The Siege of Charlotteville Part 1
“You know what this is, don’t you Captain?”
“No sir?”
“This is a damned trap. And we’re the rats caught in it.”
Major Sean Hughes looked out across the dry golden grass towards the dense verdant brush. At least they had a few clear fields of fire until the tree line. Beyond it, the ground sloped up towards the high ground surrounding them, which were dotted with ant hills and stunted trees. All in all, it wasn’t good ground, but it was the ground they had. And holding it was vital to their mission.
“The Jerries said that about Tobruk as well, sir.”
“You’re right about that, Patrick. Well, we’ll make do with what we’ve got. I want us dug in good and proper. Put three platoons to work on trenches, all around the place. This isn't Tobruk, though - it's Rorke's bloody Drift! We're here surrounded by hills on all sides."
"I see what you mean, sir."
"Well, the boys at Rorke's Drift didn't have machine guns, mortars and our other toys. I’ll see the officers downstairs in my quarters in half an hour.”
“Very good, sir.” Captain Patrick Quinlan, second-in-command of Company A, 1st Battalion Connaught Rangers saluted crisply and climbed down the stone stairwell of the three storey house that served as the company headquarters, leaving Major Hughes alone on the roof with his thoughts.
Operation Motorman was the first offensive sweep carried out by 8th Infantry Brigade since they had arrived in the Congo two weeks ago from Rhodesia. The festering chaos and bloodshed since Congolese independence in 1961 had boiled over the border far too often, leading to the deployment of British and Commonwealth troops to ‘restore and maintain order’, or at least that was what was being said in high minded and honourable speeches in the rarified corridors of the League of Nations. That rhetoric always sounded great and worthy to the politicians, but the real reason for the presence of British forces was far more direct - the mines. Ever since Rhodes’ British South African Company had won the Scramble for Katanga against old King Leopold’s Belgians, there had been intense interest in the riches beneath the surface of this wild land. Whilst the larger proportion of the copper belt and the more exotic minerals lay south of the border, there was still huge fortunes to be made in that part of the region that lay in the Belgian Congo. Coal there was, and iron, lead and copper, all in great plenty, but there were also wealthier pickings, such as the Charlotteville Mine.
Here, in the midst of the rolling savannah and broken-topped hills, had lain a moderately prosperous tin, columbite and tantalite mine that had seen far better days back in the era of the Great War. A chance discovery by a travelling American talking rabbit had change all that with the glint of shining blue in the soil. For here lay the world's largest deposits of solantium, that modern miracle mineral so vital to space rockets, along with rich, deep seams of gold, silver and copper that had only been discovered less than ten years ago. It had turned the quiet mining village into a boomtown almost overnight, drawing attention from Europe, the United States and Britain. The cosy conglomerate of British investors, the BSAC and the Union Minière du Katanga had seen their profits severely disrupted by the spiralling strife that lead to Congolese independence and the subsequent near collapse of the new country had brought production to a near halt.
This state of affairs was one that could not be tolerated and, if the central government in Leopoldville could not keep order in its peripheral provinces, then there were others who could. The French were up in the north, the Belgians around the major cities and the Americans starting to try their luck in the east. Prime Minister Eden had ordered the first Commonwealth brigade to the border in early 1963 and since then, the ambit of their operations had been gradually spreading. Now, with Barton and Labour in power, a new and aggressive strategy had issued down to African Command from London for the Katangan border to be stabilised. Motorman was part of that, seeking to locate and neutralise rebel base areas in Mobo, Malemba-Nkulu and Manono Districts; the 1st Royal Irish Regiment and 2nd Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers were tasked with the former two areas, whilst the 2nd Ulsters were in reserve back at Mitwaba on the border and the tanks of the South Irish Horse were split between the three columns.
B, C, D and Support Companies were pushing up to the bridge at Kiambi along with the artillery. A Company was to hold the crossroads here just east of Charlotteville, with this nameless outlying hamlet being selected as the location for the brigade's forward operating base where the big 6" guns and MRLs would be brought up. It wasn't much to look at on first appearance, consisting of two dozen buildings, a garage, a disused bar and a nice, deep well, but that would change in time. For now, he needed trenches, sandbags, mortar pits and as much wire as he could get. The grass would have to go and then the brush line. If he put one of the Maxims and a heavy machine gun up here on the roof, they could cover two of the main approaches quite nicely, whilst the Stags could cover each end of the road and the extra machine guns on the Champions would add to the firepower of each platoon, if it came to it.
Major Hughes looked up to the nearest hill and saw a group of men darting for cover in the brush.
When it came to it.
The Siege of Charlotteville
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Simon Darkshade
- Posts: 1049
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Re: The Siege of Charlotteville
The Siege of Charlotteville Part 2
Hughes had a little over two hundred and fifty men on strength in A Company, consisting of his regular four rifle platoons, the weapons platoon of 2.5" mortars and heavy machine guns, their requisite four snipers and attached batteries of a pair of Maxim Guns and WOMBATs from the battalion Support Company. He would have been a lot happier if he had the troop of Super Centurions and battery of 125mm Light Guns usually attached to his company, or even a few of the 3.5" mortars - primacy of firepower was one of the Army's watchwords, whatever the front. It seemed darned unnatural to be stuck out beyond the range of the guns, even if they were nominally behind the lines; Major Hughes had been in enough action in Africa to know that counted for close to naught here.
Whilst he lacked heavy weapons, he made up for it with his men. He would not swap his superb group of veterans for any others in the whole Army. His tough core of sergeants were all veterans of Korea, Malaya and the Six Day War of ‘56, whilst CSM Prendergast had been through the Western Desert, Siam and Indochina in World War Two on top of that. His five young lieutenants were good, reliable men, all blooded in the Far East and Captain Quinlan was equal parts thoughtful scholar and steady warrior forged in the hard fought campaigns in Aden, Burma and Kenya. The men were a good mix of professionals and young volunteers, accustomed to hardship and finely honed by their training. Their spiritual needs were well met by their company priest, Father Crilly, whose simple piety and wry humour served as a good example to his flock.
Yet all of this was essentially ephemeral without what he really needed - some skerrick of firm intelligence or indication of what they might be up against. Prior to the launch of Motorman, the brigade intelligence officer had indicated that there were at least ten thousand Simbas in Congolese Katanga, along with a large number of other deserters from the Congolese Army, various mercenaries and assorted militia groups. The numbers in and of themselves were not the crucial matter, as a British brigade could take on any such force of rabble in the field, but where they were. This was more like Kenya and Malaya than Egypt or Korea, with an elusive enemy who held back in the jungles and wilderness and move among the people like a frog in the water. Charlotteville itself was likely to be of no help, with the mercenaries hired by the mining companies sticking strictly to the defence of the mine and their properties in the town. There were just too many unknowns to the whole situation, so he would have to start unveiling the secrets of this place one by one.
"Sir? The officers are waiting downstairs."
"Excellent."
A short climb later saw him before his subordinate commanders in the sparse room that served as his quarters. They were an eager bunch, he'd give them that much.
"Right, chaps, gather round and have a look. This is the short of it - we've got to get our defences up here to hold against anything that might come through. This is to be our forward base, not just for the Rangers, but the whole brigade when the time comes. Battalion seemed to think and still does that the main force of Simbas in this area were all across the river, but that doesn't rule out any trouble here. We know from the Rhodies and Saffies that they may be damned savages, but they're not entirely stupid, at least down this way. If I was in the shoes of Mpolo, or whatever they think that commander's name is, then I'd strike here first and cut our forces in two.
So, we need to dig in here and dig in deep. Trenches all the way around, along with all the wire we can get, and then sandbag redoubts and gun positions here, here, here and here." He stabbed at the map with his pencil. "Once that is done, then we burn off that grass as much as possible and thin out the tree line - we've plenty of explosive, so we are going to damn well make use of it. Make sure we save as many of the branches and trunks as possible."
"What for, Major?" asked one of his lieutenants
"We don't have any field guns, Dornan, but no need to advertise that to any of our watching friends out there. I want you to head into town and beg, borrow or buy these items." He slid a short list across the table. Dornan nodded as he read it, understanding spreading across his face.
"DeLarge, I want you to take out a patrol this afternoon. Look like you're hunting and make a show of it. Make sure you have a gander at anything that shouldn't be there."
"Yes, sir."
"If there's no trouble, then we've kept the men busy and all is well. If there is, then we're going to be darn well ready for it."
The next few days passed without issue, with the men of A Company proceeding to dig their trenchline at good pace and clear out the surrounding fields methodically. Their activities continued to attract attention from the hills and in the surrounding plains and forests and DeLarge's patrol had found evidence of large bodies of men passing through the area, making little effort to obscure their tracks. Something definitely seemed to be brewing.
It was Saturday afternoon when it happened. Hughes was in his office, drawing up a list of supplies to radio to Mitwaba for the next helicopter flight when the alarum bell began clanging urgently. Grabbing his rifle and hastily throwing on his flak jacket, he ran outside, urgently scanning the burnt stubble of the field before them for a threat.
"What is it, Clancy?" he yelled up to the sentry on the rooftop.
"Out there, past the gap in the trees, sir. Look!"
Major Hughes raised up his binoculars and peered out in the direction Private Clancy had indicated.
There, stumbling through the grass in terror, were three little children, their ebony skin scarlet with blood.
Hughes had a little over two hundred and fifty men on strength in A Company, consisting of his regular four rifle platoons, the weapons platoon of 2.5" mortars and heavy machine guns, their requisite four snipers and attached batteries of a pair of Maxim Guns and WOMBATs from the battalion Support Company. He would have been a lot happier if he had the troop of Super Centurions and battery of 125mm Light Guns usually attached to his company, or even a few of the 3.5" mortars - primacy of firepower was one of the Army's watchwords, whatever the front. It seemed darned unnatural to be stuck out beyond the range of the guns, even if they were nominally behind the lines; Major Hughes had been in enough action in Africa to know that counted for close to naught here.
Whilst he lacked heavy weapons, he made up for it with his men. He would not swap his superb group of veterans for any others in the whole Army. His tough core of sergeants were all veterans of Korea, Malaya and the Six Day War of ‘56, whilst CSM Prendergast had been through the Western Desert, Siam and Indochina in World War Two on top of that. His five young lieutenants were good, reliable men, all blooded in the Far East and Captain Quinlan was equal parts thoughtful scholar and steady warrior forged in the hard fought campaigns in Aden, Burma and Kenya. The men were a good mix of professionals and young volunteers, accustomed to hardship and finely honed by their training. Their spiritual needs were well met by their company priest, Father Crilly, whose simple piety and wry humour served as a good example to his flock.
Yet all of this was essentially ephemeral without what he really needed - some skerrick of firm intelligence or indication of what they might be up against. Prior to the launch of Motorman, the brigade intelligence officer had indicated that there were at least ten thousand Simbas in Congolese Katanga, along with a large number of other deserters from the Congolese Army, various mercenaries and assorted militia groups. The numbers in and of themselves were not the crucial matter, as a British brigade could take on any such force of rabble in the field, but where they were. This was more like Kenya and Malaya than Egypt or Korea, with an elusive enemy who held back in the jungles and wilderness and move among the people like a frog in the water. Charlotteville itself was likely to be of no help, with the mercenaries hired by the mining companies sticking strictly to the defence of the mine and their properties in the town. There were just too many unknowns to the whole situation, so he would have to start unveiling the secrets of this place one by one.
"Sir? The officers are waiting downstairs."
"Excellent."
A short climb later saw him before his subordinate commanders in the sparse room that served as his quarters. They were an eager bunch, he'd give them that much.
"Right, chaps, gather round and have a look. This is the short of it - we've got to get our defences up here to hold against anything that might come through. This is to be our forward base, not just for the Rangers, but the whole brigade when the time comes. Battalion seemed to think and still does that the main force of Simbas in this area were all across the river, but that doesn't rule out any trouble here. We know from the Rhodies and Saffies that they may be damned savages, but they're not entirely stupid, at least down this way. If I was in the shoes of Mpolo, or whatever they think that commander's name is, then I'd strike here first and cut our forces in two.
So, we need to dig in here and dig in deep. Trenches all the way around, along with all the wire we can get, and then sandbag redoubts and gun positions here, here, here and here." He stabbed at the map with his pencil. "Once that is done, then we burn off that grass as much as possible and thin out the tree line - we've plenty of explosive, so we are going to damn well make use of it. Make sure we save as many of the branches and trunks as possible."
"What for, Major?" asked one of his lieutenants
"We don't have any field guns, Dornan, but no need to advertise that to any of our watching friends out there. I want you to head into town and beg, borrow or buy these items." He slid a short list across the table. Dornan nodded as he read it, understanding spreading across his face.
"DeLarge, I want you to take out a patrol this afternoon. Look like you're hunting and make a show of it. Make sure you have a gander at anything that shouldn't be there."
"Yes, sir."
"If there's no trouble, then we've kept the men busy and all is well. If there is, then we're going to be darn well ready for it."
The next few days passed without issue, with the men of A Company proceeding to dig their trenchline at good pace and clear out the surrounding fields methodically. Their activities continued to attract attention from the hills and in the surrounding plains and forests and DeLarge's patrol had found evidence of large bodies of men passing through the area, making little effort to obscure their tracks. Something definitely seemed to be brewing.
It was Saturday afternoon when it happened. Hughes was in his office, drawing up a list of supplies to radio to Mitwaba for the next helicopter flight when the alarum bell began clanging urgently. Grabbing his rifle and hastily throwing on his flak jacket, he ran outside, urgently scanning the burnt stubble of the field before them for a threat.
"What is it, Clancy?" he yelled up to the sentry on the rooftop.
"Out there, past the gap in the trees, sir. Look!"
Major Hughes raised up his binoculars and peered out in the direction Private Clancy had indicated.
There, stumbling through the grass in terror, were three little children, their ebony skin scarlet with blood.
-
Simon Darkshade
- Posts: 1049
- Joined: Thu Nov 17, 2022 10:55 am
Re: The Siege of Charlotteville
The Siege of Charlotteville Part 3
Major Hughes had seen many sights in his twenty three years of service in the Army - mass graves in Korea, the aftermath of carpet bombing in Egypt and the ravages of werecrocodiles in Kenya. None of those could bear a candle to what had been wrought in this wretched native hamlet - the horror, the cruelty, the blood. It was beyond anything he had seen.
There had been perhaps a hundred people living here up until this morning, men, women and children, going about their lives in peace. Now only the three terrified children survived, having slipped away in the midst of the dreadful orgy of destruction.
Every single one of the nicely fashioned huts had been smashed, the bestially torn bodies of the strewn about the wrecks. A pile of bodies a dozen deep was stacked in the square like cordwood, mounted with decapitated heads. Tiny babies had had their brains dashed out against the charnel stained walls and the barely recognisable corpses of women lay in pools of congealed blood where they had been ravaged. All of the bodies seemed to have had their bellies ripped open and their entrails strewn about the bloodstained square, whilst the men had been gelded. In its midst, a white missionary had been crucified upside down and his eyes out out.
“Savages. Damn bloody savages.” Sergeant-Major Prendergast finally spat out in icy cold hate as he stood next to Hughes, breaking the horrified silence that had held the search party spellbound as they had entered the village.
“You’re almost right. This goes beyond savagery. It will have a reckoning.” He turned about. “Lieutenant Ryan! Get this photographed and then get D Platoon over here to bury the poor sods.”
“Sir.”
“Father Crilly?”
“Yes Major?”
“Give them a proper prayer and a godly burial. And pray to the Almighty that we have a chance to meet those responsible and give them a taste of the Lord’s vengeance.”
“Of course.”
“Quinlan! Get Lieutenant Dornan’s section into the Landies - we’re going into Charlotteville.”
When they arrived in the town, some 15 minutes later, it was in the early stages of a panic. European storekeepers and Congolese civilians alike couldn’t seem to decide whether to load up and flee or board up and hunker down. There was a clamour of raised voices and near wailing from up ahead.
“I think this is where we’ll find who we’re after. Up to the mine office and let’s be quick about it.”
Pulling up outside the gabbling, milling crowd, Hughes pushed his way through their ranks with an assured authority, not seeming to notice or need the two privates with their rifles at port arms trailing behind him.
“Who’s in charge here?”
A harried grey haired man in a heavily sweat soaked white shirt halted his placatory gesturing and turned towards the Major. It was M. Raymond LeBontemps, the Site Directeur of the Charlotteville Mine. Hughes had met with him and the other local prominenten on the afternoon of their arrival at the crossroads base. It looked like he’d aged ten years in that few days.
“The Mayor fled this morning, so I am the last man of authority left.” LeBontemps began in heavily accented English. “The news came through in the night - the Simbas are coming, coming with blood and death. We have had natives streaming in from the villages, telling of all sorts of rumours of butchery and terror. The nearest ANC force of any size is 300 miles away at Kamina, so they are less than useless.”
Hughes nodded. The airbase at Kamina was the veritable jewel in the crown of Congolese Katanga, having been built up by the Belgians into the largest airfield complex south of Cairo; in many ways, it was the key to Central Africa.
“There are supposed to be Belgian Army troops at Kamina.”
“There were. The last group flew out for Leopoldville two days ago, according to the ANC commander I spoke to on the radio.”
“Damn. The Simbas. How many?”
“My scouts say at least four thousand, maybe five.” A new voice joined the conversation, marked by a notable Scandinavian lilt. It came from a tall, tanned man with cropped white blond hair, icy blue eyes and a military bearing, clad in the jungle green fatigues of the Katangan Gendarmerie and bearing a well-used Thompson gun slung over his shoulder. “Captain Roland Andersen, Force de Securite of the mine. They are a few hours away.”
“Hmm. Not great, not terrible.That sounds like the force the rest of the battalion is trying to bring to ground. Once they’re back, we’ll give them what for. How many men have you got here, Captain Andersen?”
“32.”
“How many people left in the town, Monsieur Le Directeur?”
“Seventy four whites, including the women and children.”
“And the blacks?”
“Them? Perhaps three hundred of the thousand or so. You can’t -“
“I can. We all bleed the same, Monsieur, believe me, I’ve seen enough of it this morning. If you flee south, there is still a chance that the Simbas will get you. If you stay put, they’ll butcher you all. Gather everyone up - and I mean everyone - and we’ll arrange our lorries to bring you to our compound. Any other outlying Europeans nearby?”
“Only a small American mission station at Myumba; Christians in Action. There was a group of Freedom Corps youngsters who went up there a week ago.”
“We’ll, they’re beyond any help we can offer, at least for the moment.” The Major then turned to Captain Andersen. “While Lieutenant Dornan gets on the wireless to my lads, get your boys and every white man with a rifle that you can muster. I’m going to get onto Battalion up at Kiambi and see about catching these devils between our anvil and their hammer.”
Hughes stalked out to his Land Rover and returned three minutes later with a face like thunder.
“What is it, sir? What did Battalion HQ say?” asked Dornan quietly.
“That we’re on our own.”
“What do you mean, sir?”
“They’ve got their own fish to fry, Lieutenant. They made it across the bridge at Kiambi, mostly, but then the Simba blew the damn thing up with mortars and man-charges. Nine hundred men with all of our tanks and guns are stranded on the wrong side of the bally river, chasing after an enemy that is coming down to do bloody murder unto us.”
“They’ll find us much rougher to take on than women and children, sir.”
Hughes smiled grimly. “That they will, Lieutenant, that they will. Now, let’s get back; we’ve got a town to shelter and I’ve a battle to plan.”
It was past the middle of the afternoon by the time that the people of Charlotteville had been bought into the compound and provided with what little shelter the houses could provide. The cruel intensity of the African sun beat down upon them all and the flying ants were a dreadful nuisance to soldiers and civilian alike.
Hughes had split Captain Andersen’s gendarmes and the twenty six able bodied European men and older boys into two flying platoons as a reserve within the compound, but it was one that, hopefully, he would not have to employ. He now stood atop his headquarters building, scanning the hills and horizons for a sign of the enemy. There had been a strange noise in the distance on and off for the last ten minutes, but it seemed to have stopped.
There it was - that strange noise again, like a distant pounding edging closer. Hughes looked over at Quinlan, who was similarly perplexed.
“Damn funny. Like a…like a train.”
Prendergast climbed up the ladder onto the roof.
“Major Hughes, sir. Sentries have come in from the hill. They report Simbas to the southwest. Thousands of ‘em.”
Major Hughes had seen many sights in his twenty three years of service in the Army - mass graves in Korea, the aftermath of carpet bombing in Egypt and the ravages of werecrocodiles in Kenya. None of those could bear a candle to what had been wrought in this wretched native hamlet - the horror, the cruelty, the blood. It was beyond anything he had seen.
There had been perhaps a hundred people living here up until this morning, men, women and children, going about their lives in peace. Now only the three terrified children survived, having slipped away in the midst of the dreadful orgy of destruction.
Every single one of the nicely fashioned huts had been smashed, the bestially torn bodies of the strewn about the wrecks. A pile of bodies a dozen deep was stacked in the square like cordwood, mounted with decapitated heads. Tiny babies had had their brains dashed out against the charnel stained walls and the barely recognisable corpses of women lay in pools of congealed blood where they had been ravaged. All of the bodies seemed to have had their bellies ripped open and their entrails strewn about the bloodstained square, whilst the men had been gelded. In its midst, a white missionary had been crucified upside down and his eyes out out.
“Savages. Damn bloody savages.” Sergeant-Major Prendergast finally spat out in icy cold hate as he stood next to Hughes, breaking the horrified silence that had held the search party spellbound as they had entered the village.
“You’re almost right. This goes beyond savagery. It will have a reckoning.” He turned about. “Lieutenant Ryan! Get this photographed and then get D Platoon over here to bury the poor sods.”
“Sir.”
“Father Crilly?”
“Yes Major?”
“Give them a proper prayer and a godly burial. And pray to the Almighty that we have a chance to meet those responsible and give them a taste of the Lord’s vengeance.”
“Of course.”
“Quinlan! Get Lieutenant Dornan’s section into the Landies - we’re going into Charlotteville.”
When they arrived in the town, some 15 minutes later, it was in the early stages of a panic. European storekeepers and Congolese civilians alike couldn’t seem to decide whether to load up and flee or board up and hunker down. There was a clamour of raised voices and near wailing from up ahead.
“I think this is where we’ll find who we’re after. Up to the mine office and let’s be quick about it.”
Pulling up outside the gabbling, milling crowd, Hughes pushed his way through their ranks with an assured authority, not seeming to notice or need the two privates with their rifles at port arms trailing behind him.
“Who’s in charge here?”
A harried grey haired man in a heavily sweat soaked white shirt halted his placatory gesturing and turned towards the Major. It was M. Raymond LeBontemps, the Site Directeur of the Charlotteville Mine. Hughes had met with him and the other local prominenten on the afternoon of their arrival at the crossroads base. It looked like he’d aged ten years in that few days.
“The Mayor fled this morning, so I am the last man of authority left.” LeBontemps began in heavily accented English. “The news came through in the night - the Simbas are coming, coming with blood and death. We have had natives streaming in from the villages, telling of all sorts of rumours of butchery and terror. The nearest ANC force of any size is 300 miles away at Kamina, so they are less than useless.”
Hughes nodded. The airbase at Kamina was the veritable jewel in the crown of Congolese Katanga, having been built up by the Belgians into the largest airfield complex south of Cairo; in many ways, it was the key to Central Africa.
“There are supposed to be Belgian Army troops at Kamina.”
“There were. The last group flew out for Leopoldville two days ago, according to the ANC commander I spoke to on the radio.”
“Damn. The Simbas. How many?”
“My scouts say at least four thousand, maybe five.” A new voice joined the conversation, marked by a notable Scandinavian lilt. It came from a tall, tanned man with cropped white blond hair, icy blue eyes and a military bearing, clad in the jungle green fatigues of the Katangan Gendarmerie and bearing a well-used Thompson gun slung over his shoulder. “Captain Roland Andersen, Force de Securite of the mine. They are a few hours away.”
“Hmm. Not great, not terrible.That sounds like the force the rest of the battalion is trying to bring to ground. Once they’re back, we’ll give them what for. How many men have you got here, Captain Andersen?”
“32.”
“How many people left in the town, Monsieur Le Directeur?”
“Seventy four whites, including the women and children.”
“And the blacks?”
“Them? Perhaps three hundred of the thousand or so. You can’t -“
“I can. We all bleed the same, Monsieur, believe me, I’ve seen enough of it this morning. If you flee south, there is still a chance that the Simbas will get you. If you stay put, they’ll butcher you all. Gather everyone up - and I mean everyone - and we’ll arrange our lorries to bring you to our compound. Any other outlying Europeans nearby?”
“Only a small American mission station at Myumba; Christians in Action. There was a group of Freedom Corps youngsters who went up there a week ago.”
“We’ll, they’re beyond any help we can offer, at least for the moment.” The Major then turned to Captain Andersen. “While Lieutenant Dornan gets on the wireless to my lads, get your boys and every white man with a rifle that you can muster. I’m going to get onto Battalion up at Kiambi and see about catching these devils between our anvil and their hammer.”
Hughes stalked out to his Land Rover and returned three minutes later with a face like thunder.
“What is it, sir? What did Battalion HQ say?” asked Dornan quietly.
“That we’re on our own.”
“What do you mean, sir?”
“They’ve got their own fish to fry, Lieutenant. They made it across the bridge at Kiambi, mostly, but then the Simba blew the damn thing up with mortars and man-charges. Nine hundred men with all of our tanks and guns are stranded on the wrong side of the bally river, chasing after an enemy that is coming down to do bloody murder unto us.”
“They’ll find us much rougher to take on than women and children, sir.”
Hughes smiled grimly. “That they will, Lieutenant, that they will. Now, let’s get back; we’ve got a town to shelter and I’ve a battle to plan.”
It was past the middle of the afternoon by the time that the people of Charlotteville had been bought into the compound and provided with what little shelter the houses could provide. The cruel intensity of the African sun beat down upon them all and the flying ants were a dreadful nuisance to soldiers and civilian alike.
Hughes had split Captain Andersen’s gendarmes and the twenty six able bodied European men and older boys into two flying platoons as a reserve within the compound, but it was one that, hopefully, he would not have to employ. He now stood atop his headquarters building, scanning the hills and horizons for a sign of the enemy. There had been a strange noise in the distance on and off for the last ten minutes, but it seemed to have stopped.
There it was - that strange noise again, like a distant pounding edging closer. Hughes looked over at Quinlan, who was similarly perplexed.
“Damn funny. Like a…like a train.”
Prendergast climbed up the ladder onto the roof.
“Major Hughes, sir. Sentries have come in from the hill. They report Simbas to the southwest. Thousands of ‘em.”
-
Simon Darkshade
- Posts: 1049
- Joined: Thu Nov 17, 2022 10:55 am
Re: The Siege of Charlotteville
The Siege of Charlotteville Part 4
GHQ Africa Command
Nairobi, Kenya, British East Africa
Lieutenant-General Sir Ian Freeland looked out of the window of his office high up in the keep of Kenya Castle, surveying the well-ordered city of Nairobi below. The red telephone on his desk desk rang sharply, breaking the stillness of the African late afternoon.
“Yes?”
“Sir, Major Cooper at Communications. We’re getting flash traffic in from Elizabethville regarding Operation Motorman. A Company 1st Connaught Rangers is reporting an imminent engagement with a significant force of Simbas at Charlotteville."
“I see. Thank you.” The General rang off, then dialed in a new number.
“Operations.”
“Execute Operation Thunderchild.”
“Yes, Sir.”
He put down the telephone and sipped from his tea. The original intent of Motorman had been to eliminate the Simbas from Congolese Katanga and test the capacity of a number of weapons, systems and tactics in the field, but those objectives had been superceded by the events of the past day. Before the operation, it seemed a strong possibility that the Simbas could be lured in by a seemingly weak force at Charlotteville, at least to the staff planners and diviners attached to GHQ Africa. As such, a contingency plan had been put in place - Thunderchild. It had been made more difficult by the loss of the bridge at Kiambi, which seemed almost too skillful for the damned Simbas, but assets had been put in place in order to deal with surprises. The sheer bloody murder done to the wretched Congolese villagers hadn't been foreseen, though; the southern Simbas hadn't previously displayed the savagery of their northern brothers. There would be a reckoning for that and it would occur in the successful execution of Thunderchild.
Within ten minutes, an RAF airship would be taking off from Entebbe to provide aerial surveillance of the battleground, followed by the ready battalion of Paras from RAF Eastleigh that was already loading up. An armoured column of the 2nd Ulsters, the Rhodesian Mounted Rifles and the Shangani Horse would begin the drive up from Mitwaba to Charlotteville, whilst the other two battlegroups of the 8th Brigade would recommence their own advance towards their targets. The QRF company of the Rhodesian Light Infantry would be able to fly up in two hours once the RFC Rotodynes could be moved up to Elizabethville, but that had been delayed by weather. That would effect the tactical fighter and bomber squadrons in Rhodesia somewhat less as they would ferrying directly to their destination, Kamina, along with the special flight from South West Africa.
That would give the garrison at Charlotteville quite a bit of support, but it still stuck in his craw to leave them for the night before the reinforcements and planes could get there in the early hours of the morning. Hmmm…1542. The Britannias would be loaded for take off in two hours or so, then would take another three and a half to fly down to Katanga. Surely there must be something quicker…Yes! That would do it. He reached once again for his red telephone.
“Communications? Get me AOC-in-C Middle East Air Force in Cairo. Say it’s urgent.”
Within a minute, the phone rang once more.
“Air Marshal Prickett? General Freeland in Kenya. Well enough, but things down in the Congo are getting a tad sticky. Where’s your nearest ready flight of TSR-2s? Aden? Perfect. If you can send them down, my fellows can top them up and vector them in over Tanganyika. Specials? No, I don't think we'll need it - we've got our men and some civvies there, so aren't too keen on warming them up too much. Just the usual mix. Wonderful, thank you.”
Excellent. The four Eagles would be over Charlotteville in two hours. That would do nicely.
………………………………………………………
“What I’d give for some arty right now, Sergeant-Major.”
“A battery of 25 pounders would blast the buggers back to the pit where they belong, Major, no doubt of it.”
Milling around the edge of the trees to the north, south and east, now substantially further back than when A Company had first arrived, were hundreds upon hundreds of men clad in a haphazard array of ANC camouflage, older Force Publique greens and ragged civilian garb in all the typical colours of the African rainbow. Their characteristic bizarre headwear seemed to mark them as the foe, but something seemed awry.
As he scanned the groups with his powerful Zeiss binoculars (a trophy he had acquired from a female German corporal in Normandy, who indicated they had a heck of history from an old flame who had given her the flick), he noted that their bearing and discipline seemed rather different than the intelligence pictures of the Simbas he had seen back in Salisbury. Rather than their accustomed mix of former Belgian SAFN-50s and French MAS-45s, they were carrying a lot more Soviet guns and modern ones to boot - AK-47s, RPKs and PKs. Off through the trees appeared to be men bringing up heavier machine guns.
“Where d’you think he has his mortars, Captain Quinlan?”
“South. The ground is too open to the north and too difficult to the east, so he’d want them behind that treeline on either side of the road about a mile away.”
“You’re right. I want all four of ours to give that location an almighty plastering the moment we open fire. The WOMBATs are to focus on the observer groups on the hillsides - if their commanders are stupid enough to loiter in the open within range of our guns, then we can oblige them.”
“Sir.”
“Once it kicks off and we give them the welcoming surprises, then I want to hammer their east force with as much machine gun fire as possible in order to drive them up to the north. The more we can push them there, the better. Any further sitrep from the Ulsters, Dornan?”
“They have a platoon ready to take off and will be 52 minutes, whenever you make the call, sir. Anything heavier is waiting on the Rotodynes, which are having to sling the long way around due to a nasty weather system over Northern Rhodesia. The rest are heading up from Mitwaba as fast as possible.”
“Sir, looks like they’re getting ready to come from the east!”
“Lieutenant Baker!”
The Simbas on the east began to break from the trees at a run, firing wildly from the hip as they came.
“B Platoon, make ready! At 800 yards, Present! FIRE!”
The eastern trench line opened up with a thunderous cacophony of fire from their rifles, Brens and Gimpies, punctuated by the steady chatter of the .625” Vickers heavies and the pounding thump of the Maxim Guns. The Simbas fell like wheat before the scythe in their dozens, with the heavier autocannon blowing great holes in their ranks and blasting through the trees, but they charged onwards, supported now by heavier machine guns firing from the tree line. Four jeeps with machine guns mounted on their back burst through into sight, but barely made fifty yards before the concentrated fire of the Maxims blew them into shattered smithereens of fire and blood.
As the fighting erupted on the east, the crews of the two WOMBATs sprung into action, firing their guns at the groups on the hillside as fast as they could, sending their 125mm rounds crashing into their target with a flash of fire and a tremendous crash. Yet the Simbas on the hills did not simply cooperate in their demise and scrambled up the slopes as fast as their legs could carry them, inadvertently saving some of their lives. For the WOMBAT, for all its power, was far more limited in its angle of elevation than a genuine field gun, with its lightweight gun shield further constraining its effective reach.
This first burst of fighting lasted barely two minutes before the enemy began to break back for the whatever shelter the treeline could provide, covered by heavier fire from Dushkas that smashed hand sized chunks of stone out of the walls of the compound and sent Hughes and others scrabbling for cover. From the trees came a ragged volley of rocket propelled grenades, most of which fell well short of the British wire, but several struck into the parapets of sand bags on the trench line. Before they could even catch breath, now came the high pitched whistle of mortar fire.
“INCOMING!”
Half a dozen mortar bombs impacted around the compounds, one striking the roof of the ruined bar and sending it to the world of the spirits. A Company’s mortars now responded at their maximum rate, sending 2.5” bombs screaming down upon the southern woods. The suspicions of Quinlan and Hughes had proved to be accurate, as the Simba mortar fire quickly petered out, their surcease sped substantially by every fourth British bomb having been a white phosphorus incendiary round. The cloud of white smoke billowing from the trees would have seemed almost bucolic had it not been accompanied by the agonizing screams of the maimed and expiring.
Whether in Africa, the Orient or Europe, death by fire sounds much the same in every language.
Now the foe came charging down from the north, their advance by waves lead by more jeeps and a battered old American M8 Greyhound. Forth they swept with greater weight of numbers pushing forward despite the bloody execution wrought by the defending machine guns, until they passed the 500 yard line and came abreast with three large tussocks of wild grass about what looked to be ant hills. As the Simbas surged forward, the flame fougasses carefully emplaced under Major Hughes’s orders were set off, seemingly enveloping the whole field in a leaping sheet of sudden flame. Yet even as this would seem to tie the day into one of tears unnumbered by the Simba, a new sound punctuated the brightening late African afternoon, amid the screams and the crackle of the burning.
It was a strange note, first of a lower, heavier howl than the mortars, coming in from the north, accompanied in this perverse duet by a sharper, tearing shriek.
Hughes looked up into the sky and saw the piercing arrows of fire slicing through the sky towards them.
“ROCKETS! COVER!”
GHQ Africa Command
Nairobi, Kenya, British East Africa
Lieutenant-General Sir Ian Freeland looked out of the window of his office high up in the keep of Kenya Castle, surveying the well-ordered city of Nairobi below. The red telephone on his desk desk rang sharply, breaking the stillness of the African late afternoon.
“Yes?”
“Sir, Major Cooper at Communications. We’re getting flash traffic in from Elizabethville regarding Operation Motorman. A Company 1st Connaught Rangers is reporting an imminent engagement with a significant force of Simbas at Charlotteville."
“I see. Thank you.” The General rang off, then dialed in a new number.
“Operations.”
“Execute Operation Thunderchild.”
“Yes, Sir.”
He put down the telephone and sipped from his tea. The original intent of Motorman had been to eliminate the Simbas from Congolese Katanga and test the capacity of a number of weapons, systems and tactics in the field, but those objectives had been superceded by the events of the past day. Before the operation, it seemed a strong possibility that the Simbas could be lured in by a seemingly weak force at Charlotteville, at least to the staff planners and diviners attached to GHQ Africa. As such, a contingency plan had been put in place - Thunderchild. It had been made more difficult by the loss of the bridge at Kiambi, which seemed almost too skillful for the damned Simbas, but assets had been put in place in order to deal with surprises. The sheer bloody murder done to the wretched Congolese villagers hadn't been foreseen, though; the southern Simbas hadn't previously displayed the savagery of their northern brothers. There would be a reckoning for that and it would occur in the successful execution of Thunderchild.
Within ten minutes, an RAF airship would be taking off from Entebbe to provide aerial surveillance of the battleground, followed by the ready battalion of Paras from RAF Eastleigh that was already loading up. An armoured column of the 2nd Ulsters, the Rhodesian Mounted Rifles and the Shangani Horse would begin the drive up from Mitwaba to Charlotteville, whilst the other two battlegroups of the 8th Brigade would recommence their own advance towards their targets. The QRF company of the Rhodesian Light Infantry would be able to fly up in two hours once the RFC Rotodynes could be moved up to Elizabethville, but that had been delayed by weather. That would effect the tactical fighter and bomber squadrons in Rhodesia somewhat less as they would ferrying directly to their destination, Kamina, along with the special flight from South West Africa.
That would give the garrison at Charlotteville quite a bit of support, but it still stuck in his craw to leave them for the night before the reinforcements and planes could get there in the early hours of the morning. Hmmm…1542. The Britannias would be loaded for take off in two hours or so, then would take another three and a half to fly down to Katanga. Surely there must be something quicker…Yes! That would do it. He reached once again for his red telephone.
“Communications? Get me AOC-in-C Middle East Air Force in Cairo. Say it’s urgent.”
Within a minute, the phone rang once more.
“Air Marshal Prickett? General Freeland in Kenya. Well enough, but things down in the Congo are getting a tad sticky. Where’s your nearest ready flight of TSR-2s? Aden? Perfect. If you can send them down, my fellows can top them up and vector them in over Tanganyika. Specials? No, I don't think we'll need it - we've got our men and some civvies there, so aren't too keen on warming them up too much. Just the usual mix. Wonderful, thank you.”
Excellent. The four Eagles would be over Charlotteville in two hours. That would do nicely.
………………………………………………………
“What I’d give for some arty right now, Sergeant-Major.”
“A battery of 25 pounders would blast the buggers back to the pit where they belong, Major, no doubt of it.”
Milling around the edge of the trees to the north, south and east, now substantially further back than when A Company had first arrived, were hundreds upon hundreds of men clad in a haphazard array of ANC camouflage, older Force Publique greens and ragged civilian garb in all the typical colours of the African rainbow. Their characteristic bizarre headwear seemed to mark them as the foe, but something seemed awry.
As he scanned the groups with his powerful Zeiss binoculars (a trophy he had acquired from a female German corporal in Normandy, who indicated they had a heck of history from an old flame who had given her the flick), he noted that their bearing and discipline seemed rather different than the intelligence pictures of the Simbas he had seen back in Salisbury. Rather than their accustomed mix of former Belgian SAFN-50s and French MAS-45s, they were carrying a lot more Soviet guns and modern ones to boot - AK-47s, RPKs and PKs. Off through the trees appeared to be men bringing up heavier machine guns.
“Where d’you think he has his mortars, Captain Quinlan?”
“South. The ground is too open to the north and too difficult to the east, so he’d want them behind that treeline on either side of the road about a mile away.”
“You’re right. I want all four of ours to give that location an almighty plastering the moment we open fire. The WOMBATs are to focus on the observer groups on the hillsides - if their commanders are stupid enough to loiter in the open within range of our guns, then we can oblige them.”
“Sir.”
“Once it kicks off and we give them the welcoming surprises, then I want to hammer their east force with as much machine gun fire as possible in order to drive them up to the north. The more we can push them there, the better. Any further sitrep from the Ulsters, Dornan?”
“They have a platoon ready to take off and will be 52 minutes, whenever you make the call, sir. Anything heavier is waiting on the Rotodynes, which are having to sling the long way around due to a nasty weather system over Northern Rhodesia. The rest are heading up from Mitwaba as fast as possible.”
“Sir, looks like they’re getting ready to come from the east!”
“Lieutenant Baker!”
The Simbas on the east began to break from the trees at a run, firing wildly from the hip as they came.
“B Platoon, make ready! At 800 yards, Present! FIRE!”
The eastern trench line opened up with a thunderous cacophony of fire from their rifles, Brens and Gimpies, punctuated by the steady chatter of the .625” Vickers heavies and the pounding thump of the Maxim Guns. The Simbas fell like wheat before the scythe in their dozens, with the heavier autocannon blowing great holes in their ranks and blasting through the trees, but they charged onwards, supported now by heavier machine guns firing from the tree line. Four jeeps with machine guns mounted on their back burst through into sight, but barely made fifty yards before the concentrated fire of the Maxims blew them into shattered smithereens of fire and blood.
As the fighting erupted on the east, the crews of the two WOMBATs sprung into action, firing their guns at the groups on the hillside as fast as they could, sending their 125mm rounds crashing into their target with a flash of fire and a tremendous crash. Yet the Simbas on the hills did not simply cooperate in their demise and scrambled up the slopes as fast as their legs could carry them, inadvertently saving some of their lives. For the WOMBAT, for all its power, was far more limited in its angle of elevation than a genuine field gun, with its lightweight gun shield further constraining its effective reach.
This first burst of fighting lasted barely two minutes before the enemy began to break back for the whatever shelter the treeline could provide, covered by heavier fire from Dushkas that smashed hand sized chunks of stone out of the walls of the compound and sent Hughes and others scrabbling for cover. From the trees came a ragged volley of rocket propelled grenades, most of which fell well short of the British wire, but several struck into the parapets of sand bags on the trench line. Before they could even catch breath, now came the high pitched whistle of mortar fire.
“INCOMING!”
Half a dozen mortar bombs impacted around the compounds, one striking the roof of the ruined bar and sending it to the world of the spirits. A Company’s mortars now responded at their maximum rate, sending 2.5” bombs screaming down upon the southern woods. The suspicions of Quinlan and Hughes had proved to be accurate, as the Simba mortar fire quickly petered out, their surcease sped substantially by every fourth British bomb having been a white phosphorus incendiary round. The cloud of white smoke billowing from the trees would have seemed almost bucolic had it not been accompanied by the agonizing screams of the maimed and expiring.
Whether in Africa, the Orient or Europe, death by fire sounds much the same in every language.
Now the foe came charging down from the north, their advance by waves lead by more jeeps and a battered old American M8 Greyhound. Forth they swept with greater weight of numbers pushing forward despite the bloody execution wrought by the defending machine guns, until they passed the 500 yard line and came abreast with three large tussocks of wild grass about what looked to be ant hills. As the Simbas surged forward, the flame fougasses carefully emplaced under Major Hughes’s orders were set off, seemingly enveloping the whole field in a leaping sheet of sudden flame. Yet even as this would seem to tie the day into one of tears unnumbered by the Simba, a new sound punctuated the brightening late African afternoon, amid the screams and the crackle of the burning.
It was a strange note, first of a lower, heavier howl than the mortars, coming in from the north, accompanied in this perverse duet by a sharper, tearing shriek.
Hughes looked up into the sky and saw the piercing arrows of fire slicing through the sky towards them.
“ROCKETS! COVER!”
-
Simon Darkshade
- Posts: 1049
- Joined: Thu Nov 17, 2022 10:55 am
Re: The Siege of Charlotteville
The Siege of Charlotteville Part 5
The soldiers dove for cover as the rocket barrage impacted the buildings and ground around the eastern side of the compound, causing much sound, flame and fury but thankfully nothing utterly catastrophic. A few seconds later, the wire and sandbags of the northern trench line were struck by three small explosions.
“Those aren’t rockets - that’s bloody field artillery. Light stuff, but guns for sure.”
“What could they have?” Hughes turned to Quinlan.
“The Belgians did leave some antique French mountain guns to the ANC, by my recollection, sir.”
“Here they come again!”
The cry came up from the northern trenches as the Simba charged out across the field, hoping that their fire support had suppressed the British lines, a hope which rapidly turned out to be in vain. They came forward in the same old way and were shot down in the same old way, although the machine gun and rifle fire of the Connaughts was somewhat diminished until Captain Andersen’s flying platoon came rushing into the trench to bolster their firepower. Once again, the field was still save for the groans of the dying and the occasional crack of a rifle shot from the trees.
“Good. Sergeant-Major Prendergast, my compliments to Captain Andersen, although please tell him to take cover, else he become a headless Thompson gunner! Get me a tally of wounded and any dead and what the men’s ammo situation is looking like. We can’t open up like we’re at the firing range at the Curragh at every move, or we’re going to run short. Fire discipline.”
“Yes, sir.”
“If they’ve got field guns and some sort of Katyusha, even if they are old, then we’re in a spot of bother, aren’t we?”
“Yes, sir.”
“They’ve got us pinned down and only need one lucky shot to blow apart hundreds of civvies.” Hughes’ stared forward with a face like thunder. “Lieutenant Dornan, fetch me Father Crilly.”
“Sir?” The Major was not normally one to require spiritual guidance in a firefight.
“Be quick about it; there is something that he and I must do. Tell him to bring his bag. And his black cap.”
Dornan nodded quickly and scampered down the ladder.
“You’re doing it?” Quinlan looked at his commanding officer in a mixture of dread and shock.
“Yes. The grounds were there earlier, but now that they’ve demonstrated they have a few tricks of their own, we need everything we can get. Besides, we have the brigade gas stocks here.”
“And afterwards?”
“I’ll either be court martialed and shot or…the consequences will play out. You’re with me?”
Quinlan nodded grimly. He never thought he’d see it done and certainly not in Africa.
“Major? Is this what I think it is?” Crilly announced his presence querulously.
“It is. If it were just us, we could sit tight and take what they’ve got until relief gets here. Hell, we'd go out there and take them on in the field! They've never fought real troops. But we’ve got over 370 men, women and children crowded in here with us, under fire from savages with bally artillery that we can't see or react to. We've got to hit them with everything we can and there is only one immediate rule of engagement that will permit that."
Crilly opened up his black book, handed a candle to Captain Quinlan for him to light and drew out a small silver bell. Hughes swallowed once and began the words.
“Father, I seek your leave and counsel to invoke the Ordinance of Purgatio Tenebris.”
“Major, do you do this in the knowledge that this may not be undone?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Proceed in the name of God.”
“In your view as a priest of the Church and a soldier of Christ, has the foe shown that they are the agents of darkness by their black deeds?”
“They have. Major, in your view as an Officer of Her Majesty the Queen, have they committed crimes so foul as to be against the laws of man and God?”
“They have.”
“Captain Quinlan, do you agree that this enemy has by their crimes shown themselves to be not soldiers nor savages, but agents of evil?”
“They have.”
Crilly rang the bell once, reached over to snuff out the candle, and then closed the book. “Then let no sword be sheathed until they are struck down and let them be harried by the flame everlasting. Under the power of the Ordinance of 1632, let no quarter be given. Caedite eos.”
“Thank you, Father. You may go and report it through to the magisters on the radio downstairs. MacNeill!”
“Sir?” The radioman stuck his head up onto the roof.
“Skyfall. I say again, Skyfall."
"Yes, sir."
"That will not only summon up every available aircraft in the theatre, but indicates that we require atomic air support." He turned now to Dornan. “Lieutenant, as we are no longer facing men, you may instruct the WOMBATs that there are no further restrictions on their ammunition. Whatsoever. They are to shift fire to the north with their chemicals rounds.”
“Very good, sir. We had six rounds of Gold Cross as of this morning.”
“Only six? Tarnation.” The rest of the battalion stocks must be up on the other side of the river. Six would not be enough to do the job properly and utterly assure the destruction of the enemy.
“Sir, if I may make a small observation?” Quinlan ventured.
“Make it quick.”
“It’s is the civilians, Major. We can mask up if we gas the Simbas, but they’d cop it should the wind change again, not to mention Andersen’s gendarmes and any of the surviving villagers around the area sheltering in place.”
“You’re likely right. On the other hand, if we don’t take out that those guns and rockets, they’re looking at an even nastier fate should these damned Simbas break through. I wouldn’t even be thinking about gas if we hadn’t chewed through most of the willy-pete already. Dornan! Have them hold fire.”
“Major Hughes, sir.” Prendergast returned with his report. “No KIAs yet, but we've had twenty-six injured, five in a very bad way, and Captain Andersen’s lost another seven wounded out of the fight on top of that. Ammo stocks are fine at the moment, although the Maxim gunners are pushing down towards 50%.”
“Very well. Get the men to -“
“Sir!” Private MacNeill, the radio operator, came scrabbling up the ladder. “It’s the Ulsters, sir! The ready platoon! They’ll be here in two minutes!”
“Thank God! Get them to come down to the south, then extract the wounded; if they can see where the devils have got their guns, even better. Hold fire, hold fire. We'll shift our mortars - conventional only - to the north and west as they go to take off.”
“And sir…after Father Crilly got through to the magisters down in Rhodesia, these three messages came through, all within a minute of each other. One from Salisbury, this one from Nairobi and one from the War Office.”
“Thank you, MacNeill. Get back down and guide in those Buckinghams. Let’s see what type of hornet’s nest I’ve stirred up, Quinlan. At 1641, Salisbury said to try and hold out and they’re scrambling their fastest movers; at 1642, Nairobi said to not do anything too hasty, that there are friends on the way who’ll be in touch directly and that they want to use the ground to the north; and also at 1642, the War Office questioned whether things were really that sticky, but that everything would be sent as necessary." He paused with a bemused grin playing around the edge of his lips. "They're holding off on the real third degree until we're no longer in battle, no doubt. Don't worry, Captain; I'll mention that you only grudgingly went along with my decision in the report."
"Sir, all of us who saw what they did out there will back you on this. I'm not holding out on account of any qualms, but on grounds of practicality."
"Alright, we'll hold tight and see if the Ulsters' helos can't pinpoint the devils. The limited amount of gas we've got probably wouldn't do the job anyway unless they're plainly out in the open."
The rhythmic thump of heavy rotors approached rapidly from the southwest, heralding the arrival of two Bristol Buckinghams. A blast of machine gun and rifle fire into the smouldering enemy positions to the south did not begat a response and the helicopters came to a steady landing just beyond the southern trench line, just barely touching the ground. Dozens of soldiers quickly scampered towards the compound and a careful array of stretcher bearers carried the worst of the wounded forward to take their place, all covered by a wary reception committee of riflemen. In less than a minute and a half, they took off again, climbing steeply towards the south.
"Major Hughes? Lieutenant McCall, C Company, 2nd Ulsters. I've got you a reinforced platoon and as much spare ammunition as was immediately on hand in Elizabethville. The others will be coming through up the road hell for leather."
"You're more than welcome, Lieutenant. What does it look like from up there?"
"Fairly confused, sir. A lot of fire and damage to the south and east, but no units out in the open. They're either hugging the trees or have some other form of camouflage."
"Very good. Captain Quinlan will see you to your positions; we'll use you to shore up the north."
Hughes stood momentarily. He now had enough men to hold out, that much was certain, but he was still tied to the civilians. The British soldiers were both their only protection and the ones putting them in mortal peril. He looked at his watch. 1708. Unless the damned guns and rockets opened up again, they just might make it.
"Sir, we've had another update from Nairobi. Bit of a garbled message. First part was straightforward - they want the open ground and air to the north clear and marked with illumination from 2120 onwards, but the second seems to be some sort of code."
"Well, don't stand on ceremony. Dornan. What did it say?"
"It simply says 'The Eagles! The Eagles! The Eagles are coming!"
The soldiers dove for cover as the rocket barrage impacted the buildings and ground around the eastern side of the compound, causing much sound, flame and fury but thankfully nothing utterly catastrophic. A few seconds later, the wire and sandbags of the northern trench line were struck by three small explosions.
“Those aren’t rockets - that’s bloody field artillery. Light stuff, but guns for sure.”
“What could they have?” Hughes turned to Quinlan.
“The Belgians did leave some antique French mountain guns to the ANC, by my recollection, sir.”
“Here they come again!”
The cry came up from the northern trenches as the Simba charged out across the field, hoping that their fire support had suppressed the British lines, a hope which rapidly turned out to be in vain. They came forward in the same old way and were shot down in the same old way, although the machine gun and rifle fire of the Connaughts was somewhat diminished until Captain Andersen’s flying platoon came rushing into the trench to bolster their firepower. Once again, the field was still save for the groans of the dying and the occasional crack of a rifle shot from the trees.
“Good. Sergeant-Major Prendergast, my compliments to Captain Andersen, although please tell him to take cover, else he become a headless Thompson gunner! Get me a tally of wounded and any dead and what the men’s ammo situation is looking like. We can’t open up like we’re at the firing range at the Curragh at every move, or we’re going to run short. Fire discipline.”
“Yes, sir.”
“If they’ve got field guns and some sort of Katyusha, even if they are old, then we’re in a spot of bother, aren’t we?”
“Yes, sir.”
“They’ve got us pinned down and only need one lucky shot to blow apart hundreds of civvies.” Hughes’ stared forward with a face like thunder. “Lieutenant Dornan, fetch me Father Crilly.”
“Sir?” The Major was not normally one to require spiritual guidance in a firefight.
“Be quick about it; there is something that he and I must do. Tell him to bring his bag. And his black cap.”
Dornan nodded quickly and scampered down the ladder.
“You’re doing it?” Quinlan looked at his commanding officer in a mixture of dread and shock.
“Yes. The grounds were there earlier, but now that they’ve demonstrated they have a few tricks of their own, we need everything we can get. Besides, we have the brigade gas stocks here.”
“And afterwards?”
“I’ll either be court martialed and shot or…the consequences will play out. You’re with me?”
Quinlan nodded grimly. He never thought he’d see it done and certainly not in Africa.
“Major? Is this what I think it is?” Crilly announced his presence querulously.
“It is. If it were just us, we could sit tight and take what they’ve got until relief gets here. Hell, we'd go out there and take them on in the field! They've never fought real troops. But we’ve got over 370 men, women and children crowded in here with us, under fire from savages with bally artillery that we can't see or react to. We've got to hit them with everything we can and there is only one immediate rule of engagement that will permit that."
Crilly opened up his black book, handed a candle to Captain Quinlan for him to light and drew out a small silver bell. Hughes swallowed once and began the words.
“Father, I seek your leave and counsel to invoke the Ordinance of Purgatio Tenebris.”
“Major, do you do this in the knowledge that this may not be undone?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Proceed in the name of God.”
“In your view as a priest of the Church and a soldier of Christ, has the foe shown that they are the agents of darkness by their black deeds?”
“They have. Major, in your view as an Officer of Her Majesty the Queen, have they committed crimes so foul as to be against the laws of man and God?”
“They have.”
“Captain Quinlan, do you agree that this enemy has by their crimes shown themselves to be not soldiers nor savages, but agents of evil?”
“They have.”
Crilly rang the bell once, reached over to snuff out the candle, and then closed the book. “Then let no sword be sheathed until they are struck down and let them be harried by the flame everlasting. Under the power of the Ordinance of 1632, let no quarter be given. Caedite eos.”
“Thank you, Father. You may go and report it through to the magisters on the radio downstairs. MacNeill!”
“Sir?” The radioman stuck his head up onto the roof.
“Skyfall. I say again, Skyfall."
"Yes, sir."
"That will not only summon up every available aircraft in the theatre, but indicates that we require atomic air support." He turned now to Dornan. “Lieutenant, as we are no longer facing men, you may instruct the WOMBATs that there are no further restrictions on their ammunition. Whatsoever. They are to shift fire to the north with their chemicals rounds.”
“Very good, sir. We had six rounds of Gold Cross as of this morning.”
“Only six? Tarnation.” The rest of the battalion stocks must be up on the other side of the river. Six would not be enough to do the job properly and utterly assure the destruction of the enemy.
“Sir, if I may make a small observation?” Quinlan ventured.
“Make it quick.”
“It’s is the civilians, Major. We can mask up if we gas the Simbas, but they’d cop it should the wind change again, not to mention Andersen’s gendarmes and any of the surviving villagers around the area sheltering in place.”
“You’re likely right. On the other hand, if we don’t take out that those guns and rockets, they’re looking at an even nastier fate should these damned Simbas break through. I wouldn’t even be thinking about gas if we hadn’t chewed through most of the willy-pete already. Dornan! Have them hold fire.”
“Major Hughes, sir.” Prendergast returned with his report. “No KIAs yet, but we've had twenty-six injured, five in a very bad way, and Captain Andersen’s lost another seven wounded out of the fight on top of that. Ammo stocks are fine at the moment, although the Maxim gunners are pushing down towards 50%.”
“Very well. Get the men to -“
“Sir!” Private MacNeill, the radio operator, came scrabbling up the ladder. “It’s the Ulsters, sir! The ready platoon! They’ll be here in two minutes!”
“Thank God! Get them to come down to the south, then extract the wounded; if they can see where the devils have got their guns, even better. Hold fire, hold fire. We'll shift our mortars - conventional only - to the north and west as they go to take off.”
“And sir…after Father Crilly got through to the magisters down in Rhodesia, these three messages came through, all within a minute of each other. One from Salisbury, this one from Nairobi and one from the War Office.”
“Thank you, MacNeill. Get back down and guide in those Buckinghams. Let’s see what type of hornet’s nest I’ve stirred up, Quinlan. At 1641, Salisbury said to try and hold out and they’re scrambling their fastest movers; at 1642, Nairobi said to not do anything too hasty, that there are friends on the way who’ll be in touch directly and that they want to use the ground to the north; and also at 1642, the War Office questioned whether things were really that sticky, but that everything would be sent as necessary." He paused with a bemused grin playing around the edge of his lips. "They're holding off on the real third degree until we're no longer in battle, no doubt. Don't worry, Captain; I'll mention that you only grudgingly went along with my decision in the report."
"Sir, all of us who saw what they did out there will back you on this. I'm not holding out on account of any qualms, but on grounds of practicality."
"Alright, we'll hold tight and see if the Ulsters' helos can't pinpoint the devils. The limited amount of gas we've got probably wouldn't do the job anyway unless they're plainly out in the open."
The rhythmic thump of heavy rotors approached rapidly from the southwest, heralding the arrival of two Bristol Buckinghams. A blast of machine gun and rifle fire into the smouldering enemy positions to the south did not begat a response and the helicopters came to a steady landing just beyond the southern trench line, just barely touching the ground. Dozens of soldiers quickly scampered towards the compound and a careful array of stretcher bearers carried the worst of the wounded forward to take their place, all covered by a wary reception committee of riflemen. In less than a minute and a half, they took off again, climbing steeply towards the south.
"Major Hughes? Lieutenant McCall, C Company, 2nd Ulsters. I've got you a reinforced platoon and as much spare ammunition as was immediately on hand in Elizabethville. The others will be coming through up the road hell for leather."
"You're more than welcome, Lieutenant. What does it look like from up there?"
"Fairly confused, sir. A lot of fire and damage to the south and east, but no units out in the open. They're either hugging the trees or have some other form of camouflage."
"Very good. Captain Quinlan will see you to your positions; we'll use you to shore up the north."
Hughes stood momentarily. He now had enough men to hold out, that much was certain, but he was still tied to the civilians. The British soldiers were both their only protection and the ones putting them in mortal peril. He looked at his watch. 1708. Unless the damned guns and rockets opened up again, they just might make it.
"Sir, we've had another update from Nairobi. Bit of a garbled message. First part was straightforward - they want the open ground and air to the north clear and marked with illumination from 2120 onwards, but the second seems to be some sort of code."
"Well, don't stand on ceremony. Dornan. What did it say?"
"It simply says 'The Eagles! The Eagles! The Eagles are coming!"
-
Simon Darkshade
- Posts: 1049
- Joined: Thu Nov 17, 2022 10:55 am
Re: The Siege of Charlotteville
The Siege of Charlotteville Part 6
“Unless they are referring to a children’s book, I think that means that we’re about to get some aerial visitors. Lieutenant Dornan, have the mortars concentrate fire on the north. Purple smoke, if you please.”
“Yes, sir!”
The mortars thunked away and beyond the open killing ground to the north, purple smoke began rising from the treeline, providing a clear target indication for whatever friendly air support was inbound.
It began with a distant low pitched howl that grew ever greater as four tiny objects came hurtling through the sky from the northeast. At first they looked like black specks, but as Hughes trained his powerful ex-Gestapo binoculars upon them, he could see that they were white as the driven snow.
“Thank God. Now we have a chance.”
The howl reached a devastating crescendo as the flight of Supermarine Eagle TSR-2s sped over the trees to the north, but the noise was obliterated by the blast of bombs that they dropped, the shattering thunderclap of their impact sending Hughes scrambling to his knees. The Eagles curved and turned towards the south and Rhodesia, only having enough fuel for a single pass. That was enough, though, and ruin was left in their wake.
Captain Quinlan clambered up next to him.
“Now that’s what I call air support.”
“Quite right, Captain. Let’s hope that has dealt with those dashed guns. Private Macneill!”
“Sir?”
“Anything more from the Rhodies?”
“They’ve got two flights of Spectres that will be coming through for strafing runs en route to Kamina, the first one 9 minutes out, and one of Canberras shortly after that and a Valiant that should be here by 1805. ETA of the Rotodynes is 1825.”
“Excellent. Tell them that we’ll keep marking the targets with smoke as long as there is light.”
And so they did. The bomber strike seem to have put the fear of God into the Simbas, which Hughes thought was quite ironic given what had come to pass, and there were no further attacks for the next hour of the gathering African twilight. The Vickers Valiant had unleashed a further load of bombs that blasted and rocked the high ground to the east from here to eternity, the Canberras lit up the blasted treeline to the west and south with their own incendiary rockets and the RRAF de Havilland Spectres added their own bursts of cannon fire to the smouldering bush surrounding the Charlotteville compound before streaking away to the northwest.
After the storm of iron and death, the evening took on a far quieter character of the silence of the grave. If anything, the aerial deliverance did not end the tension nor really cut it, merely took the edge off it. This had been a long, brutal and altogether shocking day, full of fire and blood, yet the men of the Connaught Rangers remained steadfast and wary, watching the bush for the merest sign of life that could mean death.
“Major, sir? Message from the relief column - as of five minutes ago, they are now within artillery range, just. Do we require any further fire?”
“It wouldn’t seem so for the moment, Private.”
Before the last ebb of light faded away, they once again heard the welcome thump of rotors. It wasn’t until the first Rotodyne touched down and the QRF company of the RLI began to scramble off that Major Hughes finally gave a sigh of relief. Now the worst was over; now they would live.
“Major Hughes? I’m Major Andrew Steyn, 1st Rhodesian Light Infantry. Sir, you are relieved.”
“You’re a sight for sore eyes, Major Steyn, and most welcome.”
“We’ve brought enough ammunition to see us through any kind of night, more mortars and two 25 pounders.”
“Guns. Good. I’d have been glad of guns earlier.”
“Things get a bit sticky?”
“They did.”
Steyn looked out into the burning bush to their north. “They are only likely to get stickier, Major Hughes. For now, we sit tight here and mark out the landing ground for the Paras.”
Hughes got the distinct impression that he was something of a persons non grata after the decision of the afternoon and that was not in any way dispelled by the arrival of 25 PARA some hours later. Their commander, a Colonel Faulkner, was thoroughly correct and correctly thorough, yet there was a coolness in their interaction that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. There wasn’t much stillness nor solitude left in the Congolese night with the bustle of activity, patrols and blaring searchlights, but Hughes sought what he could find.
“What do you think, Father Crilly? Was it the right decision?”
“It was mine just as much as yours, Major. I think it was.”
“From the way it has been received, I’ll be lucky to get the command of Rockall after this.”
“Major Hughes, if they are going to throw the bell, book and candle at us, then I’m just as likely to end up exiled to some godforsaken island as you are! We were under siege by thousands of murdering savages with field artillery having seen their hellish handiwork just hours before.”
“And now -“
“Now, we will have to finish what you have started.” A new voice cut into the conversation, it’s brogue cut with a hard bitterness. Hughes turned to see an officer approaching through the darkness.
“Allow me to introduce myself, Major Hughes. Quaestor McEntee, Office of the Magisterium attached to GHQ Africa.”
“That was quick.”
“Some things get the wheels of army bureaucracy moving faster than others, Major. If you will come with me, there is much we have to discuss.”
“I don’t suppose you could be persuaded to allow me a few minutes alone.”
“No, Major. Allow me to disabuse you of the notion that you are facing…the end…Whilst what you’ve let loose is certainly unorthodox, to put it mildly, it isn’t something entirely out of keeping with the intent and desires of our political masters. Come now, sir, there’s a good officer and gentleman.”
“Very well, but I’m not leaving my men whilst we’re still in the field.”
“Of course, Major. If we could repair to your headquarters where we may speak privately, we can get the matter dealt with in a sufficient manner, at least for now.”
“Follow me.”
Hughes lead the way to the roof where he had commanded much of the afternoon’s fighting, the location providing what modicum of privacy that could be found. He looked out over the floodlit fields, now crawling with patrolling paratroopers.
“To begin with, Major, there is no question of any arrest or court martial; that your thinking went immediately towards that thought does suggest to me that you’re not quite thinking straight.”
“So now you suggest that I’m an LMF case? Cracked?”
“No, I suggest that you are ill. If you could drink this.”
“Truth serum or hemlock?”
“Neither. It is an elixir of dispelling, which should suffice until we can get you to a properly equipped hospital. Your reactions indicate that, in some fashion, you’ve been bewitched.”
“Oh.” Hughes swallowed the bitter golden liquid without further complaint. Within an instant, he began to feel different.
“Yes, oh. Upon my arrival, my arcanospectral thaumaturlite started giving extraordinarily high readings of enchantment and my subsequent field tests confirm the presence of a very focused dweomer of compulsion. Put simply, someone has tried to send you out of your mind and influence you to take some very rash decisions.”
“The Simbas? Seems out of their league.”
“Exactly, Major Hughes. This type of capacity is beyond virtually every individual mage in the world, suggesting a powerful state with a known expertise in such magics.”
“The Russians. But why?”
“Think about it, Major. The act of metacognition will assist in breaking the enchantment.”
“They wanted an overreaction. They wanted to have us massacre the Simbas…”
“If we had gone at them and given them the Amalekite treatment, it would have had a slightly deleterious affect on our position in Africa and the rest of the Empire.” It also suggested to McEntee that the security arrangements around Operation Motorman left something to be desired, but that was a separate matter for Army Counter Intelligence.
“So what happens?”
“Firstly, the Archbishop of Canterbury shall annul the invocation of the Ordinance; the circumstances are sufficient in his view. We shall still go after whatever Simbas are left in Katanga and show them what the Empire can do. Your men shall be part of the pursuit, as is your right. There will be an apparent deployment of black smoke near your company, but not close enough to actually hit you. Once the operation is complete, after being appropriately checked and cleansed in the field, you and the rest of your company are pulled back to the nearest thaumaturgical hospice in Cape Town for tests. There is no shame in it, anymore than if you’d been gassed during the last war.”
“You’re not going to actually smoke us?”
“No, Major. Apart from being utterly dishonourable, un-Christian and unspeakably beyond the pale, it would be ineffective as a measure to conceal anything. Losing a whole company would bring down the government to boot. It will be quite ordinary smoke, not the Martian stuff.”
“I’m gratified that we’re not being sacrificed. But it shan’t be enough. Squaddies talk, not to mention the gendarmes and the civvies.”
“How do you hide something that has happened, Major? Have something else happen that is apparently of far greater significance. These are not the days of 1940, when there was no hiding what had been done to the Germans in the Channel that night. This is the year 1965 and we are far more experienced at what needs to be done. Firstly, some brand new aircraft will arrive here later this morning, along with journalists keen to see them. That will steal the thunder of any peripheral accidents. However, the local cover will be blown away by greater winds.”
“What type of winds.”
“It can’t hurt to tell you. In the morning, it will be announced that the Prime Minister has flown to Ceylon to sign a new agreement with President Kennedy over basing and the war in South East Asia. That is where the future is, Major - Colombo. This? This never happened?”
…………………………………………….
Just after 9 o’clock, as McEntee had outlined, the arrival of the armoured relief column of the Ulsters was accompanied by half a dozen Rotodynes and two HS.681s coming into land on the blasted flat ground to the north of the compound. Their loads of journalists, medics and assorted support troops came moving across the field that had served as yesterday’s killing ground, all the while snapping pictures of the large black jet that circled above.
It looked unlike anything Hughes had ever seen before. The large semi-delta wings, weighed heavily with rocket pods, bombs and missiles, looked conventional enough, but it clearly sported several turrets above and below the fuselage like an old Lancaster. Several large guns stuck out from one side of the aircraft, but most striking of all was the sight of what could only be a field gun extending out of one of the bomb-bays on a rotating mount.
“The Armstrong-Whitworth Warspite, Major. The British Empire’s latest gunship, flown up from the testing grounds in the Kalahari. I am told that it performs just as well in the dead of night as the bright of day. The future, Major, is now.” explained Quaestor McEntee. Strange fellow, but there did not seem to be anything dark about him.
“Would have been handy, yesterday, Major.”
“Indeed, Captain Quinlan. Once we’ve got the men fully resupplied, have them parade ready to move out. Time to take the war to these lions.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Goodbye, Quaestor. I hope we shall meet again?” Hughes allowed only a scintilla of his doubt to come through.
“We shall, Major. Good hunting.”
…………………………….
Operation Motorman merited an 87 word article on Page 42 of The Times later that week. It briefly described successful defensive actions and offensive sweeps against Communist terrorist gangs on the Congolese-Rhodesian border, the operational debut of the Warspite and, in a bland sentence, told of the successful use of HS.681s to evacuate lightly wounded casualties from the field to Rhodesia and and South Africa.
…………………………..
“As you can see, we keep our word.” said McEntee to Hughes in the latter’s room in the hospital on Robben Island.
“I’m gratified. What happens to us all now?”
“Two weeks quarantine, after which time the men and junior officers will return to the battalion. Their next posting has been brought forward - the Falkland Islands. Your good Captain Quinlan is to be promoted. Father Crilly was been offered a choice of an exciting new role bringing the Lord’s word to the natives on Nauru or a promotion to head British military chaplain at the Kerguelen Prison.”
“Native girls on a tropical paradise or Dr. Rudolf Hess. I don’t envy the good Father such a terribly hard decision.”
“It won’t be for long, I am told. The Prime Minister was apparently fully supportive of smiting the Simbas hip and thigh when he was informed, Colonel Hughes.”
“What’s this Colonel business?”
“One part of your reward, as it were. The others are double pay for the next two years and getting to choose your next posting -“
“In that case, back home in Galway.”
“Please, allow me to finish, Colonel. You get to choose between Easter Island or a secondment to the British Martian Army.”
“I see. My family?”
“Will travel with you at the expense of Her Majesty’s Government, naturally.”
“Tell me about life on Mars, Quaestor.”
…………………………………
“And that concludes our sanitisation operation after the events at Charlotteville and the success of Thunderchild, Prime Minister.”
“Thank you, General Freeland. Setting aside the issue of the bewitching, do you characterise it as a success?”
“Yes, sir. We’ve smashed the Simbas out of Katanga for the foreseeable future at minimal loss.”
“But not at minimal expense.”
“No, sir.”
“It cost a pretty penny, but we’ve got the agreement of the Congolese to use Kamina. That is a decent enough return on investment. Thank you, Lieutenant-General, that will be all.”
“Yes, sir.”
After Freeland had left the room, Barton turned to Sir Richard Pendragon, Secretary of State for War, who had accompanied him here to Ceylon for the signing and special Anglo-American meeting on the war in Viet Nam.
“A reasonable outcome, compared to what could have been.”
“Yes, Prime Minister. Our irons could have really been in the fire.”
“Quite. Even so, I don’t want it happening again. I want a report on fire support options and contingencies for brushfire operations like this one. Guns and aircraft.”
“Very good.”
“We’ve got to have other options for the Congo and other parts of free Africa as well. Something effective, but deniable. Private.”
“I see, Prime Minister. Won’t the Americans get wind of that?”
“We have to presume they already know the lot, Richard. They aren’t the most subtle of bunches, the cousins.”
“No, Prime Minister, they are not…but what in particular is the source of this presumption.”
“Their listening post, twenty miles from Charlotteville. Christians in Action indeed.”
“Ah, yes. I see, Prime Minister.”
Barton nodded in satisfaction at Pendragon’s comprehension. There was only one more nagging issue that had come out of the Siege of Charlotteville, which had come from very quiet questioning through…channels…of their Russian informers.
Nothing had been found to indicate that the dweomer had been of Soviet origin.
Curious
“Unless they are referring to a children’s book, I think that means that we’re about to get some aerial visitors. Lieutenant Dornan, have the mortars concentrate fire on the north. Purple smoke, if you please.”
“Yes, sir!”
The mortars thunked away and beyond the open killing ground to the north, purple smoke began rising from the treeline, providing a clear target indication for whatever friendly air support was inbound.
It began with a distant low pitched howl that grew ever greater as four tiny objects came hurtling through the sky from the northeast. At first they looked like black specks, but as Hughes trained his powerful ex-Gestapo binoculars upon them, he could see that they were white as the driven snow.
“Thank God. Now we have a chance.”
The howl reached a devastating crescendo as the flight of Supermarine Eagle TSR-2s sped over the trees to the north, but the noise was obliterated by the blast of bombs that they dropped, the shattering thunderclap of their impact sending Hughes scrambling to his knees. The Eagles curved and turned towards the south and Rhodesia, only having enough fuel for a single pass. That was enough, though, and ruin was left in their wake.
Captain Quinlan clambered up next to him.
“Now that’s what I call air support.”
“Quite right, Captain. Let’s hope that has dealt with those dashed guns. Private Macneill!”
“Sir?”
“Anything more from the Rhodies?”
“They’ve got two flights of Spectres that will be coming through for strafing runs en route to Kamina, the first one 9 minutes out, and one of Canberras shortly after that and a Valiant that should be here by 1805. ETA of the Rotodynes is 1825.”
“Excellent. Tell them that we’ll keep marking the targets with smoke as long as there is light.”
And so they did. The bomber strike seem to have put the fear of God into the Simbas, which Hughes thought was quite ironic given what had come to pass, and there were no further attacks for the next hour of the gathering African twilight. The Vickers Valiant had unleashed a further load of bombs that blasted and rocked the high ground to the east from here to eternity, the Canberras lit up the blasted treeline to the west and south with their own incendiary rockets and the RRAF de Havilland Spectres added their own bursts of cannon fire to the smouldering bush surrounding the Charlotteville compound before streaking away to the northwest.
After the storm of iron and death, the evening took on a far quieter character of the silence of the grave. If anything, the aerial deliverance did not end the tension nor really cut it, merely took the edge off it. This had been a long, brutal and altogether shocking day, full of fire and blood, yet the men of the Connaught Rangers remained steadfast and wary, watching the bush for the merest sign of life that could mean death.
“Major, sir? Message from the relief column - as of five minutes ago, they are now within artillery range, just. Do we require any further fire?”
“It wouldn’t seem so for the moment, Private.”
Before the last ebb of light faded away, they once again heard the welcome thump of rotors. It wasn’t until the first Rotodyne touched down and the QRF company of the RLI began to scramble off that Major Hughes finally gave a sigh of relief. Now the worst was over; now they would live.
“Major Hughes? I’m Major Andrew Steyn, 1st Rhodesian Light Infantry. Sir, you are relieved.”
“You’re a sight for sore eyes, Major Steyn, and most welcome.”
“We’ve brought enough ammunition to see us through any kind of night, more mortars and two 25 pounders.”
“Guns. Good. I’d have been glad of guns earlier.”
“Things get a bit sticky?”
“They did.”
Steyn looked out into the burning bush to their north. “They are only likely to get stickier, Major Hughes. For now, we sit tight here and mark out the landing ground for the Paras.”
Hughes got the distinct impression that he was something of a persons non grata after the decision of the afternoon and that was not in any way dispelled by the arrival of 25 PARA some hours later. Their commander, a Colonel Faulkner, was thoroughly correct and correctly thorough, yet there was a coolness in their interaction that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. There wasn’t much stillness nor solitude left in the Congolese night with the bustle of activity, patrols and blaring searchlights, but Hughes sought what he could find.
“What do you think, Father Crilly? Was it the right decision?”
“It was mine just as much as yours, Major. I think it was.”
“From the way it has been received, I’ll be lucky to get the command of Rockall after this.”
“Major Hughes, if they are going to throw the bell, book and candle at us, then I’m just as likely to end up exiled to some godforsaken island as you are! We were under siege by thousands of murdering savages with field artillery having seen their hellish handiwork just hours before.”
“And now -“
“Now, we will have to finish what you have started.” A new voice cut into the conversation, it’s brogue cut with a hard bitterness. Hughes turned to see an officer approaching through the darkness.
“Allow me to introduce myself, Major Hughes. Quaestor McEntee, Office of the Magisterium attached to GHQ Africa.”
“That was quick.”
“Some things get the wheels of army bureaucracy moving faster than others, Major. If you will come with me, there is much we have to discuss.”
“I don’t suppose you could be persuaded to allow me a few minutes alone.”
“No, Major. Allow me to disabuse you of the notion that you are facing…the end…Whilst what you’ve let loose is certainly unorthodox, to put it mildly, it isn’t something entirely out of keeping with the intent and desires of our political masters. Come now, sir, there’s a good officer and gentleman.”
“Very well, but I’m not leaving my men whilst we’re still in the field.”
“Of course, Major. If we could repair to your headquarters where we may speak privately, we can get the matter dealt with in a sufficient manner, at least for now.”
“Follow me.”
Hughes lead the way to the roof where he had commanded much of the afternoon’s fighting, the location providing what modicum of privacy that could be found. He looked out over the floodlit fields, now crawling with patrolling paratroopers.
“To begin with, Major, there is no question of any arrest or court martial; that your thinking went immediately towards that thought does suggest to me that you’re not quite thinking straight.”
“So now you suggest that I’m an LMF case? Cracked?”
“No, I suggest that you are ill. If you could drink this.”
“Truth serum or hemlock?”
“Neither. It is an elixir of dispelling, which should suffice until we can get you to a properly equipped hospital. Your reactions indicate that, in some fashion, you’ve been bewitched.”
“Oh.” Hughes swallowed the bitter golden liquid without further complaint. Within an instant, he began to feel different.
“Yes, oh. Upon my arrival, my arcanospectral thaumaturlite started giving extraordinarily high readings of enchantment and my subsequent field tests confirm the presence of a very focused dweomer of compulsion. Put simply, someone has tried to send you out of your mind and influence you to take some very rash decisions.”
“The Simbas? Seems out of their league.”
“Exactly, Major Hughes. This type of capacity is beyond virtually every individual mage in the world, suggesting a powerful state with a known expertise in such magics.”
“The Russians. But why?”
“Think about it, Major. The act of metacognition will assist in breaking the enchantment.”
“They wanted an overreaction. They wanted to have us massacre the Simbas…”
“If we had gone at them and given them the Amalekite treatment, it would have had a slightly deleterious affect on our position in Africa and the rest of the Empire.” It also suggested to McEntee that the security arrangements around Operation Motorman left something to be desired, but that was a separate matter for Army Counter Intelligence.
“So what happens?”
“Firstly, the Archbishop of Canterbury shall annul the invocation of the Ordinance; the circumstances are sufficient in his view. We shall still go after whatever Simbas are left in Katanga and show them what the Empire can do. Your men shall be part of the pursuit, as is your right. There will be an apparent deployment of black smoke near your company, but not close enough to actually hit you. Once the operation is complete, after being appropriately checked and cleansed in the field, you and the rest of your company are pulled back to the nearest thaumaturgical hospice in Cape Town for tests. There is no shame in it, anymore than if you’d been gassed during the last war.”
“You’re not going to actually smoke us?”
“No, Major. Apart from being utterly dishonourable, un-Christian and unspeakably beyond the pale, it would be ineffective as a measure to conceal anything. Losing a whole company would bring down the government to boot. It will be quite ordinary smoke, not the Martian stuff.”
“I’m gratified that we’re not being sacrificed. But it shan’t be enough. Squaddies talk, not to mention the gendarmes and the civvies.”
“How do you hide something that has happened, Major? Have something else happen that is apparently of far greater significance. These are not the days of 1940, when there was no hiding what had been done to the Germans in the Channel that night. This is the year 1965 and we are far more experienced at what needs to be done. Firstly, some brand new aircraft will arrive here later this morning, along with journalists keen to see them. That will steal the thunder of any peripheral accidents. However, the local cover will be blown away by greater winds.”
“What type of winds.”
“It can’t hurt to tell you. In the morning, it will be announced that the Prime Minister has flown to Ceylon to sign a new agreement with President Kennedy over basing and the war in South East Asia. That is where the future is, Major - Colombo. This? This never happened?”
…………………………………………….
Just after 9 o’clock, as McEntee had outlined, the arrival of the armoured relief column of the Ulsters was accompanied by half a dozen Rotodynes and two HS.681s coming into land on the blasted flat ground to the north of the compound. Their loads of journalists, medics and assorted support troops came moving across the field that had served as yesterday’s killing ground, all the while snapping pictures of the large black jet that circled above.
It looked unlike anything Hughes had ever seen before. The large semi-delta wings, weighed heavily with rocket pods, bombs and missiles, looked conventional enough, but it clearly sported several turrets above and below the fuselage like an old Lancaster. Several large guns stuck out from one side of the aircraft, but most striking of all was the sight of what could only be a field gun extending out of one of the bomb-bays on a rotating mount.
“The Armstrong-Whitworth Warspite, Major. The British Empire’s latest gunship, flown up from the testing grounds in the Kalahari. I am told that it performs just as well in the dead of night as the bright of day. The future, Major, is now.” explained Quaestor McEntee. Strange fellow, but there did not seem to be anything dark about him.
“Would have been handy, yesterday, Major.”
“Indeed, Captain Quinlan. Once we’ve got the men fully resupplied, have them parade ready to move out. Time to take the war to these lions.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Goodbye, Quaestor. I hope we shall meet again?” Hughes allowed only a scintilla of his doubt to come through.
“We shall, Major. Good hunting.”
…………………………….
Operation Motorman merited an 87 word article on Page 42 of The Times later that week. It briefly described successful defensive actions and offensive sweeps against Communist terrorist gangs on the Congolese-Rhodesian border, the operational debut of the Warspite and, in a bland sentence, told of the successful use of HS.681s to evacuate lightly wounded casualties from the field to Rhodesia and and South Africa.
…………………………..
“As you can see, we keep our word.” said McEntee to Hughes in the latter’s room in the hospital on Robben Island.
“I’m gratified. What happens to us all now?”
“Two weeks quarantine, after which time the men and junior officers will return to the battalion. Their next posting has been brought forward - the Falkland Islands. Your good Captain Quinlan is to be promoted. Father Crilly was been offered a choice of an exciting new role bringing the Lord’s word to the natives on Nauru or a promotion to head British military chaplain at the Kerguelen Prison.”
“Native girls on a tropical paradise or Dr. Rudolf Hess. I don’t envy the good Father such a terribly hard decision.”
“It won’t be for long, I am told. The Prime Minister was apparently fully supportive of smiting the Simbas hip and thigh when he was informed, Colonel Hughes.”
“What’s this Colonel business?”
“One part of your reward, as it were. The others are double pay for the next two years and getting to choose your next posting -“
“In that case, back home in Galway.”
“Please, allow me to finish, Colonel. You get to choose between Easter Island or a secondment to the British Martian Army.”
“I see. My family?”
“Will travel with you at the expense of Her Majesty’s Government, naturally.”
“Tell me about life on Mars, Quaestor.”
…………………………………
“And that concludes our sanitisation operation after the events at Charlotteville and the success of Thunderchild, Prime Minister.”
“Thank you, General Freeland. Setting aside the issue of the bewitching, do you characterise it as a success?”
“Yes, sir. We’ve smashed the Simbas out of Katanga for the foreseeable future at minimal loss.”
“But not at minimal expense.”
“No, sir.”
“It cost a pretty penny, but we’ve got the agreement of the Congolese to use Kamina. That is a decent enough return on investment. Thank you, Lieutenant-General, that will be all.”
“Yes, sir.”
After Freeland had left the room, Barton turned to Sir Richard Pendragon, Secretary of State for War, who had accompanied him here to Ceylon for the signing and special Anglo-American meeting on the war in Viet Nam.
“A reasonable outcome, compared to what could have been.”
“Yes, Prime Minister. Our irons could have really been in the fire.”
“Quite. Even so, I don’t want it happening again. I want a report on fire support options and contingencies for brushfire operations like this one. Guns and aircraft.”
“Very good.”
“We’ve got to have other options for the Congo and other parts of free Africa as well. Something effective, but deniable. Private.”
“I see, Prime Minister. Won’t the Americans get wind of that?”
“We have to presume they already know the lot, Richard. They aren’t the most subtle of bunches, the cousins.”
“No, Prime Minister, they are not…but what in particular is the source of this presumption.”
“Their listening post, twenty miles from Charlotteville. Christians in Action indeed.”
“Ah, yes. I see, Prime Minister.”
Barton nodded in satisfaction at Pendragon’s comprehension. There was only one more nagging issue that had come out of the Siege of Charlotteville, which had come from very quiet questioning through…channels…of their Russian informers.
Nothing had been found to indicate that the dweomer had been of Soviet origin.
Curious
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Belushi TD
- Posts: 852
- Joined: Thu Nov 17, 2022 11:20 am
Re: The Siege of Charlotteville
I always liked this tale. I particularly appreciate how the good Major's superiors back him up and don't toss him to the wolves when it becomes apparent that he's been ensorcelled.
Belushi TD
Belushi TD
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Simon Darkshade
- Posts: 1049
- Joined: Thu Nov 17, 2022 10:55 am
Re: The Siege of Charlotteville
Belushi,
You are too kind. This piece came out of something Bernard said about The Siege of Jadotville, which I watched and transposed certain elements into DE, with bits thrown in from Zulu and The Eagle Has Landed.
Given the different capacity possessed by DE Britain and green Irish troops under UN auspices, there needed to be a greater threat, but that opens up a greater conventional response; the escalation game is not on the side of Simba.
As the end of the engagement would be reasonably predictable, even plans going awry, I had to think of another element to add conflict and drama; this came in the form of both sides being used as pawns in a much larger game and The Good Guys/Major Dornan being tricked into doing something problematic. At this point, it was a matter of thinking about that and changing the ‘tricking’ into something a bit more supernatural.
Someone else had previously mentioned ‘raising the black flag’ in response to one of the earlier parts, which got me thinking about how that could be literally put into action in a modern sense. We’ve had plenty of examples of soldiers doing terrible things when their blood is up, both pre and post Hague 1899, but the etymology of the idea gave me an inkling of an idea, taking it back to the historical Cromwellian Ordnance of No Quarter to the Irish and having some sort of half forgotten contingency on the books from the very different world view of the 1600s.
The combination of these two elements then gave the (anti) climax, as well as being able to get the 5 or 6 people who read any of my trash thinking as to who could possibly benefit from the intended endgame here and thus demonstrate ongoing rifts in the big tent of the Western Alliance/the nature of a really multipolar Cold War. (I’m not telling which it was at this point.) In terms of the latter, our good member Yon Trollsen created an interesting model in his works.
Faced with this situation in universe, British higher level command would be quite profligate in its use and wastage of capable officers with a future in a circumstance that bears a bizarre parallel to drink spiking. The factor making their decision easier is that he didn’t actually go through with it to the point of using gas willy-nilly AND killing every last one of the enemy.
You are too kind. This piece came out of something Bernard said about The Siege of Jadotville, which I watched and transposed certain elements into DE, with bits thrown in from Zulu and The Eagle Has Landed.
Given the different capacity possessed by DE Britain and green Irish troops under UN auspices, there needed to be a greater threat, but that opens up a greater conventional response; the escalation game is not on the side of Simba.
As the end of the engagement would be reasonably predictable, even plans going awry, I had to think of another element to add conflict and drama; this came in the form of both sides being used as pawns in a much larger game and The Good Guys/Major Dornan being tricked into doing something problematic. At this point, it was a matter of thinking about that and changing the ‘tricking’ into something a bit more supernatural.
Someone else had previously mentioned ‘raising the black flag’ in response to one of the earlier parts, which got me thinking about how that could be literally put into action in a modern sense. We’ve had plenty of examples of soldiers doing terrible things when their blood is up, both pre and post Hague 1899, but the etymology of the idea gave me an inkling of an idea, taking it back to the historical Cromwellian Ordnance of No Quarter to the Irish and having some sort of half forgotten contingency on the books from the very different world view of the 1600s.
The combination of these two elements then gave the (anti) climax, as well as being able to get the 5 or 6 people who read any of my trash thinking as to who could possibly benefit from the intended endgame here and thus demonstrate ongoing rifts in the big tent of the Western Alliance/the nature of a really multipolar Cold War. (I’m not telling which it was at this point.) In terms of the latter, our good member Yon Trollsen created an interesting model in his works.
Faced with this situation in universe, British higher level command would be quite profligate in its use and wastage of capable officers with a future in a circumstance that bears a bizarre parallel to drink spiking. The factor making their decision easier is that he didn’t actually go through with it to the point of using gas willy-nilly AND killing every last one of the enemy.