Just Another Recce Part III:
The men loaded more rounds into their magazines, took their brief respite to drink water, piss a few feet away from themselves. Some who had them, watched the enemy approach with their optics. The soldiers brought out their RPG-7s and few 90mm recoilless guns but the trucks were at least a couple kilometers away, at least 15 of them, some armored. They had two Buffels with them too, and they also looked modified. The mortar fire had subsided after the smoke covered their initial retreat. Now they appeared to be organizing for a breakthrough. Warrant Officer Martin discussed on the radio the situation as he looked as his map with his Sergeants.
The Lieutenant reported that the free army attempted to storm the city was but fought off, and that they were shifting their weight to break through on the north side, where the first thing between the city's supply line and communications stood was his OP. Reinforcements were at least a day away. The radio connection wasn't spotty, so it could be discussed in brief detail. The flat ground and dry weather did little to disrupt communication. "I've got a couple of Gazelles to drop off some ammo and take your wounded, you should hear them any second. I'm also bringing in smoke around your position, I imagine they'll make their move when it clears. I might be able to get you a gunship run soon too. You've got fast minute to get your boys on those copters, we don't know what kind of weapons they have on those trucks so I have to get the helicopters out of there" The Warrant acknowledged "Any word on those BM-21s, Sir?" "I like the way you think Maarten, yeah the AWB got them in a couple of hours ago. We're organizing logistics on those but we should have it figured out, if you need it, use it as a last re..re..sor...tttt" The radio got choppy as Maarten heard and felt the smoke rounds impact in front of his OP, and the faint sound of the choppers in the distance.
If they have anyone from the SADF in that 'Free Army', they'll know we're up to something, smoking our own position while they're in front of us. No doubt they can hear the helicopters too. Maarten looked over at the two Gazelle Helicopters, flying fast to their position, to a prearranged landing area, he shouted orders, had his men bring four of the serious wounded on stretchers out to them, sprinting as fast as they could without throwing the wounded men off of them. As the helicopters landed he and the men started hearing the unmistakable sound of heavy machine guns and 20mm cannons being fired, albeit inaccurately, above their heads. The smoke plumes decently covered the OP and the helicopters, at least for another good minute.
The warrant felt he could count on his men, they knew the stakes as well as he, they did good last night, those four were probably going to make it. As the last of the wounded were loaded on the helicopters, heavy cases full of ammo, rations and other supplies were dropped off, as the helicopters began taking off. As they lifted and turned around, the enemy fire got more accurate, almost clipping one in the tail rotor, but they managed to get away. The same men who had dragged the wounded off had brought back the supplies, which were quickly either hidden in one of the dug out bunkers or split up amongst the various sections.
Maarten originally had a recce platoon at his disposal, usually 27 men and an officer. But because of a shortage of officers and the situation in the city they determined it fit to leave him in charge. He had recieved 14 soldiers and 4 crewmen to reinforce his now motley battlegroup. Three of his soldiers and one of the replacements were wounded, mostly just bad burns and shrapnel, two unlucky bastards got hit directly, one took a 7.62 round in the shoulder, and another got hit in the gut by what Maarten thought might be a 5.56, he was in bad shape. They didn't do too bad, after tallying the enemy dead they realized that they killed at least 27 enemy soldiers. Most of them were not wearing SADF uniforms however, a lot of them were wearing either rags, civies, patch work uniforms, the white dead wore foreign camouflage or uniforms, but there were definitely a few white and black SADF among them, wearing armbands of red and green. They could have been his old friends, acquaintances, soldiers that he trained. This entire situation disgusted him. He rubbed his eyes.
How the fuck did we even get here, am I getting old, I swear it wasn't that long ago that things were normal. This was unimaginable... but he stopped himself, he did imagine this. As did a lot of men in the SADF, they talked about it, bragging about how the kaffir wouldn't stand a bloody chance. I didn't hate the Africans, but I come from a long line of Dutch settlers who had lived centuries and braved the frontier in this country. They got more oppressed by the fucking British than we ever treated the Kaffir. I had as much fucking right to it as the bloody stupid Americans and their country, so ignorant or so evil that they ignore their own hypocrisy or are dumb enough to not know their own history. It astounded him that they even had the audacity to criticize his country for defending itself, to support the traitors and to make him kill people who used to be his friends. The traumatic difficulties, sleep deprivation and psychological affects of killing tend to bend one's thoughts like this. Deep down, Maarten's heart was hardening, at this point it wouldn't matter what happened, he'd fight with his platoon, his regiment and his army until the bitter end.
By 6:01AM, the South African Free Army charged their position, unleashing a fury of land based rocket artillery, mortar shells, machine gun fire and at least 5 105mm rounds, one that impacted nearly directly killing 5 men. However as their technicals closed the distance, the soldiers kept firing back. When the one of the soldiers let a burst go with his FN MAG, it hit the drivers compartment of an incoming toyota, killing the driver, causing the high speed vehicle to turn and then flip, sending it's contents of a heavy machine gun and crew into the air as it twisted and rolled, hitting another incoming vehicle, one of the modified heavy buffels, that just plowed through it, and kept going, the men inside still shooting at the OP.
The Free Army started pouring fire as they managed to dismount several squads only 400 meters away from the OP. Maarten's men were getting pinned down or wounded, one by one. As the SAFA assembled, to charge them directly, covered by their own smoke grenades and the mortar rounds. Maarten, now in the front with his radio, radioed for whatever support he could get. As at least two hundred and fifty men spread out, covered by machine gun fire from heavily armoured vehicles started crawling towards their point, the situation appeared increasingly desperate.
Hubrecht's eyes were dead and focused, he had already dragged back the master corporal who was laughing at him for a medic at the command bunker. He locked his rifle on whatever moving target he could acquire. The dust from the plains, the smoke from the weapons and the smell of open wounds became increasingly disconnected from him, and his task. His task was to aim his rifle, and to use his brain to tell his finger to pull the trigger. There was literally nothing else, until a familiar click reconnected the conscript back to reality. He looked to the left, one of his only friends in the unit was dead, a round had struck him in the head, blowing his face open. He looked to the right and saw the warrant officer, who looked at him, with an empathy and pain in his eyes. Just as another mortar round came down in front of the trench, Hubrecht started puking bile on his boots. The warrant grabbed him by the shoulder, told him to focus, he put a magazine in his rifle for him and pushed him back into position. Just like that the stimulation died down, he was back to his task.
It was 6:31 AM and the reinforced platoon was only at half effective strength. They were at the breaking point, but Maarten recognized the familiar sound of a grad rockets, and for once it was a good thing. "Everyone hide, get the fuck in your holes now!" The warrant officer, Hubrecht and everyone else hit the dirt and hid, fire kept coming at them until the sounds of rockets gracefully gliding above their heads passed them. The slavo started hitting the ground at 6:38AM. The enemy's vehicles were ripped apart, just as many of their men were, into burnt, often reddened carcasses. One round hit the modified buffel directly, completely obliterating it. The enemy was confused, they stopped shooting. Hubrecht's ears were ringing, a lot of those rockets hit way too close for comfort. But he was relieved. They were running, throwing smokes, the vehicles reversing and shooting and even turning around. Maarten signaled for his Ratel to give chase, Hubrecht had forgot that it even existed. It's 20mm gun shredded what was left of the enemy's vehicles, and many of the soldiers running back. Some, behind a tree, waved a white rag on a stick. Maarten, grabbed Hubrecht by the kit, and motioned a few other of the less wounded soldiers with them. They crouched from cover to cover, waiting until they made it to the surrendering band, only 50 meters away.
Maarten intended on killing them, the only thing that surprised him was that it was Hubrecht that started shooting first.