behavior which only ended when she was married off to Sam of Kahta.
His oldest son, George, would become so far right-wing, he scared even Curtis, and not to mention George’s drugs, booze, and womanizing, only ending when he would marry a third-cousin. An act of incest which disgusted Curtis and alienated the boy from his father, until Curtis married his sister, Christine, and stopped condemning George for marrying a mere third cousin.
His son, Roger, would wind up going off to war after war, having to bear for his entire life, the psychological scars of battles in far-flung lands that were as difficult to locate on a map, as their names were to pronounce.
His eldest daughter, Eleanor, would turn out rather well, but more so as a result of her brother Roger being there so she was able to avoid the isolation of being in the upper most class in the nation. Surrounded by other nobles, the most popular family in the nation, but so alone. And then thankfully for her, she found herself the perfect man and the two would hit it off right away.
As for his yet to be conceived son, William, he would turn out more or less fine, mostly due to being raised entirely by Roger and Eleanor.
Curtis was excellent when it came to providing for the financial needs of his family, but he just really could not raise kids well, no matter how much he tried. He nearly had it down by the late 80s, but then with the death of his beloved wife, Julia, in 1990; he couldn’t bear to be around his children, a constant reminder of Julia. He hated himself for feeling so, but he couldn’t help it. Most of his kids wound up raised by nannies, Paul Stahlecker, Joseph Mladic, or they just raised themselves.
Roger would largely raise himself, locking himself in his room for hours on end, to avoid his drunken brothers Henry and George. Finding safety and retreat in his bible, and spending long hours conversing with the voice that would speak to him, revealing bits of the future and wise advice to guide him through life, towards success and victory over his enemy.
Roger would never resent his father, knowing the terrible pain his father bore. Seeing it firsthand, knowing his father had sought comfort in the embrace of many random women, but never finding it. He watched from a distance as his father wasted his life with anonymous women, expensive liquors, and then cocaine and finally opium. He was always too afraid to confront his father about his destructive lifestyle, for fear of causing him even more grief.
But one thing was for sure; Roger would vow that he would never be like his father, weak, giving into lusts and cravings. But at the same time, he wouldn’t blame his father, for he knew the terrible pain he was in, and the terrible burdens he bore. Keeping the nation on the right course, it was often hard though, with the captain drunk at the wheel, for the ship to always be steered in the right direction.
Roger would be particularly happy when a young woman named Yuna had seemed to get his father to settle down and away from womanizing and the other bad habits. Roger was so happy to see his father seemingly healthy and in good spirits again. And Roger never would forget, or forgive the day that she left him for that rat, Alec… Roger would, he vowed, until his dying day, take every opportunity to cause Alec the same pain that he had watched Curtis go through for fourteen years, from 1990 to 2004. The only break in it being when Curtis was with Yuna, the woman Alec had stolen away from him. Roger hated Alec, he vowed one day, he’d personally kill him. He knew he would.
George and Henry would both quite alike but both quite similar, they never got along too well politically, but socially they were inseparable. The two often staggered home drunk in the wee hours of the night, after a night of orgies with more women than they could keep count of. Booze, drugs, and women, their way of dealing with their problems, they were like younger versions of Curtis, but they disgusted Curtis, because he would expect more from them, he wanted them to be better than he had been and than he was.
But all that was the future, nobody could see it now. All Julia could see now was the incredibly handsome Frenchman standing before her, she wanted him to throw her down on the bed and take her. She yearned to be with a man. She tried to shake the thoughts out of her head as guilt washed over her, but try as she might, she couldn’t do it.
Bertrand noticed she looked a bit embarrassed and nervous. He had to ask, “Julia, is something wrong?”
She smiled, and shook her head, saying, “No, not at all… Would it be okay if we had dinner up here?”
Bertrand sighed, “Well, I wasn’t really planning on staying that long you know… But…”
She quickly interrupted him, pleading, “Oh please, Bertrand, stay, stay… I couldn’t bear the thought of being alone another night…”
He reluctantly sat down and then picked up the phone, ordering room service for the both of them.
Julia sat down right next to him, slightly smiling as she put her hand on his right hand, the one he had resting on the table.
He casually moved his hand, trying not to offend, not liking where this was going. “Hmmm, Julia, I think we ought to just sit here and wait for the food to get here, yes?”
She hesitated to reply, but then nodded her head and said in a most depressed tone, “Yes.. I suppose so, I mean, if my own husband doesn’t want me, why would anybody else…”
Bertrand knew it wasn’t true, and she knew it wasn’t either, in regards to him not wanting her. She could tell Bertrand wanted her, but she was his best friend’s wife, he couldn’t, no, he wouldn’t, do it, he just couldn’t, or could he?
He shook his head as she put her hand on his leg and moved even closer to him, he removed her hand and slid down the couch, away from her, sighing as he said, “Julia, no… You need to call Curtis, go see him…”
He picked up the phone and dialed Curtis’s hotel, he was politely, but firmly, told, “Comrade Fabus doesn’t wish to be disturbed, he’s with Comrade Schacht in the smoking lounge.”
Bertrand sighed and hung up the phone, Julia just shook her head, meaning she knew she wouldn’t get to talk with Curtis. Bertrand nodded his head, saying only, “He’s busy, probably important business…” He hated having to say it, as though Curtis’s smoking cigars and drinking brandy was more important than spending time with her.
At that moment, perhaps the only moment in his life, he hated Curtis, he really did. He couldn’t help but not hate Curtis. The war was going well enough, but anything could happen, a stray shell, anything. And here was his wife, and yet the man, rather than spend time with her, was off in a lounge smoking with one of his field commanders. Bertrand just couldn’t stand the thought, but then again, he knew Curtis from day one, he expected drinking and mingling with powerful people, but he never expected this.
Julia had to hold back the tears; she wanted so much to cry. Curtis was a gentleman to her, he never hit her, only seldom raised his voice with her, but when a “Good war” came along, be it one he had to fight (the current war, his civil war, being a good example), or any other war, he just up and left.
Indeed she had, as guilty as she felt about admitting it, hated him for spending his three months of accumulated leave, in the winter of 1982-1983, in Afghanistan, rather than with her and the children in Zagreb.
Officially, he thought it was too risky to be entering into a country such as Yugoslavia, but she knew otherwise, for crying aloud, he had been, as strange as it sounded, a friend with Tito, and then the leaders that followed after him. Not so much that they got along politically, but they were business partners and then realized they had personal hobbies in common, and thus they became rather good friends.
One thing Curtis excelled at, making friends, be they Syrians, Afghanis, Serbians, Spanish, Italians, Irish, Argentines, South Africans, English, Germans, etc. He seemed to be a sort of magnet for the worldwide right-wing movement, even to such a degree that it transcended race in the regards that Arabs and Afghanis looked up to him as a model for the anti-communist, anti-Zionist, freedom fighter.
But Julia didn’t know how to feel now, she only felt rejected, in her mind Curtis didn’t want her, that was the only explanation. Although in reality Curtis just couldn’t appreciate her situation, one thing he was bad at was seeing things from other people’s perspective. He’d get better at it over time, but in situations like this, it didn’t really matter what happened years down the road.
She just slowly stood up, walked over to Bertrand, put her arms around him, pushed him down so he was lying on the couch, and started to kiss him. He, not knowing what to do, just put his arms around her and kissed her back.
Meanwhile, back to the hotel where Curtis and Baldur where, the two men were sitting in their oversized chairs, legs propped up on tables, smoking their cigars and swirling their brandy. Baldur smiled as he sank into his chair, “Ah, this is the life eh Curtis? Say, don’t you think you ought to go visit Julia?”
Curtis shook his head, “Nah, she’ll manage…”
Baldur frowned, “I don’t know, I mean you ain’t seen her in what, nearly eleven months?”
Curtis shook his head, “Meh, whatever, she’ll be fine… Besides, I sent Bertrand over to keep an eye on her.”
Baldur nodded his head, but sighed, “Yeah, I know what you mean, but watch out, women get odd if you don’t pay enough attention… You know, you can’t live with them, and you can’t just kill them…” He grinned, knowing full well he had indeed “just killed them” dozens of times, every time he caught a communist woman, any russian females soldiers, etc.
Curtis frowned, “Baldur, you’re not qualified to give anybody any advice on women, no offense…”
Curtis knew Baldur was just a woman hater, ever since he had found out, in 1976, that Baldur’s mother not only tortured him, but sexually abused him, he knew why Baldur hated women, all he could do was pray his friend would one day get things worked out and come to terms with it all. And he had been praying, for Baldur’s sake, for years.
Baldur scoffed, “Bah! Women, I say again, who needs them!”
The two men went on discussing various issues, matters of varying importance, ranging from what the plans for the immediate post-war Mississippian economy would be to what the license plates would look like, to the national bird and national flower.
bump for more to read, update soon, but 1866 and 1976 are first in line now for updates.
(OOC: AAA- Awesome as Always)
bump so it's moved up on my subscriptions list so I can see it and remember to update it. Maybe today, hopefully within a few days. :)
Im still conviced you should be a writer, its as good as it always is keep it up cant wait to the next update.
Im still conviced you should be a writer, its as good as it always is keep it up cant wait to the next update.
If I get time, this weekend will be the update. I'd like to consider writing, but my mother made a good point, there is no future in it, I'd never make it, and I can't support my ideal family on it (5-15 kids, and obviously, a wife). For that matter, I'd really rather be a history major than a business major, but she got me to see there is no future in history either. For that matter, she'd rather I be in medical school than in business school, but I can't stand the idea of being a doctor.
If I get time, this weekend will be the update. I'd like to consider writing, but my mother made a good point, there is no future in it, I'd never make it, and I can't support my ideal family on it (5-15 kids, and obviously, a wife). For that matter, I'd really rather be a history major than a business major, but she got me to see there is no future in history either. For that matter, she'd rather I be in medical school than in business school, but I can't stand the idea of being a doctor.
that might be true but it dont stop you from doing it in your spare time, besides its like im always told if you dont try you wont get anywhere. Besides your good at it and something your good at you shouldnt give up on even if you do it in your spare time.
and anyway these days more people are reading books then ever but like i said even if you dont do it as a job doing it in your spare time, maby send it to publishers or just post it on the net but dont give up something your good at just cos someone elce wants you to do something. it is a freeworld after all (or so they say).