Maharerland
12-12-2008, 04:08
East Uftatsi, disputed northern Maharerland, Southern Africa
Like the patter of rain on a tin roof, small-arms fire bouncing off the Sherman's armour could be heard within the potential deathtrap. The crew seemed unconcerned.
"Oi, men! Yu shut yu fock' noise!" cried the loader, slapping the side of the hull, irritated by the persistant but worthless fire directed at them. Prompted by the commander, he laid down his cards in a nonchalant manner. "Fock et!" he wasn't happy with his hand, anyway. May as well get rid of it all.
He stretched back as far as he could in these cramped conditions, running his fingers through his short hair. "Fock!" he shouted, moving suddenly, much to the annoyance of the other crewmembers. "I'm gon' shoot dem bastards den we can go hom!"
He was, apart from anything else, sick of struggling through the English language for the sake of his Bantu-or-English comrades (he knew no Bantu dialects), and set himself at the gunsights.
Testament to the discipline present in President Festus "Big Sam" Basamgiri's army was the inaction of the tank commander as the loader took charge of the 76mm rifle and began, at a slow rate, to shell the positions of the rebellious East Uftatsi white farmers. "Independen' now, dem fockes!" the loader shouted into the optics as he sent another HEAT-MP round flying.
The Republic of Maharerland was less than five years old. Its frontiers were a colonial construct, and following a very recent grant of independence and statehood, the first ever elected premier, Festus Basamgiri, had resolved to secure East Uftatsi, another colonial creation of presently unclear constitutional status. Though the Republic had only a few million citizens, most native Herero and Nama, East Uftatsi had only a few thousand residents, and the land was still dominated by rich white farmers.
The second ever Maharerland elections were coming up, and 'Big Sam' was in pretty dire need of a cause behind which to rally his waning band of supporters.
Across the Southern African territory, Sherman and Comet tanks trundled forward in various degrees of disrepair, shrugging off the attentions of shotguns and bolt-action rifles as they crushed the minority-rule interests of white farmers in the extreme north of what was to be made Republican majority-rule territory.
Like the patter of rain on a tin roof, small-arms fire bouncing off the Sherman's armour could be heard within the potential deathtrap. The crew seemed unconcerned.
"Oi, men! Yu shut yu fock' noise!" cried the loader, slapping the side of the hull, irritated by the persistant but worthless fire directed at them. Prompted by the commander, he laid down his cards in a nonchalant manner. "Fock et!" he wasn't happy with his hand, anyway. May as well get rid of it all.
He stretched back as far as he could in these cramped conditions, running his fingers through his short hair. "Fock!" he shouted, moving suddenly, much to the annoyance of the other crewmembers. "I'm gon' shoot dem bastards den we can go hom!"
He was, apart from anything else, sick of struggling through the English language for the sake of his Bantu-or-English comrades (he knew no Bantu dialects), and set himself at the gunsights.
Testament to the discipline present in President Festus "Big Sam" Basamgiri's army was the inaction of the tank commander as the loader took charge of the 76mm rifle and began, at a slow rate, to shell the positions of the rebellious East Uftatsi white farmers. "Independen' now, dem fockes!" the loader shouted into the optics as he sent another HEAT-MP round flying.
The Republic of Maharerland was less than five years old. Its frontiers were a colonial construct, and following a very recent grant of independence and statehood, the first ever elected premier, Festus Basamgiri, had resolved to secure East Uftatsi, another colonial creation of presently unclear constitutional status. Though the Republic had only a few million citizens, most native Herero and Nama, East Uftatsi had only a few thousand residents, and the land was still dominated by rich white farmers.
The second ever Maharerland elections were coming up, and 'Big Sam' was in pretty dire need of a cause behind which to rally his waning band of supporters.
Across the Southern African territory, Sherman and Comet tanks trundled forward in various degrees of disrepair, shrugging off the attentions of shotguns and bolt-action rifles as they crushed the minority-rule interests of white farmers in the extreme north of what was to be made Republican majority-rule territory.