Brushfire - Combat in 1960's Africa - Still recruiting!

[Guest]

OOC Thread Here

(Forgive the French, I'm rusty. But you get the idea.)

Charleville, République de Gwunfa (The Republic of Gwunfa), February 5th, 1963

The coastline of Gwunfa was decidedly scenic; glistening cliffs topped off with bright emerald green foliage and beaches that sparkled in the light from a fireball of a tropical sun as if littered with diamonds. Beneath the deep azure equatorial sky, many small fishing vessels bobbed along as their crews hauled in the nets from the crystalline-teal, sun-pierced waters and leaving an array of tropical marine wildlife on their decks to be sorted through. It all painted such a peaceful, idyllic image from afar, those dark, diminutive figures plying their trade. It gave one the impression that the country whose coastline loomed in the distance was Rousseau’s tabula rasa, brought forth to life from the ancienne’s imagination.

But if one were to look closer, during the trip in, they would see the fishing boats that created such a pleasant initial impression were being circled by more modern motorized boats with uniformed men aboard, fellows that wore khaki that was the French uniform of a generation ago, albeit more slovenly, untucked and stained than the French would have ever allowed any Gendarme Coloniale to be. All the same, these men wore the kepis bleus, the flat-brimmed, flat-topped round blue caps, in the French style, that made it clear that they were indeed the military/police of the nation. They wielded an array of French MAS-36 rifles, bolt action mainstays of the last generation of the French military; these they mostly used to club fishermen with, for offenses unknown.

Early in the voyage, the crew of Le Missonaire became familiar with the way of things, as they were stopped and boarded for ‘inspections’ that generally required some sort of skimming off the cargo—gendarmes grabbing sacks of food, the medicines and expensive equipment intentionally buried where they wouldn't easily find it and packed in huge crates that wouldn't be easily loaded on to the small motorboats these men used for their patrols. The Gendarmes were cheerfully indifferent to the polite protestations from the missionaries that it this was aid for the starving. One crewer, a Senegalese who said something nasty to one, got his teeth knocked in by the butt of a rifle. Another was shot when he objected to the rifle-butting of the crewman.

One moment, it was an argument, heated and in French and a local dialect, and then the threatening waving of the rifle. The cannon-boom of the weapon going off was unexpected to all sides; as was explained to the missionaries later, MAS-36 rifles had no manual safety, and apparently the Gendarme had a round chambered and his finger jostled the trigger as he was shaking it threateningly.

The freighter crew were so phlegmatic about the shooting death that it almost sounded as if it were a car accident rather than a man murdered. The attitude of the Gendarmes was one that could be roughly translated to 'Tough shit' as the Americanism went. It didn't stop them from taking their cut.

Indeed, the perception of Gwunfa as a paradise wore off quickly for the Red Cross workers on this voyage into the Heart of Darkness. But, as Henri Lafitte put it, the ‘bribes’ were the cost of doing business, and the part of the Gendarmes’ perks was the ability to plunder commercial craft during their customs inspections for arms and other contraband coming into the country.

“Mais,” he breathed between puffs of a yellow-brown paper Gauloise that gave off an impressive smell somewhere between a stench and a perfume, “c’est la vie en Gwunfa. These salopards, they make plus d’argent off selling the food.”

Henri was a mulatto Frenchman that served in the French Army during World War II and in la guerre en Indochine, what was now known to the world as Vietnam—another argument for the old saying, ‘plus ça change, plus c’est la même-chose” as the United States was surely becoming more involved as the Diem regime was less and less cooperative and effective in holding back Ho Chi Minh. He was also a native of Gwunfa, albeit one with a real French passport, unlike much of the country who never held citizenship under l’ancienne regime coloniale of the Fourth Republic, and were denied it when De Gaulle brought in the Fifth in 1958.

The Red Cross had a good resource in him, a man that knew the land and had contacts to get the rest of the mission through into the places that needed the medical care and the food. They’d been relying upon Henri to help smooth the way and get around the local obstruction that they surely expected.

But Henri was the dead man, already in a zippered bag stored on ice in the hold, and now, as Le Missionaire sat in Charleville harbor, the responsibility of getting Red
Cross supplies and workers through a hostile land that one knew little loomed large and dark, a path fraught with peril and with no clear way forward. The facility was fairly new, but there were obvious signs of a lack of care in the form of peeling paint and growing weeds, the inevitable aftereffect of a rapid French pullout that gave the natives no real time to organize themselves into an effective government; when the French left them to their own in 1960, Gwunfa had trained native magistrates; most of them fled in the tumultuous elections of 1962, when Jacques Venda won an election mostly through violent intimidation at the ballot box.

All around, one could feel the oppressive and grim sullenness in the air, not merely from the civilians, but from the customs officials. The documentary videos always showed happily grinning Africans, white teeth on deep brown-black faces frolicking in tribal attire, the sort of thing Leni Riefenstahl shot after the War.

Charleville loomed in the distance beyond the port facilities, gleaming, whitewashed and sparkling in the sun. In the distance, past the seagulls, one could see the stone spire of a Catholic church, the bells sounding throughout the city and scattering many tropical birds into the air. The nearby boulevards were lined with bustling men and women in various types of either colorful native attire or in more French attire, the stylish shirt and slacks that they favored. Few whites than would have been here when the Republic first became independent; many had fled in the wake of the elections when Jacques Venda took over. Still, there were some holdouts.

One of them was waiting at the pier, waving. He wasn’t alone, however.

Instead, Justino Mancini faced a different reality, that of armed men glancing around eagerly at the boat, viewing the men in the mission as some sort of bait. They were the only cargo ship of its type, not even one of the large ones, sitting in the harbor, and clearly their arrival represented an unusual economic opportunity. When Henri was killed, there was a bit of a catfight over who had authority over the mission, but the reality remained that no one was terribly familiar with what to do. What was likely apparent, at least to the Italian, was the need to use some of the cash to even get the cargo off the docks, much less into the interior.

The man was wearing a tropical suit, off-white linen with a blue shirt and a light brown-light blue-pink chequered tie to match the hankerchief in the jacket pocket, and was in a hasty conversation with the Gendarme officer in charge of the party; even as the two men shook hands and the suit-wearer gave a pale blue pack of Gauloises to the sergeant-- probably with money folded neatly in the pack, which helped keep up appearances. Old gag, an Italian that knew Italy probably was familiar with it, but it worked and the uniformed men moved off a ways.

“Bonjour, où est Henri?”

It was the captain of the ship, a French-speaker, who replied, “Je suis desolé, mais il est mort. Les gendarmes…”

“Ah, oui. Merde.” He sighed; in a more civilized country, this would be shocking, with many questions such as "Porquoi? Quand? Comment?" But here, in Gwunfa, it apparently just elicited a sigh and a shake of the head, and a crossing of the chest in the old catholic ritual. Then, onto business.

"Qui est responsable, puis?"

The captain replied, “L’Italien, il est l’homme que tu doives à parler avec…en Anglais.” The man managed to throw in the implied contempt for the English language in the last comment, before gesturing to Justino.

The man with the suit removed his hat, revealing thinning but meticulously razor-cut hair and said, with a good enough, if accented sort of English, “Bonjour, though I am sad to hear that my kamerad is murdered, but that is the way of things these days," he sighed, took a breath and then continued.

"I am Jean Gaudet, I arranged for trucks to help ship your goods, monsieur, but I must tell you that you will find it particularly difficult to get your goods into the interior; Henri could have done it fairly well, as he knows the region well, but I am worried for your safety if you proceed…but if you wish, we can take care of the matter of unloading this ship and get this to a safe warehouse where we can consider our options, non? I do not like the look of that salopard in charge, and these coloniales, they are touchy and greedy...”

--

The office itself was an old coffee export company, long since closed up. The flow of the coffee from the interior highlands ceased and now the place was bare of any goods, though the offices themselves were richly appointed, with good thick furniture and native artwork hung along the walls, perhaps a patronizing touch of local color in an overwhelmingly Europeanized setting. It was merely Gaudet, slender and cosmopolitan in his suit, puffing away at a briar pipe clenched between his teeth, as the fans whirred squeakily overhead in the late-afternoon heat, and Justino in the room itself. The Frenchman seemed unaffected by it, but then he looked like he was long used to the oppressive heat and humidity of equatorial Africa. There were cups of French-style coffee with the tin drips atop the cups producing a fragrant and beautifully rich brew for them to partake; it was excellent, and it was amazing that it was no longer exported.

But the meeting was to figure out the strategy, perhaps because Gaudet recognized that the Italian was a man of the world, unlike the others, and would understand the obstacles and challenges of getting the aid into the interior.

“You have options for getting your aid in. One is to use the roads and pay the bribes in, but there is no telling how many bribes and you may be intercepted by the police; they are run by the KGB, and if they find out that the destination for the trucks is the Interior, where the Dandus are, they will try to stop you, and probably put you in prison. You,” he added with dry humor, “Would probably not like the prisons in Gwunfa. I am told that they are free of rats, but not because the prisons themselves are particularly sanitary.”

“I recommend you find a pilot, if you can, to take some of the shipments out and then we can bring others in more slowly once you are set up. I know a pilot that would do this, a crazy old Britisher that works out of Nigeria, but he has an American DC-3, non? But it is up to you. Some now by air, or all at once by ground convoy. It is your choice, of course, but I think you may get your supplies through by land, but it would be safer if you went by air initially and give us time to set up, I think…”

[Guest]

Bloemfontein, Republiek van Suid-Afrika, January 3rd, 1963

Bloemfontein, true the the name of the city, was in full bloom in the months that were summer in the Southern hemisphere. Bloemfontein itself, a city designed with idyllic stroll parks and stately landscaping; from Afrikaans, the name translated literally to 'fountain of blooms' but it was also colloquially known as "The City of Roses."

And as it was fifteen hundred feet above sea level, on the edge of the highveld, it was warm without being overbearingly hot as it overlooked the much more arid lands of the Karoo to the south of it. A warm breeze carried the perfume from the park that stood before him, ruffling the leaves as it passed through.

James Godfrey had always been in love with the city, particularly because it seemed designed with him in mind. He was an enthusiastic gardener and botany student before the War intruded in 1939 and tore him from his studies permanently.

Indeed, he walked with a limp ever since to show for pranging out of a burning Spitfire over some farmer's field; a parachute malfunction that was bad enough to break his leg in several places but not kill him left him grounded from there on out, serving as a headquarters staff intelligence officer. It was a career, he'd quip, that he literally fell into. It usually drew a groan from his wife, Sannie, who felt that kakkies, an old colloquial term for the British among Afrikaners, were entirely too dry-witted for their own good.

Still, his current job allowed him some discretion, and this particular job required that he not do it in the capitol, Pretoria. Bloemfontein was suitably out of the way for what he'd need to do; South Africa had three, bewilderingly enough, capitols. Pretoria for the executive, Cape Town, far, far to the Southwest, for the legislative, and then Bloemfontein, which was home to the judiciary. Bloemfontein, of course, was also a collegiate town, and while Godfrey never did finish his degree in botany he often wondered what it would have been like to perhaps have completed the studies in the Free State University or similar. Not that he had much time these days.

The American CIA wanted the right sort of fellow for some work in the region and, wisely, consulted with the British intelligence services on the matter, who offered to do the recruiting. The Americans, with more money than sense, actually agreed to allow for it.

Well, they aren't entirely stupid, he thought, just rather eager and all together in a rush. Like that Kennedy fellow; in his haste, he made many missteps in the whole Cuban affair, though to be fair, he inherited that, South Vietnam and the Congo from his predecessor. Godfrey was unsurprised by it; he'd spent years in the war in a joint intelligence unit, working with the Americans.

Still, with MI-6 doing the recruiting for the CIA, owing to a much greater familiarity with Africa, it meant that the British government was free to pick the right sort of fellows, not merely in terms of skills, but also in terms of their political beliefs.

"Mr. Hartley, it's so good to meet you." He stuck out his hand and shook, "I must confess, I never can pass up the opportunity to tour this park every time I visit. Care to join me?"

It was so nice when good fieldcraft and an obsession traded places; this park was bug-proof, and Bloemfontein wasn't on the communist radar as a hotbed of espionage or mercenary activity. And, as an added bonus, his leg, always much better in the warmer, drier climate of South Africa than in the damp chill of dear old Blighty.

He had a little job, and this man fit the bill; South African war veteran, still fit and trim, experienced from his stint as an infantryman, instructor and dismounted for armored units later in the war. Not to mention his activities since. An Africa hand but, more importantly, one whose interests were broadly their own.

***

Near Fort du Guesclin, the Limva River, Gwunfa, February 5th, 1963.

And so Hartley found himself in command of a mixed bag of ex-KAR, Ghana Regiment and other black African troops with British service training, good, disciplined lads, moving overland through the deep jungle of the Limva River valley in the southern part of the country, towards Fort du Guesclin. It was only a pair of platoons, dressed in French-style uniforms and wielding MAT-49 submachineguns and MAS-49 rifles; they were, broadly, dressed much like Venda's own troops, with an exception; khaki and floppy hats, often stripping down in the intense heat and humidity of the swampy jungle, many of the men were wishing for their old issue tropical kit, with the shorts. The French preferred long sleeves and long pants, unfortunately.

Hartley was a white face, and obviously so if one was close enough to see features and realize he'd merely applied some sort of topical solution to give him the rudimentary appearance of being black. That wouldn't really matter, because most of them couldn't speak a word of French either. And many of them couldn't speak the local dialect, Dandu, either. All the same, it wasn't as bad as it sounded; there weren't that many radios and no TV cameras around, and if the job was done right, no one would get a close look at the raider force, particularly as they were all riding in rickety, locally-procured vehicles of the sort the Gwunfa Republican Army was using these days, bouncing along the road that was a strip of badly kept cement and paving that the jungle was already eating up, on route to the objective.

Luckily for the force, whose orders were to overcome Fort du Guesclin quickly, the locals tended to hide from people in uniforms who carried guns; and who could blame them? And while they were busy hiding, no one had the time to say, "ah, but he looks like a Kenyan, what the hell is he doing here?"

Hartley had options, of course, the orders the CIA sent down were fairly broad. It was actually quite sensible of them to let the local experience handle things the best way for the locality; perhaps they were learning from their mistakes already.

Take the fort. No how or supervision from above. Signal to the main body, the mercenary troops of Gabriel Mshenge who were massed over the border in hidden camps, complete with air support and light, WWII vintage armor, and crack the country wide open.

The only thing standing in the way were the guns of Fort du Guesclin, a formidable fortress built along the main road and straddling the only bridge that'd take the armored spearhead. If it put up a fight, things would become that much rougher. But Venda's forces were used to beating up their own people, the sentries lazy and overall security lax. It was symptomatic of any organization that ceased to worry about fighting other nearly-equally armed men and concentrated on shoving around civilians. They went to seed.

There were options, though, for taking the place. They all involved some sort of ambush, really. There was the option of going through the gates -- they had at least one native among them, posing as an officer. It was happy coincidence that he got to pose as an officer, so that they didn't have to give the man a submachinegun with which he'd probably shoot his feet off with. The only thing that could be said for him was that the man spoke the local dialects and had the right arrogant/stupid combination to make him seem like the ideal officer in the army of Jacques Venda. With that resource, dubious as he seemed in many ways, it was nonetheless likely they could bluff their way in, claiming orders from 'Le President.'

On the other hand, there was some likely looking high ground nearby, perfect for mortars and bazookas, which they happened to have hidden in the half-ton trucks, and a conventional assault. Each had their advantages and pitfalls, of course. Sneaking in meant driving right under the guns of the fort and then hoping the enemy stayed dumb until the force was too close for it to matter, or to take the long way around, ford the river upstream, and infiltrate into the nearby hills, which, of course, was more arduous.

And as the CIA said, it was up to him how they wanted to handle the assault. For once, they were looking for the results alone and not asking any questions. But they were supposed to, if possible, make it look like a coup from within, pro-Mshenge troops turning on Venda to help rally support, and give a smidgen of legitimacy to the subsequent invasion by an army that was, to be honest, mercenary and funded by certain mining and agricultural concerns as much as former colonial governments.

But with few eyewitnesses to contradict what was being broadcast on the airwaves, who would ever know?

[Gilbert]

As they waited in the dry heat, staring at the map, thoughts flooded the South African's mind. Though English by ancestry - fourth generation; he thought as much in Afrikaans as English, a side-effect of living for a time in the Free State when his parents moved around for their missionary work during the Inter-War years. His father never was much of a religious man, before the Great War, but after it...well, there's that saying about atheists in trenches. Richard Hartley took that to the extreme, going to seminary after the war, then bringing the Lord's (Anglican) word to the tribal black man. But that wasn't relevant right now. That fort before him was the only thing on his mind.

"There has got to be 'n manier om te kry binne-in hierdie veroordeel plek. Perhaps using the mortars en bazooka to bombardeer them...after we kidnap n offisier and try to impersonate them..." Hartley thought, a little too loudly. The Africans around him gave him a curious look, like he was speakng tongues. He just shook his head. He hadn't realised he was actually talking, so engrossed in this planning was he. A smile crossed his face. "Jammer! Now, go get the explosives...and make for the high ground. The rest of you, stay here and set up along either side of the road, block it with a truck, and rig it with what spare explosives we have."

An evil grin crossed Hartley's face as he saw his comrades head out to carry his orders. The heat was oppressive, even more in the brush on teh roadside. Hopefully, the artillery crews would make it to the hill in time to set up and engage the fort throughout the night. WIth even more luck, a patrol would come up...a little impersonation, the confusion of a bombardment, and the difficulty of seeing in the dead of night gave Hartley quite a bit of confidence.

Five hours later, just as night finally fell, the first thuds came from the hills surrounding Fort du Guesclin. Whistling was heard through the still air, followed by an explosion, the first several rounds landing within the fort's courtyard. Rockets streaked and slammed into the walls, mostly as a show of the will of Hartley and his men than any expectation of crumbling the wall with the 3.5 inch rockets. This continued for some two or three hours - Hartley was none too sure, preferring to keep his profile as low as possible and not risk giving the trickery away with a light to check the time. A low rumbling in the distance, however, meant that whatever hour it was, it was time to pay attention.

An old truck drove by some minutes later, and Hartley smirked and patted the Kenyan on the back, whom pressed a button, sending the truck across the road up in flames, Venda's men piling out. In the firelight, the enemy stood out in stark contrast, and carefully orchestrated fire cut them down as they poured out. It was over in a matter of less than five minutes and to no harm to Hartley nor his compatriots. the MAT-49s in the group barking once for each of the soldiers in Venda's employ. The bodies, now assuredly dead, were pulled off the dirt path and tossed in the dirt. One squad, Hartley included, his face blackened even further with ash from teh fire as well as dirt, piled into teh back and they drove off towards the fort, the forty others alongside him following some distance behind on foot.

From the radio haphazardly tossed in the back, one of the Ghanaians took over the radio, carefully composed literal French squawked over the set: "Nous avons trouvé l'ennemi et les avons détruits. Nous avons fait sauter un de leurs camions et retournons maintenant."

"Très bien…" was the trailing reply. They drove, the road bumpy as they approached Fort du Guesclin's lone gate; darkness their shield.

[Twoface_ecafowT]

The room had the faint spirit of The Bastille. The walls were made of coarse stone and reinforced with iron, accoutered with tear-like deposits of limescale and rust. Across from the door was a barred window that provided an unenthusiastic view of the adjacent port facility. A portable fan rattled in symphonic unison with the jingling water pipes overhead, distilling the tension that was coiled in Justino Mancini’s stomach. The Italian aid worker was seated in front of a featureless wooden table; his hands were deeply rooted in his jacket pocket and it was all he could do to keep from pacing.

It had only been a day since his meeting with Jean Gaudet and their mutual decision to bring aid into the Interior by land. That gave plenty of time for news of their exposed mission to be hastily passed from gendarme to inspecteur and an arrest warrant from inspecteur to gendarme. Of course that could simply be the imagination of a confused Justino run astray, but that still begged the question: why was he here?

No less than thirty minutes passed before the door opened and a khaki-colored gendarme dressed in the careless fashion of Venda’s military stepped into the room. His features were hidden beneath a thick beard and mustache, although Justino could see the hard and unfriendly creases around his eyes. He sat across from the Italian, nursing a MAS-36 rifle in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other (two things the gendarmes seemed to have in limitless supply).

“Nous savons de vous,” he said crassly between eager sips of brew. When Justino didn’t respond, the uniformed man cleared his throat and spoke with an accented but intelligible English, “English, then? Damn foreigners, you come here, you know the language!” The Italian wasn’t foolish to point out the irony and kept silent. “We know of you,” the gendarme reiterated, translating his previous statement.

The tension that had been coiled in Justino’s stomach sent an electric jolt to his heart, forcing his heartbeat into his throat. “What is that supposed to mean?” His voice was steady despite the nervous tingling of his skin. We know of you. That could mean a number of things. Unfortunately for Justino, most of them were bad.

The officer laid his gun on the table and held his cup with both hands. “We have news from our campatriotes in the république that you’ve been traveling our coast, providing medical relief to the coloniales. You are au fait in medicine? A docteur?”

Justino replied, “Was, a doctor. I was… relieved of duty, a few years ago.” The Italian was hesitant to speak too much or too little of his past; it all depended on how much they already knew.

“What for?” Justino cursed under his breath. Either they had no idea or they were treating him to see if he’d tell the truth. Without pretense, however, it was impossible to tell. The gendarme’s tone was equally ambiguous and conveyed little more than an instinctual distaste for foreigners of any kind.

The Red Cross leaned forward in his chair, feigning a comfortable yet respectable confidence. “I was found guilty of accepting bribes from pharmaceutical companies in exchange for endorsing and administering their drugs.” Justino sighed, “One of my patients died from an overdose on medicine he didn’t need, the hospital got curious, and…” Justino motioned around the room, as if that would fill in the blank.

“Bien fait!” The gendarme exclaimed with a type of complaisant excitement, clapping the table and laughing. “You are a rotten salopard, Monsieur Mancini!” He smiled and set his coffee down, extending a hand across the table. “Emile Chaffee.” Justino accepted the unexpected gesture calmly, feeling more at ease. Whatever the reason for him being here, he was becoming more confident it wasn’t because he was going to be arrested. “Quite a story, Monsieur, although in truth we are less interested in your past than in your future. The république is in need of docteurs and we-“

Justino cut him off before he could finish, “Excuse me, Emile, but I am here with the Red Cross, to provide aide to the colonials, not to Venda’s-“

It was Emile’s turn to intercept, although he did so with less tact or apology. “I should remind you, Monsieur, that this is a dangerous place for foreigners in your position. Aid workers, even from the Red Cross, have been claimed as victims of many a hostile government. A docteur of the république, however, even a foreign one, has certain protections.” It sounded more like a threat than an offer, and although the gendarme was still talking as if Justino had a choice, the Italian realized the truth of it.

Before Justino had a chance to answer, the door swung inward and another gendarme stepped in. “Appel téléphonique, pour l'étranger,” he said to Emille, portraying a familiar derisiveness for foreigners in the process.

“You’ve a phone call, Monsieur,” Emille reported as he stood up, leaving his empty coffee cup on the table. “I trust you will give our offer some thought. We’ll talk soon.” He absently fingered the trigger of his gun as he nodded and left the room, sending Justino a small but vibrant warning.

---------------------------

“Are you fucking insane?” Justino recognized the voice despite the crackling of the old phone and smiled. “Seriously Justino, have you lost your fucking mind?”

The phone was situated in a small, comfortably furnished room with large padded chairs and low-sitting tables. Three large gendarmes were currently engaged in smoking cigars and exchanging husky laughs over a game of cards. They didn’t pay the Italian much attention besides the occasional glance. “First I hear you’ve decided to go on a suicide mission into the Interior with a Frenchman you’ve just met and now I’m told you’re being held in the barracks? What the fuck is going on?”

“Calm down Colin, I’m not being held anywhere. They just wanted to ask me a few questions.” One of the poker players glanced at Justino over his cards and said something to his companions in French. One of them chuckled and threw down an ace while the other turned around to give Justino a neutral stare. “I’ll tell you about the other thing later.”

“You’re a god damn moron, you know that?”

“Ill see you in a few hours.”

-----------------------------

The local government had graciously allotted one of the abandoned port facilities for aid workers. The rooms varied in size depending on what it had been used for in the past, although they all shared a communal depravity and inhospitableness. Justino’s room was one of the larger ones, although the space was poorly utilized. The entire room was endowed with two cots, a single table and a rickety overhead fan. Both of the beds were currently occupied and the table was bare except for a playboy magazine.

Justino was sprawled across the uncomfortable mattress, his shirt strewn haphazardly on the floor next to the bed to provide some relief from the smothering heat. He glanced across the room at his similarly disrobed roommate and sighed, “I told you Colin, this is something I want to do. No one is forcing me to do it.”

”Yeah, well I don’t trust that Frenchman.” Colin Reggi was sitting on his cot, his back slumped against the cool rock of the wall. He looked the part of an American through and through, his face a collage of various nationalities; according to Colin he was part Irish, part Spanish, part Asian, part German, part Ukrainian and a slew of others that changed each time someone asked. Whatever nationalities he might be, they fit together nicely, giving him fair skin and a strong, handsome face. His hair was brown on the verge of red, giving some legitimacy to his claim to Irish heritage.

“You don’t even know that Frenchman,” Justino retorted calmly, turning his eyes back to the ceiling. “What are we here for if not to help these people? We’ve been here for two months doing what, sewing up a few wounds and giving a few natives food and water? The people that really need help are on the inside.”

“Leave it to someone else, then.”

“If there was someone better, don’t you think the Frenchman would have went to him?”

“Then why go by land? You said it yourself it would be safer to go by plane.” Colin reached forward and grabbed the playboy magazine off the table, waving it like a fan in front of his face.

“Yeah, and slower too. You know how it is here. If we have to take the supplies in a little at a time and wait to set things up on the inside, it could be a year before we can get the bulk of the aid in. I’d rather take the risk and get it all in at the same time.”

Unable to fight the logic, Colin sighed and resigned to a heavy nod. “When are you leaving?”

“Tomorrow night.”

“You’re a fucking moron, you know that?”

[Guest]

Near Local Midnight, Fort du Guesclin, the Limva River, Gwunfa, Night of February 5th/6th, 1963.

"Reinforcementes! Dépêchez, imbeciles! Nous somme sous le feu des guérilleros! Nous devons fermer la grande porte maintenant!"

The troops of Fort Du Guesclin seemed eager to see some sort of fighting, and the 'officer' in Hartley's crew, who actually made himself look starched and pressed in the strutting, preening macho way of French officers, complete with a cap and a pair of aviator sunglasses and a scarf tucked into the khaki collar of his uniform blouse, carried on with the guard as the convoy proceeded in.

He fed him a wild line of shit about one of the bodies of the men the patrol killed being South African, one of les affreux (horrible ones) de la Congo, to complement the actual shelling that Fort du Guesclin came under and perhaps add to the already palpable fear in the air. Indeed, African troops were never, for a variety of reasons very interested in night fighting, and the story, which caused them to gaze frightfully out into the nighttime, with its insect sounds and rustling breezes, caused them even more consternation. White mercenaries were known to take utter advantage of the night to launch their attacks, and this caused even more fear among Venda's troops.

Fort Du Guesclin was an old Legion post, and reflected it in the stark architecture that was mostly of another era; it was overgrowing with vines and uncontrolled weeds in many places, but still bore the stamp of that dour and grim organization, with its hard, desperate, brutal men under the command of officers who imposed a harsh 'March or Die' discipline upon the legionnaires, that guarded France's holdings in its most remote regions. The square buildings were built from adobe clay and were built almost as if they were expecting a siege force from the Hundred Years' War, with its crenellated battlements for soldiers to fire through and then take cover while reloading. The design philosophy wasn't really far off the mark in the old days of colonization, when the colonizers had a huge technology edge and the Blacks didn't have the technology for even the bronze cannon types that destroyed these sorts of forts in Europe.

It was an old stone fort guarding a dirt road, a true anachronism. Beau Geste, though the scenery here was tall grass cut back to something like a thousand yards of clearance from the old days when the Legion actually garrisoned the place and took care in such things. While the kill zone had gone to seed over the intervening years from the last French troops to occupy the place and the grass and weed growth was considerable, there was still a distinct tree line, a 'over there' darkness to contend with, a demarcation line for shadowy nightmare landscape from which any sort of enemy might spring a trap.

Of course, these days, automatic weapons were being produced and sold in Africa, and it rendered Fort du Guesclin into a scenic anachronism at best, a deathtrap at worst if breached. And it was easily breached; tank shells, air assaults and high explosives all proved their worth in the war with forts falling in costly battles. The Maginot, Eben-Emael, Tobruk, the Siegfried Line, Monte Cassino, Dien Bien Phu. As Patton once said, "Fixed fortifications are a monument to the stupidity of man" and then proceeded to demonstrate it with his 'Bypass and Haul Ass" strategy for the Third Army.

Fortresses like this actually encouraged a sort of sedentary mentality of waiting for the enemy to come to them rather than getting out and patrolling for security. The Foreign Legion never had such a problem for the most part, in getting out on the roads to patrol, or doing civil roadwork (badly needed, to go by the conditions of the roads here) in the absence of an enemy to fight. Venda's troops were nowhere near that quality, the officers having no particular professional ethos beyond that of making their life more comfortable and currying favor, and the troops adopting the same by example. Instead, if patrols were run, they were run in fear of local bandits and largely into the villages surrounding, to collect 'taxes' in the form of food and other comforts.

Their ill discipline and lack of expectation in regards to what the enemy might be or do was typical of their sort, and the bandit/militia attitude of many African armies was the reason that mercenaries from western-world militaries did so well; even the most basic of discipline and organization as imposed by a conscript system in Europe, not to mention combat-hardened combat veterans from WWII, Malaya, Indochina, Algeria and other sundry parts of the world, was superior to the indolence and chaos of the system that prevailed on the continent, which often wound up being tribal warfare and the building of a state on the basis of one tribe oppressing the other. They were fierce, as individuals, and some of the NCO's and officers were old line professionals, but generally they were a rarity.

It seemed almost luck that, miles away, on a clear night, one could see a big enough fire glowing in the distance, and smoke in the air; with the moon waxing gibbous, it was stark. And of course, it drew spectators to the walls; they'd seen the actual attacks on their own facility, and then heard word of South Africans and other whites, just as in the Congo. All-white Commandos under men like "Mad" Mike Hoare and "Black" Jacques Schramme, marauding over the countryside with automatic weapons. It was a perception, of course, that had been counted on by the mercenary planners of this little coup-de-main operation, even if it came down to one of Mshenge's otherwise useless cronies sweating bullets in a uniform he was unused to and lying like he had two tongues. The latter part probably wasn't too hard for him.

The commanding officer, who strutted self-importantly towards Mshenge's man, was no doubt about to demand a report and so forth, having spotted Mshenge's man, but unsure how to take this elegantly accoutered officer, who looked like he probably had connections with the regime to have such a finely tailored uniform. This, too, was a contingency provided for by the fellows putting together the move, knowing that French-trained military types tended to draw conclusions based on tailoring. By contrast, Hartley was intentionally accoutered as a 'peasant' enlisted man.

Meanwhile, the troops in Hartley's Kommando were already spreading out a bit, as if to start bivouacking, and trying to keep the movements almost exaggeratedly casual. The moment was as ripe as it would ever get, perhaps overripe, with the Gauloise-smoking man with the jowls and the paunch waddling over to the officer, no doubt with a thousand questions.

Fingers didn't quite find triggers yet, but they did find safeties, which they clicked off of 'safe' while their comrades coughed, fiddled and made noises to cover the movement.

It was almost that time.

The fortress commandant seemed contemptuous of the troops bivouacking, and seemed a tad irritated that he hadn't been consulted. So he sounded a tad petulant and perhaps a little aggressive when he made his query.

"Bonsoir, Captaine, bienvenue au Fort du Guesclin. Je suis Colonel Changa Mswete...et vous êtes?"

[Guest]

Early Morning, Charleville, République de Gwunfa (The Republic of Gwunfa), February 7th, 1963

The port facility's accomodations weren't merely hot and humid with little off-shore breeze to help cut the heat, as was the case when they were aboard Le Missionaire. It also reeked terribly of things that had been stored there in the past, including things that had, apparently, gone to rot in their time in that warehouse. One could expect it in this country, where a bureaucrat or officer not getting his cut could easily hold up the works indefinitely and things tended to run ramshackle at best even with the benign approval of the powers that be.

Justino was interrupted in his sleep by a pair of hands grasping him, no doubt a terror-inducing moment that caused him to think of the security officer he'd met the day before. "Please, wake up, monsieur." Strange, that didn't sound like a security officer at all; in fact, not being dragged out and waken up with a beating was off-stride for what one would expect in Gwunfa. One could reason that it wasn't, then, the KGB-run security service waking him up.

But it was only Gaudet shaking Justino awake, and the smell of the man's fear-sweat, overlaid with tobacco, made it fairly apparent that something was amiss.

"Monsieur, whatever supplies we can get out of here, we must get out now. There is something afoot to the Southwest, and as soon as word of that gets through to Venda and his military, then we are in merde. C'est tres important nous sortons maintenant ou nous serons arrêtés par les troupes quand ils ferment la ville! I already bribed the dock officer but we do not have much time at all to load everything!"

He repeated himself in English, realizing that he'd slipped into French in the middle of that, "I mean to say, we need to leave now, or they will shut down the city and probably arrest us."

Meanwhile, outside where they were staying, there was a frantic nighttime operation to get the goods on the trucks. There was no telling when the news would reach Venda; the Europeans tended to have a superior operation for communicating amongst themselves, and an astute observer might notice the rats jumping ship and draw conclusions; Venda wasn't stupid and his security services at the highest level were outright run by the KGB man in the Russian Embassy.

And once the mere rumor came out, the violence that seemed to loom ubiquitously in Gwunfa would boil over; of that no one had any doubt. After all, their basic gendarmes were violent and brutish, and when threatened, they would no doubt become triply as brutal at the appearance of an actual threat. Or, perhaps, become fearful and start to flee. But even so, that would be a chaos of its own, as armed men trying to flee the city due to impending combat would become wild and bloody in their fear and not hesitate to shoot for self-preservation.

What was worse was the other part; Justino was on the radar of the local authorities, and they'd no doubt see opportunity in this either way. He was both a white man with criminal ties in a past life and had something the government wanted. It'd be easy to arrest him on a trumped up charge, claim he was spying for the 'enemy' and then disposed of. Guilt and innocence, much less any sort of due process, had nothing to do with it. And it might not even be the government that got the supplies; it could just as easily be a black marketeering officer that saw a profit in the boatload of supplies being loaded into those trucks.

"I brought a map," Gaudet breathed, as he unfolded it under a light as he covered the two of them in a blanket. For Justino's surprise, he explained, "During the war years, we learned to do this even inside our homes, in case les Boche were watching; lights on at night was a giveway for the SS and Petain's traitors, non?"

He didn't say much to Reggi, and perhaps that was because Reggi was suspicious of him; Jean Gaudet seemed like a man with a good nose for telling what people were thinking. Perhaps one developed such a sense in the war years working for the French Resistance, given that the organization was often under the threat of betrayal within; the Germans would take a family member hostage, and use that lever against patriots to force them to turn in their friends. It was brutishly effective and it worked. By the same turn, the Resistance fighters themselves had to become hard and unsentimental, willing to shoot good friends for la Belle France. Inevitably, such a sense would stay with a man once he developed it, and most the true survivors of the Resistance did.

He then pointed a carefully manicured, but tobacco stained-finger at the map, "Route 6 is the most direct route, but the Limva River bridge has to be crossed, and that may be impossible. There is route 8, then switching to smaller roads once in the eastern highlands, that might prove to be a safer route, with less of Venda's troops there. I cannot say whether or not there won't be bandits and Okodu's troops, often one and the same, in many cases, up there."

He breathed a sigh and clicked off the flashlight, "Unfortunately, it is your choice. I am getting out of here on your ship tonight, the captaine is already making his preparations. I will not stay to be killed like Henri, god bless him. And god bless you, monsieur."

The man seemed almost regretful, perhaps because he didn't have a chance to steal the medical supplies himself; there was no time for it now. In any case, the well-wishes seemed genuine, in the way of criminal scumbags for whom a con was nothing personal. He turned and made for the exit, where waited his bags. The man packed light, all things considered. There were others too, who seemed intent on getting out. That much said that this wasn't some sort of mere rumor; it sounded like the real thing was afoot here.

Outside were the men, sweating and heaving and grunting to get the supplies loaded, men who were also eager to get out of the city themselves. Perhaps it was seeing the whites scurrying around in a frenzy that tipped them off. If one developed an antenna for things in the French Resistance back during the War, one similarly learned a similar sort of sensitivity in the brutal regime of Jacques Venda, whose methods mirrored the SD on their worst days, if considerably less efficient.

Other aid workers were already getting into the process, trying to load the vital stuff on and deciding what had to stay behind. They worked with little light, hooded lanterns hung on the inside of the vehicles, and in fear of being given away to any who might be watching and try to curry favor with the secret police by reporting such an anomalous activity in the dead of night.

For now, Charleville was silent and sleeping in the deepest hours before dawn, but that was an illusion. The tension that underlay the capitol of Gwunfa was always there, ready to explode, and if the rumors were correct, this explosion would be particularly dangerous to Justino.

[Saint Michel]

Gabriel Ndinga inhaled deeply, watching as the smoldering end of the cigarette glowed a cherry red. He held his breath for a few seconds, relishing the taste of the tobacco, before blowing out a long trail of smoke.

"That's good," he said to the man who had given him the cigarette. "American?"

The man nodded. "From Virginia." He handed Ndinga the rest of the pack, which was decorated with an image of a camel. "It's unfortunate that it comes from the imperialist Yanquis, but not unfortunate enough to make me stop." He smiled, and lit one of his own.

Gabriel took another drag and regarded the man with a guarded amusement. The posturing of politicians aside, he hadn't thought anyone actually used words like 'imperialist' in casual conversation until he'd been sent to meet Marco. Ndinga doubted that was the man's real name, just as he doubted Marco was really from Venezuela as he claimed. Sure, the man's passport and three truckloads of wooden crates he'd brought with him were marked as hailing from Caracas, but Gabriel suspected Marco was taking his orders from Havana.

"I'm excited to see what you've brought us," Ndinga said, adjusting the web pistol belt that was forever chafing his hips. He wore a blue kepi with gold braiding, a khaki shirt with matching trousers and heavy American combat boots.

"I think you'll be more than pleased, Colonel," Marco replied. Both men spoke in English, since neither spoke the other's native tongue. The Cuban stood, dropping the butt of his cigarette and grinding it out with his heel, before walking to the nearest truck. Gabriel likewise got to his feet, but snuffed out his cigarette's burning end between his fingers and stowed the butt away in his pocket for later.

There were two of Ndinga's men standing a casual guard by the truck's tailgate, and they saluted and helped Marco as he lowered the tailgate and dragged out one of the crates and set it heavily on the ground.

The crate's side was marked by two lines of stencilled numbers and letters Ndinga recognized as Cyrillic. He'd seen the shipping papers when Marco had arrived, which said the crates contained machine parts from the GDR, shipped through G'Dansk to Caracas and from Caracas to here in a military base fifty miles north of Charleville. Gabriel didn't believe a word of it. The Cuban took a crowbar from the truck bed and with the sound of cracking wood had the crate's lid open.

The crate did not contain machine parts. Instead, resting in a nest of packing material lay an object of wood and blued metal whose shape Ndinga recognized almost immediately. Grinning like a schoolboy, he bent and picked it up, his eyes running down the length of the barrel and grip to the receiver and wooden stock. His gaze lingered on the small letters stamped just under the bolt. They were also in Cyrillic but Gabriel didn't need to read the words to know what they meant. "Kalashnikov," he murmured, his face lit with pleasure.

"How many are there?" he asked, feeling the weapon's weight.

"Five hundred," Marco said, "And enough ammunition to keep your battalion fighting for six weeks." He smiled, happy at Gabriel's reaction. "A gift from the proletariat, Colonel, so that you might help spread the revolution against the capitalists oppressors that are the worker's enemy."

Gabriel nearly laughed aloud at the the Cuban's words. Gwunfa was no worker's paradise, and Jacques Venda's government had little in common with that of Nikita Khrushchev or Fidel Castro. But that was world politics: the Americans had no love of Venda, and in Moscow the Soviets took notice. For his part, Ndinga would have called his nation the kingdom of the fairies if it meant he could get his hands on a thousand more Kalashnikovs.

"Death to the capitalist oppressors," he said, trying on the words for size. It felt strange, but he looked down again at the rifle he held in his hands and decided that he could learn to live with the rhetoric.

Marco beamed at him. "To the worker!" he declared, and Ndinga almost pitied the young man's youthful enthusiasm. He'd been cynical for as long as he could remember. He gestured to the two soldiers, who began unloading more crates from the truck.

Tomorrow morning would be a good one. Colonel Gabriel Ndinga was sure of it.

[Guest]

(We'll assume that the conversation here is in French, as it's between French speakers.)

Early Morning, Bokwuna-Sevo, République de Gwunfa (The Republic of Gwunfa), February 7th, 1963

Tomorrow morning came too soon for Colonel Ndinga, and in the form of bad news. He was awoken by one of his men, who whispered quietly that he had a visitor, though the man himself seemed a bit shaken and taken off his kilter.

It wasn't the same quality as the former Legion post, Fort du Guesclin, but then, the base in Bokwuna-Sevu was a much more modern installation, complete with a defunct airfield that hadn't been used for much since the old days of the French colonial government. But it had amenities. This part of the country was a little more sparse and dry than the Limva river valley to the southy or the hills themselves to the east. There was an old Legion fort nearby, but it was abandoned with the advent of the aircraft age as unsuitable; thus, this military post, built where an airfield could be cleared.

The man who came to him was Dr. Abou Odenge, a Sorbonne-educated man who was known as a strong supporter of Pierre Okodu, even though he was a Lemwe leader. Of course, Okodu wasn't necessarily anti-Dandu, though the sentiment ran high among his leaders. He was a trim, spare man, a professor of economics, which was a particularly useless thing to be in a country like Gwunfa; the way things stood, a sensible business model was inevitably stifled by regime cronies and rampant, unrestrained graft. At the same time, he was an articulate voice abroad for the most influential resister of Venda's regime within the country. Quite by accident, he became a diplomat. But now, he hardly looked the part, rumpled, dusty, red-eyed and sweating profusely as he was. It was hot out, but not quite that hot. His formerly starched shirt was stained through.

He was grateful when he was provided with a moist towelette with which to help clean himself up and cool off.

That he'd risk showing himself to an officer of Venda was a statement in and of itself, and a powerful one. He was thought to be in New York, lobbying fruitlessly and trying to make connections to help his patron out; the communists hadn't touched them, finding a surer thing in Venda, a military officer, than the likes of Okodu, who was also a military officer, but with a lot less control. But Okodu turned out to be surprisingly resilient in his highland holdfasts. He always had the reputation for toughness.

"Good day, Colonel Ndinga. I realize that my appearance here is unorthodox, and I assure you that it is not to surrender." He paused as one of the orderlies brought coffee, done with the small tin drips atop the demitasses, which produced a rich, frothy blend. It was the cheapeast thing in Gwunfa, and a luxury that many consumed lovingly.

Instead, he continued, "Last night, mercenaries started to make a push into the country from the South; we knew that Gabriel Mshenge sold out this country's mineral rights some time ago, but we weren't aware of how extensive his contacts were. He has quite a force, including armor and air support, built up."

That was bad news in this region; any armor at all was nigh-unstoppable in many cases, especially if used properly. Even the older stuff, leftover from the World War, as this no doubt was, would be particuarly lethal when employed in the typical battlefields here. It was almost idiosyncratic to employ armor here, with so little of it and few of the resources necessary to maintain it. Of course, if the old colonial powers were providing their support, many things became quite possible. Air power was even worse; machineguns could shoot down enemy aircraft, but it took a lot of luck and that was while they were moving fast and dropping bombs.

So the news that came next was even worse, "The force includes many ex-colonial troops and les affreux under the overall command of one Colonel Niles Robertson, an experienced man from Montgomery's Desert Rats, I am told. He is making an impressive push in. Your unit, of course, will no doubt be notified of this soon, and you will be thrown into the fray if you accept the orders. I think, that you will be in an impossible situation. You have one of the better units of Venda's army, but we both know you are too smart to throw yourself away fighting armor and air with none yourself. And you are not beloved of Mshenge or the corporate imperialists themselves. You have made your bed with Venda, Colonel. But you have options."

The doctor paused to watch the Colonel even as he took a sip of his coffee, letting the man work it out for himself. Colonel Ndinge was an intelligent man, according to the profile, much less mindlessly brutal than many of his fellow officers, and much more of a professional, albeit one with a distinctly mercenary attitude himself. Of course, the western powers would never see it that way, they saw too much of his support of Venda, which was fairly critical in many senses, here in the Northern part of the country, and too little of the man beneath the uniform. He was far too cunning to be anyone's reliable ally unless his back was to the wall, with no choices and he was presented a potential gain.

"I think we understand each other here, Colonel. Pierre Okodu thinks highly of your capabilities, and knows the value of a strong enemy as an ally. He is not a butcher like Venda, and you have contacts with the Soviets, Cubans and Egyptians. These will be necessary and highly profitable; we already hold the highlands that everyone wants, with its metals and mining concessions. You could become a particularly influential man and have a life of comfort in all this if you would join us. It would also save the lives of your men. Venda cannot offer you anything anymore but a futile death at the hand of the colonialists and their pawn, who will no doubt want your head on principle."

Once finished with his little speech, he moved a light blue pack with a silver helmet on front; Gauloises, the strong stuff, over to the Colonel; apparently he'd read a dossier as well and knew that the man was a smoker. And, of course, everyone here prized the French stuff over the American cigarettes. It was a much stronger, more pungent tobacco, almost like a lit fart, but it tasted good. These days, it was hard to get them on the open market; a carton of them cost too much against other, less prized brands.

An orderly came and went, leaving a message written out for the Colonel, with a salute in and a salute out. One glance confirmed the worst; invasion from the South, unknown forces. Odenge knew what it said without even reading it. Instead, he lit a cigarette and slumped in his chair, grateful for the smoke; no doubt, as much of a poker-face as he was, the strain was felt.

"It's a time for a decision, Colonel. Time is of the essence, non?"

One had to admire the Doctor's balls; he came to the lion's den bearing an invitation to treason to a man who had much to gain from killing him, but came anyway, knowing that he may well be shot and put in a ditch. And that would be the merciful option compared to some other possibilities.

[Saint Michel]

Ndinga chewed on the inside of his cheek as he read the dispatch from Charleville and then read it again. There was no mention of marching orders for his regiment, but he could see that future in the cards.

The doctor's words about armor was troubling -- the 43rd was equipped with surplus Russian RPG-2s, which could turn most armor into flaming wrecks but whose range was so short that any hope of a killing shot would be in practical pissing distance. Airplanes, however, gave Gabriel cause for worry.

"You've said a great deal, Doctor," Ndinga said, leaning back in his chair, "And you've made me think, it's true." He eyed the pack of Gauloises on the table, holding back a smile. If he'd been a man easily insulted, he might have taken umbrage at the clumsy attempt to curry favor, but Ndinga was not that man. He never said no to gifts.

"Yes, it all makes a man think," Gabriel went on, taking the Gauloises and tapping a cigarette out of the pack, "But as I see it--" A sudden furious burst of gunfire from the direction of the defunct airfield made him pause as he waited for the noise to die down. Marco had been training his men in their new weapons since just before dawn, and the constant racket of the Ak-47s made Gabriel feel as if he had hammers pounding in his head.

"But as I see it," he continued once the gunfire had ceased, "You didn't risk coming here just worry about my health and my men's safety, though I appreciate the concern Doctor." He laughed, then took out a Ronson and flicked it open. "So then I must ask, why do you come here?"

He lit his cigarette and gave a contemplative puff. "If Mshenge gives Venda the boot, you and I know he'll come after your man Okodu next. So it seems whether I hold onto my loyalty to M'sieur Venda or throw my lot in with M'sieur Okodu, I'll be fighting all this armor and planes sooner or later." Now Ndinga leaned forward in his chair. "I want to know why I should take my men and their pretty new rifles and join your man -- what's in it for me that I couldn't have by staying with Venda or working something out with Mshenge?"

[Guest]

The doctor was shaken a bit when the AK fire started up; he wasn't a man used to combat, yet he had a courage of his own. The Gauloises were not offered so much as a bribe as a comradely gesture, but at however they were perceived, at least the gesture worked to some degree.

The last part about Mshenge dealing gave him a bit of wry amusement. What came next had to do with diplomatic timing and the typical tactic of trying to psychologically dislocate the enemy, much as one might do in a military operation.

"Whose to say that Mshenge hasn't already talked to some people in this area, Colonel? Why bribe you when your officers are considerably cheaper, eh?" He withdrew a telegram, an intercepted piece, and handed it over; it detailed certain plans, including names and prices, largely because someone had to write the checks and move the cash. He'd waited for the moment to play that card. In fact, the rest of the argument would be considerably less difficult from here on out, particularly as he laid out the offer to Ndinga.

"But our territory is not so conducive to armored operations. Captain Okodu," he said this in a voice that was very neutral, though it was a reminder that Okodu was actually trained at St. Cyr, one of those prepared for the post-colonial government by the French, "seems to feel that the likeliest scenario is that they will secure the lowlands and coast first and then work their way into the highlands."

The doctor took another long drag off the cigarette and exhaled a plume of smoke from his lips and then through the nostrils before exhaling once more, via the nostrils.

"It is true, I have said much, but I think my presence here alone attests to the seriousness of our offer. We are largely inclined not to bother with other officers in your army, but you are an exception."

"As to what we will be able to provide you? We are already undertaking negotiations with Nasser for weapons and advisors and once this news of Venda begins, I think you will find your Cuban and Soviet friends thinking as the Egyptians already do. Beyond that, we will have their diplomatic support in the UN. Our intention is to come up with some sort of UN intervention that may give us a little bit of time to prepare. Even if we don't get that lucky, we think there will be breathing room. The colonialists have to swallow the coast, after all, even without your lads' corpses as Venda's barricade."

That last part was said with a dry tone. It was a lot of talking, but Odenge was a talker, or at least a diplomat. At the same time, he had a solid reputation as a teller of truth, something that got him in trouble when he scourged Venda's economy in a newspaper piece.

"We are not so far along as to decide who the peacetime ministers are to be in our government, but I assure you that if you come to fight for us, you will have a cabinet position in your retirement from the military at the cessation of hostilities."

Cabinet positions in Africa equaled unrivaled ability to make money on the side, an opportunity like no other.

"I do not mean this in any offensive sense at all, but you are a deal-maker, colonel, and in the right cabinet position, you could certainly stand to do quite well, on a professional and personal level. And remember, Mshenge does not have the highlands, where all the mineral wealth is. We do. You know first hand how hard it has been to dig us out. Do you think that if we are receiving arms from the Warsaw Pact that it will suddenly become easier? Or that the white mercenaries will be willing to fight a fight that doesn't go their way in a few hours?"

[Saint Michel]

Ndinga sat back, thinking. The doctor was a good talker, that couldn't be denied, and what he'd said about talking to others about the same offer had caused a shiver of fear to run through him. The 43rd had some good officers and they seemed to like their commander, but Gabriel held faith in no one and he trusted his officers as long as they were in front of him. If he turned his back...

"You make a good case, Doctor," he said, gesturing with his hand at the man across the table. He grinned, "Yes, I think you have made a very good case to me. I can see now that the future of this country truly rests in the wise hands of M'sieur Okodu."

Behind the smile, his thoughts were racing furiously. Something else the doctor had said had struck a chord with him, something that made him see the situation in a different light. Ndinga had always been adept at turning impending disaster into good fortune, and deep within his fertile mind the beginnings of a plan were beginning to form; a plan that would once again take him out of the fire and back onto the lucky path. It was a risky gamble, and Gabriel knew that if he failed he'd be lucky to get a cigarette and blindfold before he was shot, but if it worked he'd find himself rising higher than he'd ever dreamed possible.

"Go and tell your man that myself and my men are at his command," Ndinga said. He snapped his fingers and the orderly appeared with a bottle of Camus cognac. "Tell him also that I will remain here with my regiment for the time being, since I'm expecting a second shipment of arms soon -- hopefully, this week."

The orderly filled two tumblers with a finger of cognac each, before placing them before the two men. Ndinga lifted his in a toast. "To what will hopefully be a... most profitable arrangement."

[Twoface_ecafowT]

Jean Gaudet was come and gone in a matter of minutes, leaving Justino breathless and half-hidden beneath his blanket. Colin was well awake by now and had likely heard the Frenchman’s every word despite his best attempts at secrecy. The roommates sat in silence, perhaps savoring these final sweet moments of carelessness and calm, or else they simply couldn’t find the words to comfort each other. And that was probably because there were none. They’d both understood the danger of Gwunfa before deployment, and now that threat was upon them, insurmountable and prying them apart.

Justino suspected he was experiencing the type of hushed surrealism every soldier faces before going into battle. His senses were both confused and heightened; he felt like he could breathe through his skin and taste through his eyes. It was horrible and amazing all at once, and before Justino knew what he was doing he was dressed and his hand was wrapped around the Beretta he’d taped beneath his bed. Taking his cue from every movie cop he’d ever seen, the Italian stuffed the small pistol in the back of his waistband and concealed it with the tail of his shirt.

Colin was doing likewise, albeit in a much more frazzled state. His breathing was heavy and irregular and his hands fumbled around the zipper of his duffel bag. Justino felt a hand on his shoulder and he was wrapped tightly against Colin before he’d even finished turning around. They didn’t say anything; that embrace conveyed more friendship and love than words could have ever done justice.

Colin moved back and held Justino at arms length. The American reached back and produced a wrinkled, torn magazine. “Take it,” he said simply.

“Your playboy?” Justino shook his head and smiled. The gesture was stupid and ridiculous, yet he couldn’t have wanted anything more from Colin at that moment.

“You bet, mate. Let’s be honest, you’re not going to be around any pretty little Italian girls for a long time, and I doubt these Dandu chicks get hot and heavy for a white-skinned bastard like you.” Colin moved past Justino and stuck the magazine in his bag, grinning as he added, “Page 57 is my personal favorite.” They hugged one more time, whispering promises of future plans before Justino slung his bag over his shoulder and left the room.

The Red Cross housing facility was busier than Justino had ever seen it. Dazzled aid workers buzzed in and out of doorways, doing a lousy job of maintaining the quiet and control required for this type of clandestine operation. Justino pushed his way through the small yet densely populated crowds, silencing people where he could and reminding the others that the aide materials still needed loading.

The trucks were loaded by the time the Italian made it outside. There were nine and they reminded the college-educated man of the muddy WWII supply trucks he’d seen picturesquely depicted in his history books. The vehicles were rusted and the green paint was splintering, but they appeared to be in working order and Justino was surprised by how much they could hold. He guessed that near 300,000 lira’s worth of supplies had been loaded onto the back of those trucks. The Red Cross was more deeply invested in this than Justino had thought.

“Are you Mancini?” The question was proposed by a rather short woman who had the faint orange glow and oozing sexuality of French ancestry. Justino didn’t, couldn’t, answer, so overwhelmed by the sight and realization that Gaudet’s premonition of danger was a reality. “I’ll take that as a yes. Gaudet said you were a bit… dumbstruck, when he left you. My name is Aimée Laroche, I’ll be coming with you into the Interior.”

“That’s… good to know,” Justino stammered as Aimée grabbed his arm and began to pull him towards the front truck in line. “I mean, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

She nodded and climbed into the back, motioning towards the front passenger seat, “Get in. We’ll be leaving in a few minutes. The only reliable way out of the city is through one of the roads leading out east. The northern part of the city is mostly municipal and that’s where you’ll find the main Charleville security stations, meaning we’d have a great chance of running into a patrol or police outpost. The south would normally be the easiest route out, but with rumors of fighting in the southwest we can’t take the risk that extra security has been stationed at the southern exits to guard against a possible attack. That leaves us the east. We’ll need to get through one security outpost, but then it’s a straight-shot though the resident district before we’re-“

“Shouldn’t you be telling this to the person in charge?” Justino interrupted, twisting around to stare at the strange and mysteriously informed woman. She bit her lip and shook her head, attempting to hold back a chuckle.

“Aha! Vous êtes un bâtard sale, Gaudet!” Aimée laughed and explained to Justino, “Did Gaudet not tell you? Why, Monsieur Mancini, you are in charge.” She began to laugh again, ignoring the terror that seized Justino in that horrible moment.

“What? No, that’s not possible. There has to be someone else.”

“There is no one else, Monsieur. The drivers are all coloniales, and besides for a few other aid workers, myself, and some gentlemen with guns… there is no one else.” The words sunk in as the engines roared to life in unison, the vibrating of the truck providing a convenient distraction from the thoughts spinning in the Italian’s head. Justino might have jumped out of the truck right then if the ground hadn’t started streaming by and the docks hadn’t disappeared into the early morning fog behind them.

All the lanterns had been doused except those on the first and last truck and even then Justino found it incredible the driver could actually see where he was going. The roads were tight and often partially blocked by crates or abandoned cars that had been stripped of everything that could be easily carried away. It would be difficult to navigate in the day, let alone by the light of a single lantern, yet the convoy moved quickly and without incident.

Not fifteen minutes had passed before the driver whispered and pointed ahead into the darkness, “Sécurité en avant.”

Aimée leaned forward and translated. “The police outpost is up ahead. It separates the port and the residential district. What do you want to do? We could drive through and then try to outrun the troops they’ll send after us, or we could try to bribe them.”

Justino sank into the seat, thinking. He hadn’t yet adjusted to the idea of leading this mission, but he was a man who had made hard choices in his life and he wouldn’t reject the responsibility now. “Let’s try to get through this with as little blood on our hands as possible. We’ll try the bribe, and if that doesn’t work…” The Italian reached back and felt the outline of the gun for comfort. Aimée nodded and whispered something French into the radio, probably alerting the other trucks to the plan. That was good, because if things turned south, they would need those men and their guns.

The outpost was nothing more than a small building in front of a large iron gate. Several gendarmes could be seen milling about inside and a single guard stood attention in front of the gate, a MAS-36 rifle held across his chest. Before they had even pulled up to the gates, two angry-looking gendarmes had come out to investigate the odd nighttime disturbance. As the truck came to a stop, one of the security officers came forward and asked harshly, “Qu'est-ce que c'est ?”

Justino had dealt in this sort of business before. He could remember midnight meetings with slick and sleazy representatives from pharmaceutical companies in smoky, dimly lit basements that would remind any movie buff of the black-and-white noir mystery films of the 1930’s. But the danger had never felt this real, and Justino looked to Aimée for support. “Bonjour, Monsieur. Nous sommes ici à-“

“Hold on” Justino interceded, recognizing one of the gendarmes in the building. “Tell him I want to talk to Emille Chaffee.”

Aimée glanced at the Italian in confusion but obeyed nonetheless. “Mon ami a des affaires avec M. Emille Chaffee.” She motioned to Justino as she spoke and the gendarme gave him a dangerous look before walking off. Emille Chaffee appeared before the truck a few moments later, walking with a lazy gait that suggested he’d dipped into the whiskey that night.

“Monsieur Chaffee, “Justino smiled and leaned over the driver to shake hands with the ruffled gendarme.

“What is this?” Emille motioned to the convoy and stared hard at Justino, keeping his right hand firmly planted on the grip of his gun.

“One of your men came to me yesterday and I decided to accept your offer. He said I should gather all the medical supplies I had and move them to the… upgraded, accommodations I would be provided in the city.” Justino winked at Emille, though if he’d seen the gesture he made no sign of it.

“At this time of night?” the gendarme questioned, seemingly unconvinced.

“Have you ever tried to move two thousand pounds of supplies through the streets of Charleville during the day? It’d be impossible! It’d take hours and the trucks would probably be picked clean of anything valuable before we even made it to the house.”

Emille nodded, though whether he actually agreed or he was simply too drunk and aggravated to care was unclear. “Ouvrez les portes, vous salopard!” he shouted at the guard stationed in front of the gate. The officer instantly made work of unlocking the gate and pushed it open.

“You are a savior, Monsieur Chaffee!” Justino praised, slapping the dashboard as indication for the driver to get them through the gate. The longer they sat there, the longer there was a chance for something to go wrong. “Merci!” the Italian yelled over his shoulder as the last of the trucks made it through the gates and the portal was closed behind them.

Aimée began to clap quietly and laugh. “Well done, Monsieur. I see why Gaudet spoke so highly of you.”

It wasn’t five minutes later before they heard the screech of an alarm go off in the darkness. Apparently, someone wasn't as easily convinced as M. Chaffee.

[Gilbert]

"Je suis Machuli Bornaku," the 'Commanding Officer' said. "Et ils sont mes hommes. Ne vous inquiétez pas; nous partirons le matin."

The soldier spoke carefully to this Colonel Mswete. The care was as much from his unfamiliarity with the French language as it was an insecurity in the fact that he was (apparently) in command of these men, and the certain nervousness that inevitably came with walking right into the lion's den. The Colonel, of course, was on the somewhat arrogant side, overestimating the quality of the men around him, as well as thinking himself more valuable than he was since he was garrisoning a fort with the power to project itself all along the valley.

"Naturellement...Comme vous étiez," the Colonel said finally in response, his eyes darting amongst the Kommando unit. They seemed uneasy, but he left their wariness and unease to the circumstances of their arrival. How true that was, if completely counter to the circumstances Colonel Mswete assumed. He turned his back on the party and intended to make his way to his quarters - the only room in the entire fort that was free of overgrowth in every way.

That entire exchange went over Hartley's head as he leaned into his tent, resting his head against one of the rucksacks for a short while as he picked up a MAT-49 slid under the bedroll for him. That weapon had joined its brethren when the safeties were released amongst the men. He crawled out of the tent, careful to hide the weapon slung across his chest from the few men on the walls. Weapons were carefully hidden amongst the other men too. Some of them carried rifles with their firewood, others their machine pistols like Hartley did, slung tightly to the chest, a box or barrel or similar used to hide it through careful positioning.

As Colonel Mswete finally disappeared amongst the darkness, a word was passed, barely audible, amongst the men from Hartley's mouth. They would go in a short while. Guns, while important, were put aside and knives drawn amongst the men. Several of them took to the wall and fraternised for some while with the sentries before driving a knife through the back. Incredibly muffled screams came, and several of the men were undoubtedly going to have scars on their hands for that silencing; as it all came to pass. The gun crews were neutralised with bullets from the men along the wall. A brief and heated firefight erupted along the wall, loud enough to have woken anyone trying to sleep within the fort. That combat was also a cue for another happening. The rest of the explosives spared from the truck demolition and unused in the bombardment that afternoon were now put to good use as the artillerists arrived. Most of it was TNT, but also several mortar and recoilless rifle shells were piled in with it along the wall opposite the gate, where several of the buildings of the fort were lined up right against the wall. Almost on cue as the second gun watching the approaches to the gate fell to the Kommando group, those explosives went off, sending chunks of stone into the sky and making a mess of the inside of the numerous structures there, including the Colonel's own quarters, the barracks, warehouse, and the armoury.

Seeing the explosion, Venda's troops, and a few of the less experienced of Hartley's gawked at the event. The veterans on both sides seized the opportunity presented them, but as Hartley's platoon was almost solely comprised of those veterans, and Venda's men little more than conscripted militia; the Kommandos took the initiative offered and managed to overpower the remaining men. Hartley and his men found themselves in due time with eighty prisoners and the wounded colonel, his right side crushed by debris from the explosion. He was offered a bedroll, and the group's doctor made a half-hearted attempt at aiding him.

Hartley cursed as he slung his weapon once more and examined the men. War was hell, someone said once. Hartley couldn't help but smirk ta that. Sherman was wrong: War was a business. The South African was getting paid well for it. But not well enough to deal with prisoners unless they had information, and certainly not forty. Nor did he have time to interrogate all two score captives. There were easier ways to deal with it. It wasn't a particularly easy choice that he had to make now. Deal with them...or let them go? were the choices presented. Neither were particularly great, Hartley knew.

Without a word, he beckoned his lieutenant over and they spoke for but a few moments. Hartley made his way to, then stood upon the wall, his arm resting on the barrel of the gun watching over the surrounding land, his back to the courtyard. Guns barked repeatedly. The colonel, however, was spared, a valuable source of information for the Americans that gave him the directive to take the fort. A gaping hole in the wall wasn't exactly good for him, nor were the presence of the excessive bodies. At Hartley's command, the fifty bodies of Venda's men were collected and piled up on the side. The six of his that had become casualties were policed up too, the platoon giving them all proper burials, three on either side of the road, four crosses of wood and two simple poles marked the price Hartley and his companions had paid for Mshenge's government.

"Find me the radio," Hartley demanded as he paced amongst the bloody mud, trying to keep his mind on task, his only words reserved for Mshenge's soldiers in the area and the CIA men.

"We've got the fort," was all offered to Mshenge.

"Fort's taken, and I've something you'll be quite interested in," Hartley said into the radio kit.

"Very well. We'll be sure to have someone by shortly," the CIA man on the other side responded. The Colonel would certainly be interesting. And he'd live, at least long enough for the spooks to get what they needed.

"Make sure you get him some food, but don't make him too comfortable," Hartley noted as he passed Colonel Mswete, laying there in pain, two single dose bottles of morphine sticking out of his right thigh. There was a sling for his arm, the doc tried to administer a splint for his leg. Hartley made his way to the well, pulling a rusted iron bucket from the rope and staring at the tainted water. He didn't care though. The South African splashed water on his face, his handkerchief in his left breast pocket was removed and dipped in the water, the white cloth sacrificed to return the impersonator to his true form. The cloth was as dark as coal, the bucket looked more like a tiny barrel of petrol with rust flecked throughout it.

[Guest]

Route Coloniale 23, South of Charleville, République de Gwunfa (The Republic of Gwunfa), February 7th, 1963

Colonel Mswete's intelligence was so good that they decided to see how far up they could push before the troops, as unprepared as they reportedly were, could gather and start pushing back. Old Man Robertson felt that it was worth a calculated risk to slash up with a group of troops on jeeps and land rovers to demoralize the enemy into running. A deep penetration, a recon by force.

While the fighting boiled over in Nouvelle Caen, which seemed to be falling much faster than its namesake did during the war, a group of squat jeeps, largely French-made and US lend-lease vehicles, as well as the occasional Land Rover or Belgian Minerva, a knockoff of the Land Rover. In either case, they were armed; not merely the pintle-mount weapon one would expect on most of these vehicles, typically a .50 caliber M2 browning, the sort every army in the Western World employed, but also an M1919A4 browning machinegun, chambered in 7.62 caliber, on the passenger side.

Four jeeps, four men each, well armed as far as it went, a mix of white and black troops; some peope might have begrudged Shabangu, a Matabele lad from Southern Rhodesia, on the .50 cal. The man was a good fellow with good training from the Rhodesian African Rifles, and experience in Malaya. It was foolish not to take a good gunner along, black white or coloured.

One thing to be grateful for was the light rain; it was enough to turn the ground moist so that the little deep reconnaissance/raiding unit didn't announce itself well ahead of time with a huge cloud of dust for enemies to see for miles around, but not enough so that the bloody road turned slick, and the surrounding terrain into a mucked mess where a vehicle could get bogged down. Not that one could necessarily count on that situation to persist, but it was excellent for the moment.

The volume of fire a group of four or so jeeps on the run could generate was impressive, but they weren't actually there to get in a fight as much as see how far up the road they could get without a fight; while the rest of the mercenaries fought to take Nouvelle Caen, it was Hartley's job to play eyes and ears for Robertson, who wanted a proper recon man who knew the needs of armor, such as the small handful of old Sherman tanks he was commanding; where in the hell they'd gotten them was a question every old soldier from the Commonwealth nations asked. Argentina, was the answer they'd gotten. So be it. Obsolete by even late-1945 standards, particularly against the old Kraut Tigers, but plenty fast and more than armored enough to handle this lot. They'd do; once they were out of the jungle and onto the plains, their mobility would be telling. It was just a matter of breaking through the more rugged terrain as quickly as possible. Thus, Hartley up front.

The Gwunfa troops were rumored to have a battalion of crack troops in the North, but they hadn't materialized. The lads, prior to the jump-off, were all sweating the idea that they'd meet Kalashnikov armed paras, but it seemed a myth of the sort that always spread through military units before the engagement; an exaggeration of enemy capabilities. It worked both ways, of course, given the way Gwunfi troops seemed to only have the heart for a few shots before splitting off and deserting their "Beloved Great Father," Jean Venda. Once the fighting started by the road, a few bursts from the machineguns, an impressive volume of fire, was sufficient to send them on their way.

Orders were clear; push until they met strong resistance, and then push back. What they were getting was 'far, ineffective' fire. In some cases, it was so far away that they had to tilt the brownings up and fire the rounds indirectly.

No one really bothered to take further shots up to that point; they were met with the banging of semi-automatic MAS-49's, the standard for the Gwunfi Army, but that was soon suplemented with the slower stacatto of a pair of Hotchkiss machineguns, whose heavier rounds kicked up the red-clay dirt and road around them as the jeeps started to return fire; it was Shabangu who cursed loudly in Zulu, pinked by one of the shots, but still manning the gun and returning fire.

Then, they came upon what looked like something more solid at that point; a barricade along Route 23, and the lads apparently spoiling for a fight. Instinctively, Jackie Holmes, the driver, swerved for the nearest position where he could hull down the Land Rover but still leave the front-mounted MG in a position to fire.

Good lad, Royal Marine, but originally from Kenya. Much younger than Hartley, but a tough, squat fireplug of a fellow, with bristling red hair and was another lad in the scout detachment with a good bit of experience in jungle fighting and scouting from the Malaysia days- Ex-Royal Marine, one who couldn't find much to keep him going when he mustered out and got home. After the Malayan Emergency, stocking dad's shelves at the grocery seemed an utter letdown.

When the contact was called in, the response came from the Old Man himself, no deferring responsibility there, "If you don't think you can knock these buggers out on your own, can send air support if absolutely needed, but we're having a time of it back here, over."

That was the way of it, only so much air support to go around.

[Guest]

Near Route Coloniale 17, East of Charleville, République de Gwunfa (The Republic of Gwunfa), February 7th, 1963

The Red Cross convoy was learning the hard way that even without a military obstruction, there were plenty of things to slow them down as they got along the road; once word of the fighting in Nouvelle Caen got around, the country pretty much panicked; it was hard to blame them, living under a psychotic dictator like Venda, who was decidedly paranoid and unconcerned with how his people felt so long as they didn't express anything but unadulterated joy for his leadership of the nation.

Once the convoy got out of Charleville, one step ahead of the Gendarmes, the road was clear, at least for a few hours. They'd made good time, but with so many civilians packing the roads, trying to get to Route 28 or Route 12, the lorries had to get off the road and plow through the grasslands of the Dandau prairie, which required slower going. Aimee recommended it before the security men got spooked and started shooting, and to keep the supplies from getting stolen off the trucks themselves.

It was a vision of rolling contours of tall grass, green and stark and watered, but easily dried out when the sun decided to come down.

When they were stopped, it wasn't by the Gwunfi army, but rather a priest and his nuns outside a mission church by a small lake. The man was bluff faced, with scarred farmer's hands and a stocky build, a hard looking bastard, but with a gentle voice and sad eyes that seemed to be reliving a horror he'd seen unfold all to many times. The Frenchmen of his generation often did have that hardened, fatalistic look. But a tough specimen or not, this one's pleas were humanitarian:

"Monsieur, s'il vous plait, these people who are fleeing, some of them will die if you do not help. I know this is merely a stop on the way to worse-hit places in this country, but could you perhaps assist us temporarily? The fighting won't merely be a affair of soldiers, I am afraid, but a matter of abused, butchered farmers and others who do not fight. And there are many who would opportunistically prey on these poor lost lambs. You have men with guns, and while I abhor violence..."

He shrugged and spread his hands, as if to say, he'd been around. And perhaps he had, at that. His French and English were excellent, but accented; Polish, like the troops that once invaded Italy with the other Allies and fought up the boot through 1944 and 1945. As far as he was from Poland, it seemed the troubles that beset Europe were arriving in Africa, as well.

The church was immensely well-kept, small as it was, with nearby old-fashioned stone buildings jutting out from the surrounding shade of the palms and thick foliage otherwise, standing out in the veld, as the white Africans tended to call it.

"Also," the priest added off-handedly, "If you wish, I can contact friendly men who will be able to provide an armed escort for your convoy. You would be safer to help us and wait here for our friends to arrive."

Of course, that was a compelling argument for it, but more compelling was the number of people, a "huddling mass" as an American might put it, in need. On the other hand, one couldn't be entirely sure that this place would not become the site of a battle in and of itself, if the Gwunfi army decided it needed medical supplies. It was all a terrible risk, stopping, but moving forward was perilous too.

[Guest]

Bokwuna-Sevo, République de Gwunfa (The Republic of Gwunfa), February 7th, 1963

There was a matter of traitorous officers to take care of, though that was patently not the good doctor's department; he had the intuition that the Colonel had that particularly situation well in hand. Instead, he spent time discussing matters with the Cuban emissary who happened to be there. The good doctor was an adroit diplomat, and part of that came from the way he used as much of the truth as he could possibly bring to bear in a situation.

The Cuban, a revolucionario, a comapanero of Castro, was eager to hear of the Lemwe Highlands and the fighters there, who were resisting those that would exploit them. He was also, given that Venda seemed doomed, eager to hear tales of Venda's excesses while the "Beloved Great Father" was in control. Of course, both men understood the cynical undertone of these discussions, but mutually overlooked that a few days ago, they'd been opponents of a sort. With Venda's sudden inviability and Robertson...err, Mshenge's...troops storming Nouvelle Caen.

One could hear it over the radio net chatter.

As it turned out, Ndinga's men weren't particularly idealistic themselves, and with a little propagandizing and speechmaking, the Doctor helped the Colonel sway them into their current state; preparing to mutiny against higher command than the Colonel and, eventually, make the move Eastward into the highlands

"Perhaps, comrade Doctor, you should write a letter for Comrades Castro and Guevara, I think Che, particularly, would be interested to hear what you have to say." It was true that Guevara was passionate about international revolution. By the same token, Khruschev was passionate about balancing out the Americans, and Mao was passionate about keeping the Western World at bay, and Nasser, whom the Doctor had already dealt with, wanted the fucking Colonialists to pack it up home and to keep a considerable supply of nuclear material well away from the west and particularly the Israelis.

Everyone was going to go home happy except Venda here, but then, he was already slipping, wasn't he? More irrationality, more paranoia, as he realized just how fragile his regime was becoming. Leaping at shadows and rumor, taking 'pre-emptive' action in an almost random fashion. No, it was hard from the outside looking in to realize that the man wasn't initially a psychopath, but was turned into one by the pressures around him and the mercilessness of an overthrow. Contemplating that fate was enough to send any man mad. He could literally trust no one, because no one trusted him anymore.

Odenge wasn't particularly impressed. He was an educated man, and knew that a series of under-educated thugs would run his country into the ground, and that most of the Western powers, if there was a commercial gain to be had, would keep a succession of these sorts of men in power in his country. He didn't even resent them, except when he had to make a firey speech, so much as he understood that they would never be scared off by appealing, hat in hand. He'd seen that too many times.

So he'd cast his lot with military officers in the country who seemed to have the intelligence to see ahead of their short term gain and cultivate the country into something better. They weren't particularly communist, except by convenience.

In the middle of this cynical discussion of idealism with the Cuban, a young troop broke in and announced to the Colonel, "Sir, there is a mobilization order from Charleville."

Now Ndinga would have to figure out how he'd like to play the game, to buy enough time to take that one last shipment.

[Saint Michel]

Bokwuna-Sevo, République de Gwunfa (The Republic of Gwunfa), February 7th, 1963

Gabriel Ndinga took the order but didn't look at it. "Tell headquarters I've received our orders, but I must organize the regiment's transport south. Once we are ready, the 43rd will move out with all haste."

The soldier saluted and disappeared back in the direction of the radio hut. Ndinga watched him go, then with a sigh lit another cigarette.

"Captain Obayemi," he called to the officer who was still approaching the camp table that served as his outdoor HQ, "Any news?"

"Yes, Colonel." The captain saluted. "The weapons were unloaded at Kangala yesterday. They should be here by tomorrow."

"Good." Ndinga nodded slowly. "Then maybe we can be on the road by tomorrow. Captain, go see to your men."

He leaned back in his chair and for a time did little more than reduce his cigarette to ash. Headquarters and Venda would not be fooled forever, but he had a little time to contemplate his next move. The prospect of retaliation from Charleville didn't cause Gabriel much worry, since if what Odenge had said was true, Venda was too busy losing power to afford him much notice.

The good doctor, though, Ndinga wanted out of his hair. One day here and the man had already talked too much. He'd said his piece, Gabriel thought, why couldn't he clear off and work his black magic someplace else? In all likelihood, Ndinga reflected, Odenge had hung around to keep an eye on him and make sure his new-found loyalty to Okodu didn't waver.

Ndinga let himself rock forward and shooed the flies off the pawpaw he'd been lazily eating. Let Odenge fret, Ndinga reflected as he picked up his spoon, He and his regiment would follow Okodu's line. At least for now...

[Twoface_ecafowT]

Near Route Coloniale 17, East of Charleville, République de Gwunfa (The Republic of Gwunfa), February 7th, 1963

The Lemwe River came from the east, cold and clear and always rushing, and it filled the mountain valleys with its noise as it boiled through the ravines and flashed past the wheat fields in a headlong dash for the faraway lowlands. Although the main bulk of the river turned south and west towards the coast, some wayward finger-like tributaries branched off into the Prarie Dandu. These could go for a few yards or miles, and one in particular traveled farther than the rest. It never moved faster than a sluggish roll, and the water was often warm and besieged with all matter of parasites, though it emptied into a small lake that was conventionally used as both bathtub and drinking hole for the natives.

Three figures were currently huddled along the coast of this lake, three white-skins whose voices could be heard from a small church a few hundred feet away. Justino and Aimee had broken off from the convoy to discuss their options, namely involving the priest and his pleas for aide. The Italian was content to stay despite the apparent risk in remaining in one place. Their escape from Charleville was luck more than anything else, and neither was naïve enough to believe they wouldn’t be followed. Aimee was less convinced, and was quick to recall that their mission lied further east.

It was in the heat of this debate that another figure emerged, one of the nameless security men who had been hired by Guadet to see the aide safely into the Interior. “Gaudet warned me about this,” he said brusquely, turning both heads to regard the intimidating figure. He was white and spoke with an accent that was distinctly South African. He had a beautiful antique Lee-Enfield strapped across his back, and his hands had the callused and sooty look of a gunsmith.

“Who are you?” Aimee was quick to ask, probably because she thought herself Gaudet’s closest advisor on the mission, and didn’t enjoy the notion he’d entrusted information to someone else.

“Jeffre. No last name, just Jeffre.” He nodded and adjusted the tilt of his beret. “Gaudet told me you’d want to stop for every pathetic creature along the way, and he also told me to make sure we kept moving.”

“Well Gaudet also gave Justino authority over this convoy,” Aimee bit back, hard. Justino was surprised at the fire in her voice, though he was grateful for the defense. She squared herself to the mercenary and tilted her head in challenge.

If Jeffre was intimidated by Aimee at all, he didn’t show it. “Well… Gaudet is not here, so I think I have authority now.”

“Who are you?” Justino asked again, more curious than frightened. He reached back and felt the outline of his Beretta in the waist of his pants.

“A man with a job.” He had grabbed his gun and leveled it at the ground, not taking his eyes off the pair. “You can stay here or come, but we’re leaving either way.” Justino glanced to Aimee and she looked like she was ready to pounce, her hands balled up into fists pressed tightly against her thighs.

“Fine. How much to leave us two trucks?” Aimee swung towards Justino, her face a mixture of angry and confused, and maybe a little bit of disappointment. She hadn’t expected him to give up so easily, he knew, but he also knew that there were five other men just like this one waiting at the line of trucks in the distance, and they all had guns too.

A few minutes later and Justino was five hundred dollars and a Beretta poorer, standing beside Aimee and watching seven trucks ride off into the distance. They spent the next half hour taking inventory of what they had on the two remaining trucks, which didn’t amount to much. They could treat maybe three hundred people, which seemed like a bad joke in the presence of the crowds of homeless wandering the roads in need of aide.

Justino slumped against the side of the truck, falling into a bad sulk. Why didn’t he put up more of a fight? He could have bargained for a third or fourth truck, he was sure. And he knew that in all likelihood the supplies he let ride off would never reach the Interior. Jeffre had probably already turned back towards Charleville where he could make a pretty profit for everything he’d stolen. That only put him in worse of a mood, and it wasn’t until he heard a loud bang that his uncharacteristic brood was broken. He looked up into the air, expecting to see a military plane dropping bombs overhead, but then he heard quite close by, a high continuous scream of a child in pain.

He realized what had happened almost instantly. Venda’s troops, using tactics they’d likely learned from the Americans in WWII, had littered the countryside with anti-personnel mines. Their ostensible aim was to block guerilla supply lines, but since the “guerilla supply lines” were the lowland plains often traveled by the nomadic natives, the real purpose was straightforward terror. That scream meant a child had detonated one of the mines.

Justino pushed off the truck in time to see Aimee running towards him, tears streaming down her face.. She pointed off to the east, unable to speak, and the Italian grabbed some clean dressings, a sedative, and an antibiotic before running off. The first long scream ended as he ran and became a series of short, terrified bursts: it sounded to Justino as if the child had seen the damage the mine had done and was screaming from pure fright now.

He saw the outline of a child on the ground in the distance, and a crowd was slowly forming around him. “Get back!” he yelled as he rushed forward, although the natives couldn’t understand him and continued to shuffle closer. A moment later he was beside the child.

The child was kneeling on the ground, his arm nothing more than a bloody stump. It appeared as though he had tried to pick up the mine. Justino had seen many wounds in his lifetime, but still this one moved him to pity. “Oh God,” he breathed. He dropped to his knees beside the child and hugged him, whispering soothing words. After a minute he stopped screaming; he’d probably lapsed into shock. As he held him Justino found the pressure point in his armit, and pressed it to stop the gush of blood. He had to make him speak. “What happened?” He didn’t answer, so the Italian asked him again.

“I thought…” his voiced trailed off and his eyes went wide as he remembered. Suddenly his voice rose into a scream as he said, “I thought it was a ball!”

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he murmured, rubbing the child’s head. “Tell me what you did.”

“I PICKED IT UP! I PICKED IT UP!”

Justino held him tight, soothing him. He spent the next few minutes trying to get him to speak again, but the child couldn’t say more than a few incoherent words.. His breathing became less rapid and the tears slowly stopped, though Justino knew the child was far from saved. “Press where I’m pressing,” he instructed gently, guiding the child’s fingertips to the point, then withdrawing his own hand. The wound started to bleed again. “Press hard,” he urged, and the flow stopped. He felt his forehead; it was damp and cold.

He administered the sedative and antibiotic and wound the dressing into a tourniquet, tying it a few inches above the injury. “He’ll live,” Justino remarked dryly over his shoulder to Aimee, who had arrived a few minutes before.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, kneeling beside Justino.

“What are we doing here?” he asked rhetorically, sighing and standing up as the mother of the child rushed forward, all tears and hysterics.

Aimee answered by motioning to the embracing mother and child, and then fanned her arms out to the side, toward the crowd of natives pushing forward, all screaming for joy that a doctor had come to heal them.

[Guest]

Civil War Erupts in Gwunfa Between Factions
Allegations made between the US and USSR in the UN General Assembly

New York (AP) - Recent events in Western Africa, particularly the eruption of a civil war within the former French colony of Gwunfa, have prompted a strident debate between the Soviet Union and United States on the floor of the General Assembly as the UN considered drawing up some sort of resolution against the violence. Egypt, Algeria and Cuba all added their voices to the accusations against US involvement, while the United States, Great Britain, the Republic of South Africa and the Republic of China all spoke out against Jacques Venda's regime. The People's Republic of China, lacking a seat in the UN, nonetheless indicated that they supported the Soviet position as well.

Currently, troops loyal to General Gabriel Mshenge, a former minister of defense of the Republic of Gwunfa, are engaged in battle in the outskirts of the Gwunfi capital of Charleville, and it looks as if the government of Jacques Venda, which won a disputed election in 1962, is on the losing side, despite considerable ties with the Warsaw Pact military. While the United States claims to have little interest in the West African nation, other sources indicate that the CIA is taking a less aggressive proxy approach than they did with the abortive Bay of Pigs invasion, using primarily South African and other nationalities as proxies in an attempt to unseat Jacques Venda.

This dispute comes on the heels of accusations regarding the CIA role in recent events in the Congo, notably the assassination of Congolese socialist Patrice Lumumba in 1960, after Joseph Mobotu's coup in the region.

Gwunfa was a French colony until 1962, when President DeGaulle forced independence upon the country. Notable mostly for coffee and other agricultural exports, a variety of heavy metal finds have been discovered in the eastern highlands of the country. There is ongoing concern about the stability of the region in light of the resources it holds, particularly among Western policymakers who are keen to avoid having Gwunfi uranium fall into the hands of the Warsaw Pact.

Current reports indicate high casualties in the battle of Charleville, as well as considerable refugee movement into neighboring countries. Much of this is attributed to the fear of white mercenaries in the employ of Gabriel Mshenge, whose reputation from the ongoing war in the Congo precedes them.

Chou En-Lai of China, on a visit to Tanzania, was particularly vociferous in his criticism of the UN handling of the Gwunfa affair, "As usual, the rest of the world is squabbling for the resources of Africa, though it is Africans that do the dying by proxy for the West."

---

BBC New Broadcast: "We are here in Charleville, where the fighting is quite ferocious. Artillery and air strikes have been employed by the invading forces against a dug in enemy that is attempting to fight with what they have, though what they have is little. However, as of right now, the noose is tightening on Charleville, with many casualties in street-to-street fighting that has both sides somewhat worn down. Neither side is used to a stiff fight, particularly. Meanwhile, the refugees stream out by the roads to the North and West, a mass of humanity carrying their goods by cart or on the backs of animals, victims of soldiers and bandits alike as they try to get away from what has become an unexpectedly lethal warzone. There is little doubt that the regime of Jacques Venda is doomed, but it is a question of how long the siege of Charleville lasts..."

--

Near Route Coloniale 17, East of Charleville, République de Gwunfa (The Republic of Gwunfa), February 9th, 1963

One didn't need the news to tell the sad tale of the refugees of the fighting in Central Gwunfa, as the invasion moved up towards Charleville, uprooting villages and towns. If it wasn't les affreux, the mercenaries of Gabriel Mshenge, as well as the troops that were now rallying over to his side, it was Venda's own troops, burning and pillaging as they retreated, either towards the hills or towards Charleville. Or, more often, due north, away from it all. These men, frightened and armed, became dangerous animals in the course of their travels, using what they had to make sure they would survive.

Father Michael, the Polish-French priest, at least had some inkling of what to do to try and comfort those who were trapped in the middle, and it was an envious, methodical, sorrowful serenity he had as he moved among those lying in the red, sun-baked dust, comforting them as best he could while acting as a nurse of sorts; he was the first to admit that he had no formal medical training, but he did understand the local dialects well enough to serve as a go-between.

"You will have to decide which direction you wish to go soon, monsieur. Neither side, unfortunately, will respect your neutrality as a doctor. You will be forced into one side or the other eventually. Colleagues in le Congo, or in America-Sud, they have not been treated so well, but like them, I stand fast and trust in God. But you should go on soon. If you still wish, I can arrange escort into your original destination. That South African man you were with, I think he waits for you to leave here so he can get another truck."

"I am so weary to the bone of politics that I have no advice to give as to whom you should support, but if you try to set down roots here, you will be uprooted. Perhaps there is a third way, if you wish to become like a guerrilla yourself, though I would think this is a difficult proposition as well."

So many died, thanks to the shortage of supplies and the need to prioritize, and it was particularly hard when it was a child, scorched and blasted, dying in hideous pain from a landmine, that had to be read the last rites in the sonorous tones of liturgical Latin. He and the natives dug graves like experts, well acquainted with the rhythms of picking and digging graves in the hard soil, and equally deft as they constructed and painted the white wooden crosses that dotted the landscape nearby. Indeed, it was just as well there was no actual fence around the graveyard, for as many corpses as they put in the ground.

***

[Guest]

Charleville-Sud, République de Gwunfa (The Republic of Gwunfa), February 9th, 1963

Bergfalk was where he usually was, the tip of the spear. While he was nominally assigned as the advisor to one Major Gagende, he was ostensibly the man in command, or at least, was expected to do the bulk of the fighting.

The first day, about two months ago, that he was assigned this useless, chainsmoking, immacculately attired officer, he realized that he had no particular hope of ever fighting the entire battalion if he had to go through such a man. Instead, like many other men in Mshenge's forces who were in the same position, he found the right sort of men and focused on giving them training to cover his back.

All by himself, the tall, long-jawed, hard-eyed Silesian farmer's son was intimidating enough to the native troops that they simply did what they were told; when he was watching, anyway. He stood out in this crowd, with his deeply-taned skin and brown hair shorn around the sides and left somewhat longish on top, the eyes long since hard and cold, having seen things beyond human ability to articulate in full. But any attempt to infuse the troops with any sort of espirit de corps was a wasted effort as they became obstructionist when it came to learning the basics, like digging in. He'd heard that it was a religious injunction, that they preferred not to dig in because it was like 'digging a grave.'

For a veteran of the Wehrmacht, who held off the Russians for so long, despite overwhelming numbers of everything, for the long, hard years of der Ostfront, and then as a Legionnaire, who lived by his shovel, he found the view not merely ridiculous, but utterly laughable. He also realized that he didn't have enough willing men to push the agenda.

Instead, he concentrated on training up a squad of eight men who were either experienced or willing to learn and not very loyal to the likes of the major. The act had a second use; one mercenary was disposable to a man like Major Gagende, who could have an irritating white man killed 'accidentally.' It was much harder when he had eight tough, loyal men watching his back. He'd made sure to give them the best of the weapons coming through, even if he had to kick around the 'quartermaster' of the unit to see it happen. The tough style of an NCO of the Legion, or of the Wehrmacht for that matter, carried him through the excuses and obstruction; he was a wide-shouldered man, used to violence and barracks discipline.

Ever since the jumping off, they'd been the spearhead of the advance of the battalion, but that wasn't as bad a proposition as it sounded; they used their superior skills and tactics to prevail as they made aggressive moves against the enemies they encountered, but they also used Major Gagende's men as a distraction for their own movements. Those fools, unwilling to be trained properly or fight smart were hung out to dry so that Bergfalk's own squad survived. It was a chilling sort of calculus, but not an unfamiliar one; at the end, in 1945, when the Großdeutschland finally dissolved, they used the Volksturm and other less trained units to soak up the casualties while the veterans concentrated on staying alive.

And so while Gagende's troops made themselves an obvious target for the artillery and mortars of Venda's troops, who were well supplied in the familiar Soviet fashion, Bergfalk's squad infiltrated street-by-street, shack by shack in the shantytown of South Charleville; it was a festering stinkhole, smelling of gasoline, excrement and dead bodies, a familiar sort of stench in its way though perhaps even more horrible for the sun beating down on it all. He knew he stank, for lack of a bath, but against that miasma of death and suffering, he was a rose in Schloss Heidelberg.

They all stank, days of sweat accumulated in their OD battledress, staining the liners of the hats they were wearing, the sweat rolling over what felt like a film of grease to pool at the small of his back; the sun was up and burning down mercillessly on these filthy, unshaven, utterly miserable-looking figures.

They were on the approach to the Chapel de Sainte Bertrand, one of the few stone buildings in the area and a truly tough nut to crack. He'd held up with the squad and sent Buko, the unit pointman, forward to see what he could learn of the enemy's disposition. Command wanted it taken and swept for anti-tank positions, before they could move the old Shermans and Stuarts up. Thin-skinned tanks, fast, but bad in close quarters.

"Et?"

"Douze. Ils vissent autour. Trois sur le toit, le repos à dans l'eglise." he added, with some contempt; Buko was a former Tirailleur, and as a result, was given good French Colonial army training and discipline. He was a squat, hard-muscled man, a farmer who got rousted out of his cattle from the Prairie Dandu by Venda Gendarmes. His hate was quiet but fierce, but his spirit such that he found many of Mshenge's troops to be wanting. He'd already spoken of remaining a mercenary after this war was over.

He started to draw a diagram for the other men, and outlined the plan. He'd done it a few times and spoke extremely good French after years spent in the Legion; Marseilles accent, but much better than the usual rough patois of a Legionnaire. He sounded like one of their officers more than one of their enlisted, which helped him in dealing with the locals.

"D'accord. Buko, Gakuvo et Uwende avec moi, les autres avec Sergeant Dwondu. Nous allons avant à la droit, vous allez attender ici; donnez-nous le feu bâche en dix minutes. Comprenez-vous?"

"Oui, Sergeant. Nous comprenons. Bon chance."

"D'accord."

***

Ten minutes later, the AAT-52 machinegun opened fire from an improvised fighting position made of the abundant rubble that dotted the landscape of the shantytown, which made it hard to locate where the fire was coming from. Another professional soldier might look upon the way private Gakuni handled the machinegun and conclude that it was in the German manner; highly accurate small bursts of the sort that kept the Germans alive and conserved ever-more precious ammunition on the eastern front against the hordes of Soviets that kept coming and coming.

The Germans were the first to deploy a truly mobile, general purpose, belt-fed machinegun, the machinegewehr 1942, and built a squad around the weapon, and a doctrine of combat built around a squad so armed that allowed them to soak up casualties and continue fighting with only a minimal reduction in combat fire. In the later war, with reinforcements at a pitiful trickle, it was an article of faith to always keep the MG manned and firing.

A man on the roof of the church was cut into something unrecognizable as a living human being by the gunfire, others were forced to take cover even as carefully-aimed rifle fire sought them out, the rounds riccocheting off the stone of the church roof, and revealing the lie of stone's security for what it was.

Some whites, like General Robertson, liked to denigrate the 'kaffirs' but these men were well-trained, efficient troops, and the ones who hadn't fought before were now fairly blooded, led by the lanky, strangely tragic figure of a German who no longer had a home.

Other whites, like Bergfalk and others of his ilk, spearheading the fight for Mshenge's troops, were trusting their lives to the small units. Some were all-white, all-mercenary, but others were a mixed bag.

While the enemy were getting hit with suppressing fire, Bergfalk and his men were lined up at the side door to the church, on its right flank, ready to burst in. One man had a grenade, the other was covering with his MAT-49 submachinegun, a weapon with a prominent heatshroud and a magazine housing that extended out low enough for a hand to get a grip on without bending the magazine itself; a problem that always existed with the old Schmeisser. The last had his rifle raised, stock first, waiting for the command.

Bergfalk gave the nod, the rifle butt came down on the knob of the door. Another man kicked it wide open. The grenade, pin pulled and safety clip off, sailed through as all four men took cover. The grenade went off with a muffled explosive thump and was followed with screaming; some fellow perforated with hot shrapnel chunks; the mercenaries filtered in, firing.

He advanced in with the smooth, practice economy of a man that knew his job, covering the balcony above with his looted PPSh-41, an old Russian weapon from the war. He was pleasantly surprised at the kit, and immediately took it up for the rest of the campaign; as he'd told the lads, he'd carried one of these through four years of "das Krieg" and by that, the Africans knew he meant the big one. It was heavy, with a wooden stock, but rugged, durable, accurate and had a good range. The round was better than the 9mm for many things.

He opened fire at a man on the balcony even before he consciously realized the man was there, feeling the heavy wooden stock of the weapon push back into his shoulder as it coughed out its rounds; a second man got it a second later, as the rounds splintered the wooden rails and the pews behind it; bullets had no sense that they were desecrating a holy place, and the man himself long since stopped to consider such things through his life experience; after all, God hadn't scowled down upon the Gwunfi troops using this place to spot artillery in the first place.

The weapons barked a few final times as they finished off the men on the inside; the explosive concussion that broke the windows and sent smoke and dust out behind the splintering glass from the grenade was a signal for the others, providing the MG fire, to cut their fire on the church and let the assault team handle the rest. The expected to find a live one or two on the root but were disappointed in that when they checked the belltower and roof-- only found two corpses; no sign of the third man. Hell, no sign of the others in the church. They had seven bodies out of the twelve, and the main doors, facing north, slightly ajar.

"Klar." Sometimes, he reverted to Deutsch, particularly when thinking aloud. His men knew that word, at least.

Buko moved to the window and called out a tribal war-cry to the others, so that they would know that the situation was in hand and to move up with the machinegun. Meanwhile, the others dug in, while Bergfalk tuned in his radio and contacted Robertson's HQ; no use even trying to speak to Gagende, the man was militarily retarded.

"Bergfalk hier," he said in accented English. "Ve have the Church of Saint Berrand in our hands. One captured recoilless rifle. Seven killed, estimated five fled," The old tripod kind, Russian. He wasn't going to bother looting it.

"Very good, dig in and cover the approach up, over."

"Vatch it on the approach, there is a lot of debris and the road is tight, over." Bergfalk served as a Panzergrenadier, he knew the requirements for operating armor, and the perils to watch for.

"Acknowledged, we'll take it slow. Good show, out."

Bergkamp put the phone-set piece into the radio and motioned to his men, "D'accord, nous attendons ici."

He pulled a cigarette out of a pocket and lit it with a zippo lighter he'd made from a pocket watch, a long time ago. As old Lieutnant von Hagen quipped, "No one gives a fuck what time it is in combat, but everyone wants a smoke."

The men all settled into their positions, watching the fight as it unfolded in other sectors; the banging of far-away fire, the low, dull thump of explosions, the plumes of smoke as parts of it burned. They were, it turned out, unaware that there were other residents in this church.

[Eternity]

Her arm was sore, and she was lost. At first, she had praised this for being some salvation, some getaway. But it wasn't. She'd been here, working under the Church, for some good time now. And instead of converting the natives, she was losing her own little grasp of faith. The first time she had been beaten and raped, she had hired herself a guard. The second time she was attacked and mugged, she was saved by Morak. But nothing changed. She upped his pay for good reason, and the man got himself some weaponry. Cheap hired hand, a Nigerian man she called Moe. And he was with her now. Protecting her; if that was what you called this.

The tall powerful Nigerian had his broad long fingers wrapped around her slender pale upper arm, pulling her along as though she were a child. They had finally gotten away, as soon as the Church was said to be the aim of attack. And the sights she had seen had become a dull constant for her. Claire would never really be used to it, but it was not as appalling as it was once upon a time. The children on the street, dead bodies piled loosely in small areas where no one would really acknowledge them. The smell of death and gunpowder. Blood stained sand beneath their feet. Her mind only captured bits and pieces, the rest she seemed to block out. What she didn't block out was the architecture and scenery beyond the bloodshed. That was, if taken into good notice, quite beautiful...

"Come... Faster." Morak said, the bass in his voice terrifying to any. He pulled her forward with what felt like the flick of his wrist, making her body jerk forward.

"Aïe! Vous êtes mal de moi..." She pushed out fluently, forming a tight retort on her lips. She turned her dark eyes up to his own and he stared back hard. Morak was not a gentle man, not by any measure. Just like a lot of the natives. All harsh and cold, the lot of them. But Morak was on her side, whatever side that might've been. The side of God was a bit too vulnerable in this mess of political terror, so perhaps that side was what she shouldn't take. But her mind was clouded. Claire bit her tongue and erased the thought. God had heard her prayers, and Morak was that answer. He had saved her from death's glistening jaws one too many times. A lot of times he did just this: treating her as he treated her now. When others could watch, he was a rough man. Instead of acting like her body guard, he treated her more like a slave of his own. It kept people from second-guessing him and the woman, and it also made her appear as his property; for no one else. Thus, it saved her more than it hurt her. The only weird thing of it was when Claire really took it into account, she was kind of paying to be his pretend ''toy''.

"You need to get strong. You will not survive. Should be dead actually, but thanks to Morak, that has not yet happened." He stated through his teeth, quietly, as he returned his gaze forward.

They were traveling a dusty road, with a few others. They were wandering. Who they were, she wasn't sure. Refugees or just the homeless. Claire bit her lip as she stepped on a stick, slipping forward again. Morak's grip never once shook though, and he held her in the air, her knees weakened from the running and aching and even the injury she had attained. Along her leg, below the tear of her breeches (where Morak had torn off the ends below the knees and turned her pants into shorts), was a sharp cut. Thankfully, it was not caused by an attack of any form. It was instead caused from her haste in fleeing the Church. Morak had been her power and speed. He had lifted her over his shoulder like a sack of sand after her first fall out the Church window, leaping like (in Morak's very terms) a "frightened three-legged Gerenuk", in the end tearing herself up a bit. But it was the best exit when a man at the door would knock only once before gunfire broke forth.

Her thoughts snapped back as another man, a black man, stared over at her.

"What are you looking at?" She spat, and Morak gave her a strong jerk, making her yelp quietly. "Merde!" She cursed in French, staring up at him again.

"What have I told you about being nice?" Morak chuckled darkly, staring forward as he saw a few trucks coming to a halt. "Here. We stop, the aid workers will help us. We have come away from the fighting... For now." In a swooping motion, the Nigerian guard let go of her. The place where he held her was red, and she was about to fall forward from the lack of support she had grown accustomed to- be it as annoying as it was. But he had swept that arm around her slender waist, wrapping it around her until his hand was placed over the white sleeveless top over her front, stretching his fingers over her stomach and lifting her from the ground.

"Stop falling." He said.

"I'm so sorry." Claire said sarcastically, stretching back as the toe of her boots touched the dusty earth again. "Do you know where we are?" She said a bit more softly, her fingers raising to push the stray strands of black hair away from her face, brushing them over her head to make her look a little less of a mess. After a moment, having had them fallen back into place, Claire just undid her ponytail and let her hair down, tying it back up once more, a bit more cleanly. Morak rolled his eyes and they neared the truck again, before he pulled her to sit at a tree's base.

"Here we rest. And you are not to worry about where we are. East, is all you shall know." He said quietly, tugging her to sit down after he had. When she sat down near him, he seemed to leer at others; his eyes throwing sharp glances at all around them.

"You know, I had a map, but-"

"You left it in the offering, white fool." Morak admonished quickly. Claire turned her head and stared at him, narrowed eyes. She was amazed he hadn't killed her yet sometimes. He had hit her once, slapped her for calling him a savage. And she wouldn't dare to do it again.

"I hate when you call me that." She whispered to him.

"I do not care what you hate." Moe said quietly, tilting his head downward a bit. Long black dreadlocks curtained his face, and Claire looked down as well. But her curiosity was still just barely more than his own, her eyes raising and falling over people in the distance. Women, children, and all between. One child, screaming.

"Qu'est-il advenu de lui?" Claire said quietly in shock when she saw the child, cradled in a man's arms as it cried. He had no...

"What?" Morak said, turning and looking at her. He knew a bit of French, as it was common. But he couldn't speak it. Not well at least. And at times when Claire spoke it, and whispered, he couldn't understand it. But she was loud enough this time, and after having played her words back in his head, he could recall what she had said. "He..." Morak turned his head and saw the child too, taking his arm from her waist and placing it protectively over her knee. "Children are not well in times of war. Their innocence and our sin. Some children die by mines, scattered and hidden by dust and dirt. Others... are not so lucky." He motioned to the boy as the tan aid-worker stood up, letting the mother rush back to the child.

"That's horrible..." Claire whispered, dark brown eyes searching the child as her lips parted in awe.

"You know what's horrible?" Morak said sternly, turning his head back to her. He took a long callous brown finger and poked her in her ribs, making the woman hiss and turn her attention back to him. "That you haven't blown yourself up yet. And let us think of how many windows you have broken, much less jumped from. As well as steps tripped over, guns backfired. I don't see why you are not dead. You really must be a child of your 'God', because no white fool could live with such dumb luck as you." He smirked, and chuckled. Well, at least he thought he was funny.

Claire just sneered, returning her attention to the area around her and feeling like her own small injury was not so bad. Not in comparison, at least.

[Twoface_ecafowT]

Near Route Coloniale 17, East of Charleville, République de Gwunfa (The Republic of Gwunfa), February, 1963

Being one of the few doctors in Gwunfa who hadn’t been threatened into service with Venda or indentured to Mshenge was taxing work, as Justino was quickly learning. The church had become somewhat of a makeshift hospital for the refugees fleeing the mercenaries in the south and the fighting in the east. All the supplies had been moved into the abbey with the help of a few natives, in exchange for immediate medical care for them and their families. The Italian had underestimated the meaning of the word family in Gwunfa, however, which could range from brothers and sisters to the grandmother of a childhood friend.

Justino had situated himself on the altar, using the lectern and anything else available to keep his valuable supplies away from the curious hands of the natives, who had been seated at the pews based on the seriousness of their injuries. This was a kind depiction of the true nature of the crowd, who was even then surging forward, climbing over benches and screaming wildly for attention. Aimee attempted to keep the growing crowds at bay, pacing before the altar, calming those who would listen with words and those who wouldn’t with an upraised pistol. The priest employed his own methods, shouting an impromptu sermon about the virtue of patience.

Justino was currently hunched over a man who had been shot in the calf, working hard to keep his trembling hands somewhat steady has he sewed up the injury. He was caked in dirt, sweat, and blood, though the doctor knew that it mattered little when compared to the millions of germs and bacteria he was being exposed to; none or few of which he was actually protected against. And even that barely crossed the mind of the Italian, who was more concerned about his recent talk with Father Michael.

The priest had told him plainly that he would not be able to stay neutral in the conflict, that his medical skills would do little to stop Venda or Mshenge from giving him a shower of bullets if he didn’t pledge allegiance to one side or the other. He’d also proposed a third option, though the thought of fighting wasn’t even worth considering. As of now he was leaning towards an option of his own, escaping across the border and catching the first boat back to Europe. Of course, he’d yet to speak to Aimee about all of this, and that was a terrifying proposition all its own.

“How about you take a break before you start doing more harm than good?” Justino looked up to find Aimee staring down at him hard, her statement phrased more like a command than a question. The doctor glanced down and grimaced at the mess he’d made of the man’s leg, the stitches loose and crooked and doing an equally messy job of holding the wound closed.

The doctor nodded in resignation and struggled to stand up. “Apply this salve twice a day.” He handed the man a tube of antiseptic and Aimee ushered him back to the crowd before returning. She looked terrible: her eyes were red and her skin was ashen and doused in sweat.

“You look horrible,” Justino offered with a hollow laugh, grabbing the lectern for support lest his legs cripple beneath him from exhaustion. He’d been working for almost sixteen hours straight, though adrenaline and pure force of will had kept him from feeling the pain until now.

“Coming from you, I should really be offended,” she responded, and Justino realized that he probably looked ten times worse. “I saw you talking to the priest.” Her voice tightened in suppressed anger at the word ‘priest’ and Justino reminded himself to investigate later.

“Yeah, he wanted me to know that staying here wasn’t an option if we have any hope of getting out of Gwunfa alive. He said our best bet would be to choose a side, though I have no intention of getting killed for either Venda or Mshenge.”

“What are you saying?” Aimee asked incredulously, drawing her hands to her hips in a stern showing.

“I’m saying we should get out of here as soon as we can. This war is getting serious, Aimee-“

“What war isn’t?” the French-woman retorted, leveling her steely gaze at the Italian. Justino flinched under that stare, though he remained resolute in his thinking.

“Take a look outside. Can you smell the smoke coming from the east? That’s Charleville, the city we left not two weeks ago, and its already being burned to the ground. And have you heard the gunshots? Those are mercenaries… or soldiers, coming this way. And they won’t hesitate in shooting either one of us, though that would be a merciful death.” He knew he was being overly harsh, though all his frustration and exhaustion and anger had found an outlet, and it felt too good to stop. “You’d probably end up being raped until you died of some disease and I’d be beaten and left to rot in a jail cell. Is that what you want?”

Aimee was in no position to accept such a verbal bombardment, and she countered, her voice rising tenfold. “I’ve been outside, Justino, and I smell the smoke and I hear the bullets. But do you know what I see? I see thousands of people who are so sick and broken of spirit that they just lay down in the dirt to die. And I see ten year olds who haven’t had food in weeks who are literally being eaten alive by maggots. It sounds like you should take a look outside, so you can be reminded of why you’re here. Of the promise you made to Gaudet and all these people who look to you for help!”

“What do you want of me? We don’t have enough supplies to help half of the people in this church, let alone everyone else!”

“Don’t let me remind you whose fault that is.”

Justino winced and realized she was right. His anger had run its course, and he was left with only a terrible exhaustion and shame. “We don’t have enough supplies,” he said again, though this time it seemed more like an admission than a justification.

“These people don’t need medicine, they need hope.” Aimee motioned to Father Michael for effect and the small parish he’d managed to gather, their burden clearly lifted by his spiritual words. The natives were bowed before him, eyes closed, some with their hands in the air, others with fingers weaved together over their chests. They murmured and rocked back and forth in what Justino could only guess was prayer, completely oblivious to anything but the rhythm of Father Michael’s words and the slow, painful release of their own suffering. The Italian, never a religious man, had seen nothing like this in his entire life. He’d taken years of school to learn how to heal people, and never once did his professors or classmates mention the healing property of a few carefully chosen words.

It was then he noticed a particular figure in the crowd, this one just on the outskirts of Father Michael’s congregation. She was a white-skinned woman, decidedly European-looking, who vaguely resembled Aimee; as if that wouldn’t have singled her out enough in the sea of black faces, she was accompanied by a brute of a man who held her tightly at the elbow. It was a welcome night for sure, and even from the distance Justino could see the kind creases in her face. She looked lost and slightly hurt, and despite the people around her that were far worse for the wear, the Italian was driven to her. He chocked it up to pure curiosity, but deep down he realized he was hoping she was some aid worker who could relieve him, or at the least assist him, in helping these desperate people. “I’ll think about it,” Justino remarked off-handedly to Aimee, and although he knew that wasn’t the answer she was looking for, she didn’t stop him from walking away.

He picked his way through the crowd with great difficulty, hands grabbing at him from every direction, trying to pull him towards this injury or that. He smiled and pushed forward until he was standing before the curious woman and her escort. He held out his hand, realized it was crusted with dried blood, and pulled it back, smiling sheepishly. “Justino Mancini!” He had to yell above the shrieks of the natives. “I’m praying you know something about medicine, because I don’t think we’ll last-“ He stopped, realizing she probably couldn’t hear him above the noise, and then continued: “How about we step outside and you can tell me what you’re doing here.” Justino grinned weakly and stepped outside, into a world pierced with the sound of distant bullets and the cries of the dying.

[Saint Michel]

Near Route Coloniale 17, North-northeast of Charleville, République de Gwunfa (The Republic of Gwunfa), February, 1963

The engine of the old Jeep roared as it struggled to make its way up the hill. Gabriel Ndinga leaned back in his seat and hoped that he wouldn't have to get out and push. He'd had to do it twice so far this trip when the Jeep had stalled out, and now privately Ndinga thanked God that it wasn't raining or else the mud would make travel impossible.

The convoy of trucks and jeeps were traveling along a rough road eastward to the N17, through hilly farmland and patches of woods in which monkeys hooted from the treetops as they passed by. It was a difficult track for the heavily laden vehicles, but the major roads led too close to Charleville and to the fighting for Ndinga's taste.

It had taken a few days for the second arms shipment to reach him in Bokwuna-Sevo, but it had been a worrying time filled with dark reports of Mshenge's advance north and increasingly furious calls from Venda for the 43rd to deploy to Charleville. Ndinga had begged off each time, claiming the regiment was still mobilizing, and prayed that his ruse would hold long enough for him to make his move.

It had, and he'd evacuated the entire base once the second shipment of arms had finally appeared. Thinking about the weapons now made Gabriel smile, since included had been a few crates containing six brand-new RPG-7s still smelling of the factory machine oil. Ndinga had heard about Mshenge's tanks which were causing so much chaos in the south, and he was eager to try out the new weapon.s

There was a crackle of automatic rifle fire from the middle of the convoy, and when Ndinga turned in his seat he saw in one of the millet fields along the road the brightly colored dresses of two women lying motionless in the earth where they had fallen. Gabriel sighed and turned back to stare through the windshield. His men had been excited to be issued with the new AK-47s, and had taken practicing their aim by firing from the trucks at any unfortunate souls caught near the road when the convoy passed.

As long as his men kept their rifles set to semi-automatic and so didn't run through a whole clip in seconds, Ndinga judged the target practice a good thing and worth the expended ammunition. To its victims he gave a simple eulogy: their rotten luck.

The Jeep crested the top of the hill. "The N17, sir," said the lieutenant from his staff who rode in the front passenger's seat. Ndinga lifted himself in his seat to get a better look, and sure enough he could see the brown snake that was the main road wind its way through the flatlands before him.

"Good," he said, "We should be there by nightfall, and then we can head north." North towards the highlands and towards safety, at least for the time being.

Ndinga sat back down in his seat and fished out another cigarette, lighting with some difficulty as he was jarred by the springless bouncing of the Jeep as it descended the hill. Reaching the N17 also meant the regiment would soon be traveling through more settled areas, which for Ndinga meant one thing: food for the taking. Turning his back on Venda and going rebel meant no more supplies, and Gabriel wasn't about to delve into the regiment's meager paychest to buy rations.

Ndinga gave little thought to the people whose livestock and harvests he planned on taking. Their rotten luck. Besides, wasn't he fighting for them?

[Eternity]

Claire had finally hushed her thoughts, keeping them only in her mind as Morak fiddled with his stiletto, carving the dirt out from under his nails with the sharp tip. She had about laid her head down on his shoulder, but finally lifted it back up.

"Can we go inside?" She whispered into his ear. They moved from the tree, Morak wrapping his arm around her waist and lifting her like a feather. And he brought her inside, settling her near the entrance, where she could lean against the wall and not the tree. His arm removed from her back, and she leaned her head against his shoulder.

"You don't pay me to be your pillow." Morak said darkly, looking down at her.

"Oh please Moe, you don't have to be such a tight ass." Claire retorted quietly, refusing to move as her eyes fell shut. She relaxed a bit, curling into the man's side; trusting him more than he trusted her. After having been through quite a deal of hardship with her being here, she could use someone to rely on. Someone to trust. And the Nigerian seemed like a good candidate. Hell, she was paying him to be trusty. What she didn't see in her closed-eye thinking was Morak roll his eyes.

"I hate Moe, it's so foreign and weak. And by the way, if you mean uptight, when you say tight ass, I think you should insult me more often." He chuckled and Claire let out a resilient sigh. The two of them argued so much. Her culture versus his, and his bettering of English and little French had made English their more proper communication language. Claire turned her head slightly and nestled into the man and he let out a longer sigh than her own.

Finally, Morak wrapped his long dark arm over her shoulder and patter her shoulder.

"I wonder about you... You versus the others, the white devils of Africa..." He shook his head and laid his cheek upon hers, closing his eyes but not daring to rest with her in his custody...

~XXX~

Sleep was never on the agenda. Instead, sleep was non-existent. Claire and Morak did cycles of napping, although Morak seemed to just exist without any kind of rest. His eyes may have been shut, but his ears were open. The smell of blood, sweat, and dirt was there. His fingers traced over Claire's arm, the callous things secretly admiring the smooth skin of a pale being. But he heard something, someone nearing as the moans of the weak and damned grew louder. His lids slid upwards and his dark eyes laid on the Italian nearing.

"Birds of white feather, flock together." He chuckled quietly, shifting and nudging Claire to wake her. The woman stretched in her spot, opening her eyes and staring up as a man approached. Her body shivered with its usual awakening as she moved to sit up straighter, brushing her hands over her head to assure that her hair was pulled back straight- and it was. At least she could look somewhat neat.

When he approached, he stuck out his hand. And blindly, she would've taken it regardless of its dusty dirty nature. Hell, Morak had been known to have dirty hands too. He'd stab someone in cold blood and then wrap that blood-soaked hand around her arm like it were clean as a whistle. He then spoke, and she followed his lips to capture his name, more so then listening to his voice.

Justino Mancini.

She then looked over to the open door as he motioned for it, nudging Morak to help her up. The broad Nigerian stood up, his intimidating height of 6'3 being reached as he gave a soft stretch and leaned down to wrap his hands underneath Claire's arms, drawing her up again as if she weighed absolutely nothing. She hissed as she brought herself to her feet, and began to walk after the man outside, with Morak right behind her, his hand gently around her upper arm again.

Outside, the moans and cries of the injured inside were more distant. But the sound of gunfire and war screams were much more evident. She stared down at the dirt for a moment as she gathered her focus, looking back at the man. And Claire smiled softly, as Morak gripped her arm a bit tightly to tell her that this was far enough; that if she walked any more she'd be bound to stumble and hurt herself even more.

"My name is Claire Emmaline*, and this is my guardian, Morak. You may call him Moe." She said with a grin, turning her eyes up at the Nigerian's as his seemed to roll about uneventfully.



(Emmaline is pronounced "Emma-leen")

[Guest]

(I am now dispensing with the French, except for the occasional phrase. Anything in English in this post can be assumed to be said in French)

Charleville-centre, République de Gwunfa (The Republic of Gwunfa), Pre-dawn February 10th, 1963

Gwunfi soldiers, as a rule, like the nearby Congolese, had issues regarding warfare at night. That was a n idiosyncracy that white mercenaries exploited ruthlessly, and that he told the men of his squad, bluntly, was an advantage he wasn't about to give up and that they had better get used to.

Their complaints had lasted to the first fight, when they realized that night-marching and night-fighting were when a fellow could really get things done in Africa. Ever since, they'd become fervent believers, even as Gwunfi themselves. Of course, part of that was that Bergfalk simply would not hear their complaints and offered to transfer then back to Major Gagende's battalion if they were that displeased. It didn't even require the typical approach of a Foreign Legion NCO's fist, but merely the threat of joining Gagende's now-ragged formation.

After all, they'd led the way the whole way through, letting Gagende's men eat the artillery and mortar fire, soak up the casualties while they stayed ahead of the main force, doing the scouting and close fighting, but on their terms and using tactics that reflected the overall Gwunfi inexperience with running a war as leaders, rather than as the guys taking the order. They had veterans, but most of them were not natural officers. Few were.

It was evident in the lack of discipline that Venda's troops had early in the invasion and later.

Early in the invasion, they'd clamped down hard, but abused their people to such a degree that it was amazing they didn't all turn on them then and there. Perhaps they would have, if Mshenge wasn't pretty much considered in the same class as Venda; after all, they'd conspired together during the highly brutal election of 1962 and only had a falling out when Venda decided to appropriate Mshenge's considerable wealth for himself.

Later on, when things seemed far less hopeful, many of Venda's troops melted away, most of them, presumably, becoming bandits and guerrillas, raping and pilaging on their way to wherever they were headed. Few wanted to put up a fight for Venda, particularly against a mob of mercenaries who seemed to be fairly well armed, if not necessarily the most organized themselves; Bergfalk, a veteran with extensive experience and good discipline was a rare gem find among a rather unimpressive crop that were insufficiently vetted for their experience. That, of course, was much like earlier adventures in the Congo.

In any case, Bergfalk and his small squad noted the change in scenery as they moved north from their church position, back into the fight once the tanks had a secure corridor. The houses got less squalid and were built of better material, and the streets themselves were paved; a transition that happened at some point.

It seemed a violation of suburban or urban serenity, creeping through paved sidewalk that one might find anywhere in France armed to the teeth as they were. It felt almost conspicuous and guilty, as if he were intruding on a pedestrian scene in Metropolitan France. The only thing to differentiate the scene before him from the feeling that he was intruding were the palms lining some of the boulevard and the occasional muffled thump behind them as the fighting went on. That was as it had been much of the time; Bergfalk and his small squad of Askaris were avoiding much of the fight because the Venda troops were spotting the big formations, but not the little units moving through.

They fought a couple small engagements that were small and over quickly, but still created casualties. Gakuvo had a bandage on his cheek from hot shrapnel, but there were no real doctors to sew that up; they best they could do was clean it, use sulfa powder on it and make sure it didn't infect. But he stayed in the fight and didn't complain. Bergfalk himself had a bandage on his forearm, where he'd been hit by brick fragments created by a riccochet, but it was minor stuff, particularly compared to the big units making the push in, who were taking much of the punishment from Venda's last stand.

In passing through an abandoned checkpoint, they'd come upon the 'lizard' pattern French camo that the Venda troops favored and quickly donned it for themselves. It was, as Bergfalk put it, "a free pass into town." The only problem was the German himself, who would easily give the small group away with his white face. So they stayed to the less patrolled areas and tried to only allow themselves to be spotted at a distance, where the uniforms would identify them as allies. Despite the unexpected windfall of enemy uniforms, the protection lent no succor for the squad; it was doubly tense for them to wonder if they were caught or not, and it threw their instincts off.

This tension between the urge to run and the need to saunter had their nerves frayed a bit, but the disguise already saved them a good bit of trouble.

It wasn’t all quiet, even this time of the night, in Charleville. While outwardly calm, there were a lot of lights on in various buildings, and the occasional growl of a motor engine from a distance, from closer by than the artillery was.

“Keep your eyes peeled for a lorrie, lads.”

There was no point in trying to penetrate into Venda’s palace, but there were plenty of other opportunities within Charleville for them , as the first element in.

“Howabout over there, Sergeant?”

It was Buko, indicating with a thrust of his jaw a lorrie getting loaded up with troops in a courtyard. The canvas wall and roof of the truck bed were rolled up neatly, as a lorry could get stiflingly hot in the heat, and the only time one wanted to roll the top out was if there was a heavy rain or something to hide. But these were just troops, loading something from a rich looking villa into the truck idling in the courtyard.

“Ja, that’ll do. Play officer, Gakuvo. You and Buko handle the drivers, knives. The rest of us will take care of the men doing the loading, put guns on the bastards. Kill the officers quiet if you can. If the soldiers don’t give us a reason, don’t shoot.”

It was a fast plan, but it had to be. The men broke up to handle their jobs.

As Gukuvo was shouting at the drivers for authorization as he drew closer to the driver’s side and Buko sidled up to the passenger side, the rest of the squad moved into place on the soldiers doing the hauling. There was a man, in a pressed uniform, with his boots bloused, para-style, and a sharp-looking red beret that seemed a bit of an affectation more than a sign that the man was a real parachutist; Bergfalk, a career infantryman that spent almost all of his career since 1945 as a paratrooper in the Legion, saw that the man had no neck muscles to speak of. The uniform was, in fact, a rather fine and detailed costume, down to the camouflaged scarf the fellow wore around his neck. He kept his hat brim down as he moved, and let Uwende handle the officer, or at least distract him, even as he loosened the straps holding his entrenching shovel in place.

When the two men at the cab of the truck suddenly were knifed, Bergfalk ripped the entrenchment tool out of its holster and slammed it into the juncture between neck and collarbone; he’d always practiced the old ‘trench warfare’ practice of sharpening his entrenching tools, in this case a folding American model, so they could cut as well as dig. The old men from the Great War used to talk about it over their beer, when reminiscing of their war days, and he’d learned the value of it on the Eastern Front, particularly in the desperate fights against the Ivans, once their veterans started to figure out ways to assault the German Spandau positions.

African soldiers, for the most part not predisposed to trench warfare, had little experience of the shovel as a weapon, but the spray of blood and the man’s sudden crumpling forward gave them an ample demonstration; but the readied weapons of the rest of the unit kept their hands up, as orders were barked in strained forces and they were forced to their knees. While his men handled the prisoners, Bergfalk used the man’s scarf to wipe the gore from his entrenching tool before he folded the head and stuck it back in its place.

“Bien. Get their weapons, put them in the trucks. You lot,” He added to the POW’s, “Will strip your clothes off, down to your skivvies. Cooperate and you will not be killed. We could have just shot you earlier.” It wasn’t a sense of perversity that motivated the last orders, but the need to quickly divest these men of their weapons, uniforms and identifications; it would look like, to others, that they were the government troops taking care of some dissidents at the last minute. That was believable, as Venda was probably shooting as many spies as he could imagine at the moment.

Then, that bit of business accounted for, he rolled the man over with his boot and stared patting down the corpse for his orders and papers.

“Sergeant! You need to see this!” The man was excited but not firing, so it was something unusual. He pulled a sheaf of papers from the officer’s pocket and turned, only to see a white man among the prisoners.

“Bonjour. Who the hell are you?”

The answers were rather surprising.

***

“I am not saying I am refusing to do this, but it is dangerous, Sergeant” said Dwondu, the Gwunfi assistant squad leader, with nods from the other four men in the back of the lorry, now running with the canvas roof on.

“It is risky,” Bergfalk acknowledged, speaking just loud enough to be heard over the growl of the lorry’s engines; some antique French knockoff of the old American GMC model from the war, “but we’re not being paid much and this country’s going to hell. We’ve been risking our tails for not much pay, why not risk a little more for a real payday, hein?”

“Are you sure you can still speak it, sir?” ventured another one of the troops, “as you say, it’s been for a while.”

The men seemed reluctant, so he just slapped the man next to him on the shoulder, “You lads don’t need to worry, I know the language perfectly.” Then he said something in a language that that passed by the Gwunfi lads completely; they had no experience with it, “See? There’s no way I could ever forget it. They paid me extra in the Legion to keep current with it.”

“What was that you just said, Sergeant?”

“’Trust me, comrades.’” The older man grinned tightly at them as they laughed.

[Guest]

Charleville-centre, République de Gwunfa (The Republic of Gwunfa), Pre-dawn February 10th, 1963

The lorry pulled into another courtyard of another villa, with a sculpted lawn and a tall fence, obviously the former home of a colonial official of high rank, and kept up immaculately. There were a couple security men in the place, and their first question right off the bat was expected.

“Where is he?” the guard demanded in French.

It was Buko, in the passenger seat, who replied, “In the back. We didn’t want him seen riding around Charleville. Better for security, non?”

The man peered in the back and saw a white face. He didn’t shoot, he merely nodded.

“Right. Park it in the garage then.”

Bergfalk, listening from behind the canvas, nodded appreciatively; they were being let right into the actual house, as well as the compound. That’d make the job easier. While they didn’t have a specific plan, they did have an overall idea of what to do and how to go about it. And they had a go-to-hell plan, of sorts, anyway. As the lorry stuttered and growled as it shifted gears and climbed along the paved roadway leading to the garage, he watched out the back to see if he could get a feel for the lay of the land and the enemy security. There wasn't much to be gleaned with so limited a view, but Buko and Gakuvo’s job to keep their eyes peeled from the front. They should have a decent idea of what was about from there.

Once the lorry shuddered to a halt in the garage, the men started to climb out. There were crates stacked up as if awaiting loading nearby, many of them green painted wooden affairs with Cyrillic script on them, and other markings as well. They’d been pried open, if one went by the crowbar marks on the top, and then closed again once checked.

“Автомат Калашникова,” the crates read, among others. He translated, easily, in his mind “Avtomat Kalashnikova,” knowing the Russian language quite well.

A man with the look of an aide or majordomo scurried out from a doorway to point at the array of crates in the garage, “You men, load those up!” he snapped, “and if you please, sir, this way.”

Bergfalk nodded to the others as they started, emphasizing, without saying so, that yes, they should grab those crates. Meanwhile, the house servant led the German down the hallways of the place. The man escorting him didn’t look like he was armed, though he conceded that looks could be deceiving. He was jittery, as if drinking too many cups of coffee and was due for another cigarette, which was a typical state of affairs in Gwunfa. As a former French colony, they persisted with the French habit of smoking too many cigarettes. As a former French soldier, Bergfalk could sympathize.

The house itself was white painted on the interior, with some rather nice art pieces lining it; narrow hallways, larger rooms. It was one solid house, built like a classical villa. Bergfalk was familiar enough with the type to know what to do with it, if he had to. His skin prickled somewhat, but then he realized that it was the air conditioning, something he was utterly unused to over the last week or so of conflict.

The majordomo opened the door at the end of a hallway and gestured inward. Bergfalk stepped into an office that had a wonderful view of the back yard, including colonial-style stone walls and steps, and a swimming pool. There were several bookshelves and a large desk; the place had an old world elegance to it, the sort of thing that said, in Gwunfa, that the owner was extraordinarily successful and therefore quite corrupt.

Bergfalk knew this and knew the man was in the government. Indeed, the man behind the desk was a bulky fellow, well fed and wearing a uniform of sorts with several medals, and a sweating face under a red beret; the whole uniform looked entirely too starched, and done up in the French para style that was favored by Venda’s flunkies. Not a man of them had ever actually been to a real parachute school, as far as he could tell.

The man took a moment to finish up his phone call, leaving Bergfalk standing and waiting and then put down the phone and spoke, in a language quite familiar to him.

“I am General Vaduku, the Defense Minister and you must be from the Russian embassy. Are the arrangements made?”

Bergfalk, who spoke the language perfectly from his years on the Eastern Front, and knowing White Russian refugees prior to the war, was able to reply, which was no doubt the test – there were some whites in Gwunfa now, as mercenaries, but very few Russians. Of course, General Vaduku couldn’t possibly know Bergfalk’s convoluted path into Gwunfa.

“Da. We are loading up your arms and there is a plane waiting at the airport for you. I am sure comrade Nasser will be quite pleased to have you in an advisory capacity in dealing with the Imperialist threat.”

The man gave a belly laugh, perhaps as if amused by the stilted sort of delivery that was obligatory, “Not to mention the rapaciously greedy capitalist, yes?” The man seemed slyly amused at the whole thing, as he picked up the phone and dialed.

“This is Vaduku. Your man is here. Thank you, goodbye.” With the receiver back in its cradle, the man stood up, shifting his prodigious bulk in the process, and commented, “Poor Jacques,” he meant Venda, “If only he’d been a little more accommodating. But now even your government is leaving the fool flapping in the wind. And Mshenge, well, I doubt he’ll let me live. I shall miss this place, though perhaps if I am lucky I will see it again, non?”

He gave another great belly laugh as he strode out the door, and down the hallway, with Bergfalk following. He paused, stiffened really, at the sight before him in the garage, of several of his own guards and household dead and stacked neatly, and Bergfalk’s troops holding guns, brand new, out of the box Kalashnikovs as it turned out, on the general himself.

“Unfortunately, General Vaduku,” Bergfalk chimed in perfect Russian, “we are not actually from the Embassy. But we are willing, for a price, to deliver you to the airport. You see, I am quite sure that you have some foreign bank accounts, and as it happens, I have a Swiss account of my own. My lads and I are worried about our future financial security…”

Bergfalk was somewhat nonplussed at the man’s belly laugh, and the way the fat general complimented him on a well done scam, one scamster to another. He seemed to take it as a fait accompli as he phoned in the necessary numbers and made the transfer of a hefty chunk of his account into another account – Bergfalk, never paid much in his life, suddenly was quite comfortable now – in return for the chance to escape Gwunfa on literally the last airplane out of the Charleville airport.

***

Route Coloniale 17, République de Gwunfa (The Republic of Gwunfa), Sunrise, February 13th, 1963

The squad didn’t talk about their newfound wealth among others, but trusted, somewhat, Bergfalk’s insistence that he would divide the wealth equitably. They seemed to trust, to a degree, that he was straight with them, as he’d trained them and helped them stay alive in the fighting and trusted them to keep his back. Yet, at the same time, it was hard for these men to not feel somewhat cynical about a white man holding the money or the way men would stab each other in the back for money.

But even if that were a concern, there was no way to really get to a bank that did transfers of money and make a withdrawal. They were, in short, forced to trust each other.

Charleville’s fall was dramatic and fast, once regular units breached into the center of town, past the abandoned checkpoints, though Jacques Venda, ever the cagey one, managed to get away in a motorcade of armored cars and gun-carriage jeeps to the west; they were steaming up R-17, and so Robertson’s forces, or elements of it, were forced to give chase.

Bergfalk’s men, for bringing crates of Kalashnikovs and other weapons back to the army, minus the weapons appropriated for their own use, were given bonuses and jeeps for their efforts, though the squad was secretly bemused at such generosity; their minds were all thinking the same thoughts of a certain bank in Switzerland. The jeeps, of course, would be handy for when they decided to make a break for it. They’d been allowed a shower in Charleville before getting on the road, which was a greater reward than the bonus they’d been paid for all their efforts.

Divided between three jeeps, one driver and two gunners, each with a .50 caliber browning on the pintle and a .30 caliber browning on the passenger side, they had orders to pursue with other elements of the Mshenge army. No one, including the ex-Gwunfi army types rampaging up and down the country, seemed too keen to start anything with the mercenaries after a couple initial contacts where Bergfalk’s men brought superior firepower to bear.

Most bandits, seeing the array of weapons and the confident posture of the mercenaries, simply decided to let them pass. The mercenaries, for their part, didn’t do what was expected of them and simply demonstrate their power for the sheer egotism of it, as some were wont to; they were too disciplined to waste ammo.

During the night, they’d veered off the main road and used unpaved back roads as they roared through the prairie in the moonlight, with the shocks of the antique French copies of the Willy’s jeep creaming and rattling on fairly stiff shocks. Still, despite driving through the night, there was little to show for their search for Venda. Only now, as the sun rose, did they spot the spires of a church in the distance.

Bergfalk signaled the halt and called over the men to conference, though leaving the gunners at their posts. He unwrapped a red dust-caked scarf from his face and hitched his goggles up on his forehead as he pointed things out on a map.

“Alright, we have no sign of Venda and need to lay up and rest. That church looks like as good a place as any, but we can’t assume the locals will be welcoming. Keep the weapons secured and only fire in self defense. We’re going to offer them to pay,” he added slyly, “With the bounty that is our bonus money. They’ll probably be expecting us to rob them. If possible, we get on their good side and find out if Venda’s been through yet. If he hasn’t, we can lay an observation post,” he jabbed a finger at the map, “here.”

The men nodded, and grunted agreement, feeling sore and exhausted from the trip, the unrelenting pace of the fighting and the grind of staying alert on their little recon. Anything that would afford them a respite from the gnawing hunger and exhaustion was welcome enough. The jeeps were painted in a tan and green camouflage with a stark white helmet on the right fenders; a bit of memorabilia for Bergfalk, who was a veteran of the Großdeutschland division. The doors and the hoods themselves were stenciled with a bold white stag, Robertson's orders, to identify themselves to other mercenary forces and to avoid the typical problem of friendly fire in far-ranging mobile operations.

“Good. Remember; point those machineguns up, so we don’t scare the local wildlife, eh?”

Minutes later, they were close enough to the church for the jeeps to pull up at a bit of a distance, without being in weapons range, per se, and for Bergfalk to step out and brazenly, for they probably were in an extreme sort of range for a truly skilled sniper, not that those existed around here, and unroll a strip of white cloth for the people in the church to see.

It was a bedsheet once, and Bergfalk made sure to keep it handy, at the bottom of his pack. He didn’t like the odds of surrendering in Africa, or even parleying with an unstable enemy that didn't seem to give a damn about the niceties, but also knew that sometimes you had to raise the truce flag to talk, and perhaps even negotiate some sort of surrender. Luckily, the campaign was going well enough, which was just as well. But then, three jeeploads of mercenary troops, all black but the leader, wasn’t exactly the most welcome sight these days in Gwunfa.

As soon as someone came forward to hear what he had to say, he’d give them the spiel, in French, “We are not here to take anything; we’ll pay for whatever we get. But we need a place to rest and clean up. We also want to know what you’ve seen lately and we’ll pay for it. It’s the rest of this fucking army of Mshenge’s, the boys behind us that you have to worry about, hein?”

The tall, dusty German, wearing a headscarf wrapped around his face, with the portion that’d cover his mouth left undone so others could see his face, unshaven for days and with a blonde-shot brown beard growing in, seemed amused at that statement; he’d said that sort of thing before, and perhaps saying it again amused him in the way of gallows humor.

[Twoface_ecafowT]

Perhaps it was the exhaustion, cloudy and heavy behind Justino’s eyes that dulled his senses to the danger. Or maybe it was the hammer-and-anvil effect of the cries coming from inside the church and the distant but booming sounds of war ricocheting across the Prairie Dandu that prevented Justino from hearing the roar of incoming trucks. Whatever the cause, Justino saw the lorries before he heard them. Four trucks outfitted with brownings and khaki-colored gendarmes, spitting clods of dirt and grass in a head-long dash towards the church. The soldiers waved their guns in the air and wore feral grins, howling like wolves as they tested their first shots into the air.

The natives began to scream and run towards the entrance of the church. Without thinking, Justino shouted for Claire and Morak to follow and dashed towards the crowd gathered at the front of the chapel. He attempted to push through, but the natives were hysterical and densely packed. Realizing they wouldn’t be able to get inside, Justino grabbed Claire’s arm and pulled her towards the back of the building. Justino pressed himself against the whitewashed siding and slid to the ground, the rat-a-tat of bullets broken only by screams and the thumping of his heart.

Justino closed his eyes and pressed himself against the wall even harder, willing himself to melt into the hardboard. After a minute, the sound of bullets came to a jarring stop, replaced by husky voices. Laughing. And then the squeal of tires, slowly carrying off into the distance.

Justino waited before moving, struggling against his weak knees to stand up. He couldn’t keep his hands from shaking as he looked around the corner. From what he could see, it looked exactly as it had before the attack, sans the cloud of dirt slowly settling back to the ground. He looked back at Claire and Morak and nodded, though he wasn’t sure what for, and then moved forward. Justino crept along the side of the church, listening for any remaining soldiers. Nothing. The church, which had been filled with the cries of the sick and dying for days, was completely silent. It was chilling and the Italian couldn’t keep his skin from curdling.

As he rounded the last corner, his skin went completely numb. Twenty or thirty natives were piled in front of the church; those who hadn’t been able to get inside in time. Most of the corpses were still standing, supported by the mass of dead bodies around them, forever frozen in their desperate attempt for safety. It had been a slaughter, not a single fist raised in defense or opposition. The Italian felt bile rise to the back of his throat and fought the urge to vomit as he stumbled closer, glancing off into the distance to make sure the gendarmes were out of sight.

“Anybody?” it wasn’t much, but it was all he could think to say at the moment. Faces began to appear in the door of the church, red-eyed and pale with fear. “Aimee!” She was his next thought, red-hot and burning in his mind. “Is Aimee in there?” The faces in the doorway turned away and he could hear the murmur of voices, but Aimee didn’t appear.

It was then he saw the patch of orange-white skin, ugly and stark, hidden amongst the tangle of corpses in front of the church. Justino fell to his knees and vomited. After a few moments, he crawled over to the pile of bodies and began to tear them away. It was Aimee, ashen and still. Justino bent over and brought his ear to her mouth, willing her to breathe. Nothing.

Wait! No… something. A breath, faint and barely audible.

-----------------------

The body count amounted to twenty-four, all of who were buried in makeshift graves outside the church by the natives. Justino would have like to help, but he realized his task was more important than overseeing the mourning and funeral rituals of the dead. He was charged in keeping the five survivors of the attack from suffering a similar fate.

Aimee had suffered the most grievous wounds, several shots to the thigh and a lodged bullet in the base of her neck, which had luckily missed her spine and esophagus. He had already cut the bullet out and stitched and bandaged the wounds, though he was forced to change the wrapping every few hours because they kept soaking with blood. He wasn’t particularly worried about her dying from blood less as much as from infection, which he was ill prepared against. Even so, her vitals had somewhat improved over the course of the day, and with time and more advanced medical help, she should survive.

Justino was busy redressing Aimee’s thigh when a commotion at the door stole his attention. Father Michael appeared, curtailed by a small band of soldiers. The Italian couldn’t recognize the uniforms, then again judging a soldier by his uniform alone often spelled doom Gwunfa. The priest shared a few words with the soldier in front and motioned them toward a back room of the church. He then moved towards Justino and held his hands up disarmingly. “Mshenge’s men. They’ve come for rest, and to find information about the whereabouts of Venda. Friendly enough, and I told them you might know the direction Venda’s convoy headed” He glanced at Aimee and frowned. “How does she fare?”

“She will live.” The anger in Justino’s voice was evident. He wasn’t happy to be under the same roof as a soldier, friendly or not. Everything ended badly in Gwunfa where the army was concerned.

Father Michael could see the anger and unrest written plainly on the doctor’s face. “They are not the same men that did this to Aimee,” the priest said flatly, decidedly, before nodding solemnly and walking away. That may be so, but Justino couldn’t help shaking in rage whenever he heard one of Aimee’s shallow, ragged breaths.

[Guest]

“You can come in, as all are welcome in the eyes of God.” The priest had a familiar look and accent that Bergfalk felt pulling at the very corners of his memory; it slipped out before he knew it.

Bergfalk kept his brand new FN-FAL, spoils from the general’s cache that the entire squad, but for the machinegunner, acquired. It was effective enough, and the lads understood the use of the gas adjustment knob and the need to keep the sights adjusted quickly enough; the FAL tended to wobble on the rear sight if not carefully maintained, and the gas-knob always had to be checked; a useful tool nonetheless. It allowed more gas to move through the system, in the event of fouling, so that the weapon would fire anyway, albeit with a much greater degree of recoil. The Brits, the South Africans, and everyone but the French used them. They were the West’s answer to the Kalashnikov, assuming the operator was trained on them.

But then, Bergfalk’s squad were well-trained.

The machinegunner, by contrast, was the proud new owner of one of a re-bored German MG-42, one designed to fire the NATO round. Dwondu, upon seeing the German’s face light up at the sight of the weapon in a crate, had to ask what it was and got the answer. ”The finest implement of battle ever issued to an infantryman, Dwondu, the hammer of the Wehrmacht.” The reverence in his voice said it all to the Gwunfi veteran. Spare barrels and all, a full kit.

“Polska, ja?” He asked the priest, guessing at it by the man’s looks.

“Jawohl, Feldwebel. And you, with the Silesian accent.” The priest spoke better German, apparently, than Bergfalk Polish, but it was a vastly amusing irony that caused the soldier to chuckle darkly at the odds of a Pole and a Silesian German meeting in the same woebegotten country in Germany.

It was perhaps a sign of how far and how fucked up things had been that neither seemed eager to renew the rancor. The Catholic priest was as surely an exile as the German was, and both of them, ironically, kicked out of the home they used to fight over. In a way, there was the amused recognition and familiarity between the two, though it was hard for them to explain it or articulate it to each other, much less explain the understanding to others who had not experienced what they had.

“You took an attack recently, I can smell the blood.” It was off-hand, he'd seen and smelled his share; detachment was a way to shut it out and cope.

“Yes, Gendarmes, probably looking for some sport and perhaps something to plunder.”

Bergfalk shrugged; vagaries of war, and the Polish priest, in his way, agreed. It was unfortunate, but also something one became used to. The lad, Justino, was young, perhaps too young to truly remember the war years, where life was as cheap as the weaponry that was thrust into the hands of young men marching toward each other, laying waste to all that came between two such inexorable forces.

“Better that we settle up on top of your roof if Gendarmes are about, Vater,” Bergfalk slipped right into German, finding it much easier to communicate that way with the priest than in French, easier to avoid being overheard, “and it will keep us away from your flock. My lads know how to camouflage their jeeps.”

Bergfalk didn’t want to give away the whole story; the mission was the only edifice in the area, and therefore made excellent bait for enemies. If he was going to take prisoners to gather intelligence, this was as good a place as any to lay up and wait.

“Yes, that might be a good idea. Not everyone here is happy with the soldiers, and it is probably cooler on the roof by night.”

Bergfalk shrugged, “That settles that then. My thanks, Vater.”

With that, they filed in, with Bergfalk quietly giving them orders as to positioning and how to set up their equipment; camouflage the jeeps, wash up, change into a fresh set of field OD greens and launder the used stuff, a schedule for guard duty, which they all took seriously.

***

While it was essentially a jerry can poured over his head, it was the closest to a shower that he’d been in a while, as stinking and grimy as he was; his hands and face were much darker than his torso, which was matted hair and scar tissues in some places, lean to the point of desiccation from the heat and the tempo of operations and the insufficient rations. He didn’t bother with a shave or a haircut, or even with soap, for that matter.

Soap, as he told the boys, could be smelled from quite the distance. Or so he’d learned in the jungle patrols in Indochina, when the Tao tribesmen would tell them that they stank of it. It was a strange, but accepted article of faith in the squad that soap was not to be used; if one wished to shave, they’d have to do it without such an amenity. Buko, who had been to Indochina as a Tirailleur, backed up the assertion, and then provided some sort of gory story about the Viet Minh, who had something of a boogey-man reputation with every colonial French troop type that encountered them. Little people, big will to fight.

Bergfalk stayed away from the storytelling; perhaps it was the idea that he couldn’t figure out where to begin, or that he didn’t even want to think about how many people he’d known over the years, done for. It was something to shut out of his mind.

For now, there was only the pleasures of tobacco and hot food, of a clean, or at least rinsed uniform and a bathed, or at least rinsed, body that would suffice. The prospect of rest and recuperation was pleasant, even though there were so many refugees, who seemed pitiable. And perhaps as a way to guard against the intrusion of such negative thoughts when all the men wished to do was to let it all fall away for precious moments, a few of the squad got into an impromptu game of footie with some of the children, kicking around a rag-stuffed shirt of some sort while the others saw to the food or smoked their cigarettes.

And for a moment, the war, the Gendarmes, Venda and Mshenge, and their fat bank account that they had to live to withdraw from, all receded into the background as the simple pleasures took over.

They drew what little they could from the moment, because soon it’d be time again to start digging in, setting up fighting positions and mounting a watch. Sooner or later, some sort of unpleasantness would come this way; it was inevitable.

[Saint Michel]

"Pull over here."

The driver obeyed, and the Jeep slewed off the N17 and onto a dirt track. If the rest of the column questioned Col. Ndinga's decision, they nevertheless dutifully turned off the highway as well.

The dirt track led through dry fields of millet and yam and stands of trees and underbrush, terminating a mile or so later at a small cluster of dung huts. At the sound of the approaching vehicles heads appeared in doorways, and curious children crowded around the Jeep as it ground to a halt in a cloud of dust and squeal of brakes.

Ndinga stepped out of the Jeep just as Captain Obayemi ran up to him. "Sir, what's happening? What are your orders?"

"We're staying here for the night," Ndinga said, tousling the head of one of the children circling his legs. He took off his sunglasses and looked about him at the sunbleached landscape. "And no looting. We'll pay for any food."

"But sir," Obayemi began, surprised. They raided half a dozen villages in the past two days as they made their way north, the men taking whatever they wanted from the villagers. Their route was marked by the bodies of those who had resisted or just annoyed. "Why bother? We haven't-"

"I said no looting! I'll shoot the first man who steals something myself." A single frosty glare from his commanding officer was enough to send Obayemi rushing back to the rattletrap trucks where the regiment waited to disembark.

Ndinga turned to his driver. "Wait with the jeep," he ordered, then carefully disentangled himself from the children and entered the tangle of huts. He walked slowly, letting his eyes wander from cooking fires to the conical hut roofs to the faces of the people who cautiously watched and waited. It was a scene that was at once a distant memory and at the same time as fresh and clear to him as if he had been here yesterday.

At the far edge of the village he halted, at one small hut in front of which an old woman stood grinding millet into coarse with a clubbed stick. She looked up as Ndinga stopped before her, and the woman's eyes widened.

"Gabriel?"

"Hello Mama."

~***~

The sun was setting, bathing the mountains to the east in shades of ochre and gold. Ndinga couldn't resist a sigh. "I missed this view."

His mother gave him a sidelong glance. "You could have stayed here," she said, handing her son a spoon and a steaming bowl of ogi.

Gabriel laughed. "How many times can you say that, Mama? What's done is done." He took a small spoonful of ogi and savored the memories its taste conjured up. "How's Douala?"

"Your sister's well," his mother replied. "She's living with her husband now, with your nephew and two nieces."

Ndinga grinned. "Ha, I'm an uncle now?"

"You've been gone too long, Gabriel." His mother was staring fixedly at the pot bubbling over the fire.

"Where is Douala living now?" Ndinga pressed, deciding not to comment on what his mother said.

"She's at Gbona, just north of here."

Ndinga nodded as he thought. "Then we'll take her with us."

"Take her with us?" His mother was confused. "Take us where?"

Ndinga put aside his bowl and took her hand. "Mama, you have to leave here. In a few days it's not going to be safe for you anymore -- places to the south have been burned, lots of people killed or worse." He neglected to mention it was his regiment in part responsible for what he described. "But we're going north, to where we can defend ourselves. You'll be safe with us."

His mother shook her head. "I'm not going with you, Gabriel."

"Speak sense," Ndinga pressed. "You have to listen to what I'm saying."

"This is my home, I don't want to live anywhere else."

Ndinga squeezed her hand. "Please, Mama. I'll get you out of here, someplace..."

"No, my place is here." She removed her hand from his. "I just wish you'd understand that it's yours, too. Now eat up before it gets cold."

Ndinga looked as if he might say more, but he recognized that look in his mother's eye and so he sighed and picked up his spoon.

The sun sank over the horizon.

[Guest]

Route Coloniale 17, Catholic Mission, East of Charleville, Republique de Gwunfa, February 13th, Sunset

Such interludes of peace never lasted, and this one was shattered in the twilight hours by a young man running, emerging practically from the veld, from around one of the contoured hills; had it been dawn rather than dusk, the light wouldn’t have caught the boy either. But he weaved through the high grass, towing something with a pole under each arm, straining but exhausted. It was Gakuvo who gave the signal to Bergfalk, but it was Buko who moved to intercept the lad, but with his FAL slung over his shoulder and his arms up. The rest of the men, though it was technically the Church’s territory, were watching with the tension of the wary, for Gwunfa was no longer a remotely safe place anymore.

One could already see the pulsating glow of flames in the distance, and the plumes of smoke that had burned for a good bit of the afternoon; it put the squad on a tense sort of alert, as they dug themselves in and sighted the MG-42 in the right direction, making sure that it, and all the other weapons they carried or mounted on the jeeps, were properly cleaned and maintained; they’d seen what happened to Venda’s men out here, with their weapons carelessly maintained.

Rather than leave the post, Bergfalk kept watch through a pair of binoculars; there was something on a wheelbarrow behind the boy, covered. He had an unpleasant instinct about it. Gwunfa was no paradise, after all.

Soon, Bergfalk was joined in watching by Father Michael, the Polish priest, who asked, “What is this, another stray?”

“I do not know yet. Buko is still talking. I was waiting to go over and look, but I wouldn’t want to make the lad scared. And it is, after all, your mission.”

Bergfalk was well aware that he and his squad were not the Missions’ most beloved transient residents; the young Italian looked angry and about to lash out, and the German decided it’d be simpler if he simply weren’t around for the younger man to take a swing at, assuming something was taken the wrong way. He wasn’t particularly here to alienate the locals or plunder them, which probably made his the only armed men in Africa that wouldn’t, given the opportunity. That, of course, was because they’d plundered bigger than any one village could possibly yield. But also because robbing a rich, fat general seemed far more moral, in a relativistic fashion, than making the lives of the average villager more miserable.

“That is probably for the best, though it looks as if your man has it under control. I am glad your men are here, I do not like the looks of that smoke and flame to the north. Perhaps the band of men you are looking for will come to us, non?”

“Perhaps,” Bergfalk conceded as they started to make long, loping strides over the sun-hardened red soil toward Buko and the boy, “but even if they aren’t, I wasn’t intending to leave your mission to the jackals. If they’re Mshenge’s men, they’ll follow orders and back away. If they aren’t, they’re enemies If they’re armed, and part of my job is to deal with them.”

“I hope you will give them a chance to turn away, Feldwebel. I realize you have a different outlook on these things, but I am uncomfortable with the idea of merely killing them in ambush.”

Bergfalk mulled that one over as they made their way closer to the boy, who looked ragged and terrified, before speaking, “I’ll give them one warning shot, and if they break off, I will let it go at that, father. But otherwise, I would be risking myself and your flock. I am sorry I can’t do more, but that is war.”

The father nodded, “The world demands concessions and compromises on certain things, and perhaps God will forgive us all if you give them the chance to turn away. I am not sure anymore.”

“Neither am I.”

The silence that lingered between them lasted until they saw the boy, his calves, ankles, feet and lower legs sliced by drying blades of grass, rocks and brambles, and his eyes glazed and glassy with exhaustion; he’d ceased sweating, which was bad news; Buko filled them in on worse.

“It is a sister, a nun from a convent-school-orphanage, this boy is an orphan that was getting raised here…it is bad, he says…”

Before Bergfalk could stop the priest, having heard of these cases from the Congo hands who’d seen Kivu, the blanket was torn from the wheelbarrow, to reveal a spectacle of mutilating burns and glassy eyes gazing forward, a woman with only the barest bloody shreds of clothes to show for modesty. Bergfalk had seen this himself before, in much the same fashion, the things some of the Russians did to German women when invading at the end, some of it propaganda, but some of it very true. He remembered all the suicides at the end, as women found many different ways to kill themselves. But nuns didn’t believe in suicide, it was a sin in Catholicism. He realized that the women must have known it would happen but many of them stayed anyway, in the path of the chaos that was quickly swallowing the country in darkness.

Father Michael was as shocked as anyone when he felt the woman’s pulse to find that she was still alive, “Quickly, we must get her to Doctor Mancini!”

“You take the wheelbarrow. We’ll cover. They may be coming quickly.”

Without even thinking, Bergfalk handed over his canteen to the lad, “C’est d’eau. Pas trop rapidiment,” he warned the boy. The kid started gulping, and just as quickly started to retch into the grass, bringing it up.

“What did I just say?” he sighed, but further notice of the lad was secondary as he and Buko un-limbered their FAL’s and slowly made their way back, covering the rushing Catholic priest as he made his run with the nun in tow on the wheelbarrow. But there were only the night sounds, the creak of wheels, the wind winding through the grass with a dry rustle, and the sound of insects. He didn't necessarily expect the subtle approach from Gwunfi soldiers of any sort, they were far too fond of driving around in their vehicles and shooting at extended range rather than closing for a fight, which was why he trained his squad of Gwunfi to take advantage of that and be particularly stealthy and careful, like hunters. He heard rumors of the men of the hills, who were much better hunters, and more dangerous, but wasn’t exactly on his way to find out.

But the boy seemed to finally be cooling down, with the water, so Bergfalk told Buko, “Ask him who did this.” He didn’t speak the local dialect, but Buko did. It made things easier.

A little back and forth revealed something, and Buko reported in; “White mercenaries and locals, some big blonde sort leading them. They came in lorries, he said.”

“Scheiße.”

Buko knew that word in German at least.

“Yeah. They probably are coming this way.”

***

It was father Michael who brought the badly abused nun to Justino, breathless and sweating in his attire, the water pooling along the stiff collar, “A boy brought her from a nearby village, a nun. If there is anything you can do…”

Outside, Bergfalk filled in the others on what to expect. “Do not fire these things fully automatic, they will not be controllable. And Gakuni, you will not fire the machinegun until you get the specific order. Don’t give it away. The MG is the biggest weapon of the squad, most of our firepower. The enemy will attack it if you reveal it unnecessarily. Klar?”

The others, the refugees, sensing something was afoot a while ago, already fled or found themselves a place to hide or were cowering inside the mission; just as well they weren’t in his way. Bergfalk hated to deal with civilians in a fight, and he smelled one coming.

They did not wait long before they heard the roar of engines from the distance, along the grassy path that the boy used before, and the engines came to a stop as a South African-accented voice boomed into the night, “Alright, you bloody kaffir loving bastards better give up the rest of what you’ve got there and whatever women strike our fancy, especially the French cunt, or we’ll bloody blow the place.”

Bergfalk, kneeling in his observation position, behind sandbags, called back, “Identify yourselves!”

“The Liberation Army of Jacques Venda, President of Gwunfa!”

Bergfalk mulled it over for a moment, before sighting the headlights of the lead truck; he brought the stock of his FAL up to his cheek and peered through the rear ring as he’d done for many a year, instinctively finding the aim point as he aligned it with the blades. Then, with an almost miniscule amount of smooth, even pressure on the trigger, he fired a round into the space between the lights.

“Last warning, turn back now!”

The response was predictable, but at least Father Michael’s wishes were carried out, somewhat. There was a motley array of fire, the slow banging of MAS-36’s, the slightly more rapid fire of a Tommy’s Lee-Enfield rifle, and the sharper cracks of semi-automatic weaponry. Somewhere, a machinegun started to open up. The field lit up with the brief flashes of muzzles and he could hear the bullets snapping around, badly aimed but in considerable volume; he estimated a platoon of men, roughly, out there. It didn’t matter, they weren’t a real platoon, built around their automatic weapons or well coordinated, as his squad was.

Bergfalk’s own men returned fire from their prepared positions, while Bergfalk, instead of firing more, directed Gakuni, “The MG!” and chopped his hand in the direction he wanted the Gwunfi machinegunner to fire.

The MG-42 made a distinctive sound, like canvas ripping, for the rapidity of its fire. It was a sound that was not often heard in Africa. Gakuni, trained to handle small bursts, had a little difficulty keeping the bursts as short as Bergfalk would like, being used to a slower rate of fire, but managed to get the hang of it as he let forth a blistering barrage of rounds at the enemy weapon, using the tracers to help adjust his fire. Handled properly, the weapon was devastating. Rightfully, it had a fearsome reputation among those who used or faced it.

Buko’s weapon seemed to jam up, and Bergfalk yelled at him, “Clear it and set the gas regulator higher!” knowing that the order would be carried out; the rest of the squad were firing calmly, taking aim and returning fire. But night engagements were tricky matters, and they had no particular way to illuminate the enemy.

It didn’t matter. He had a plan, “Dwondu, take command here! Buko, Uwende, Gakuvo, with me!”

He knew the natives tended to stay put, and hoped the whites with them would do the same. He could see where the enemy positions were and the silhouette of a nearby hill, and that was his target.

“Keep quiet and stay low, but move fast. Drop anything that isn’t ammo, grenades or a weapon. Jump in place a couple times, I want to make sure you aren’t going to make noise.”

The ritual was complete, and Bergfalk satisfied, “Alright, follow!”

The length they had to traverse to reach the position they were trying to get to seemed impossibly long, adrenaline lengthening the distance even as it slowed the perception and chilled the blood; Bergfalk could feel the sweat rolling down his back and face, into the beard that started to sprout. It was hard not to make some sort of rustling in this dry grass, but with the noise of combat raging, it wasn’t likely they’d be heard.

It seemed a lifetime when they finally got on the reverse slope of the hill, and could hear the shouts of the enemy and the cycling of their weapons, too close for any sort of comfort; indeed, he could feel himself shaking in the fear that was the constant companion of a man in any kind of battle, no matter how much of a veteran, but he carried through with it. As his old feldwebel once told him, “Just figure out what to do and do it; don’t think about it too hard after you make the decision.”

Bergfalk motioned for the men to get grenades ready; they were Soviet F-1’s, with a rod sticking out the top and a pin in that; he carried his in a canteen case, rather than on the belt like some fool in a war movie; these things didn’t take too well to being carried in the open, where things could snag. He’d also taken the precaution of ordnance tape along the pull-rings, for safety. That wasn’t a concern now, though, as he pulled the ring and held the safety clip tightly, the other hand held aloft as a signal.

The hand went down and the grenades flew, over the small hill and into the midst of the enemy positions. A second thrown volley of grenades went up and over, further away this time; they could hear the grenades going off and the screams of men being mangled by hot shrapnel, from both the weapons and the trucks they were immobilizing, even as Bergfalk and the men pulled back a ways. Grenades didn’t give away their position, especially in the dark, but there was no sense waiting around for any grenades they may have had to throw in return.

The fire from the MG-42 still savaged them, after a moment of respite that Gakuni used to reload with. When the MG ran out again, despite the sharp, scattered, accurate, disciplined firing of the FAL’s to cover the Gakuni's reload, a voice yelled out;

“Fok, we surrender, just stop killing us, you bloody kaffir bastaards!”

Bergfalk yelled out, “Hands in the air and come out in a single file line, no weapons or we do all of you!”

The battle for the Mission was over.

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