“I can’t say that I like it, Richard. It smacks of overreach. We’ve got the base at Kamina and the force on the Rhodesian border that already cost a pretty penny. But holding Central Africa is a bigger issue than mere expense.”
“You’re right, Stanley. The Portuguese are giving us enough trouble on the flanks, but if the Congo goes…then it will be difficult to stop the dominoes.”
Sir Richard Pendragon, the Minister of Defence and close confidant of Prime Minister Barton, nodded in agreement. It was a bright June morning outside the triple glassteel windows of his office in the huge and ornately palatial War Office building and, despite over ten thousand civilian and military personnel working within the building, nary a sound penetrated the secure room. Yet as bright and hopeful as was the morning without, the vexations of Africa cast a cloud over what should have been heady days for the newly re-elected Labour government.
“Prime Minister Cunningham in Kenya is right to be worried. Well, we’ve got to do something. Back to Katanga again. This time, though, we do it properly, Richard. We’re too heavily committed to Vietnam, Burma and Malaya to sustain another large open ended deployment.”
“Yes, Prime Minister. Our initial plan calls for two British brigades supported by African and colonial units and a Commonwealth field force from South Africa and Rhodesia. We will go in heavy to begin with and then ratchet it down to a residual reinforced brigade.”
Barton ground his teeth. Even that was a sizeable commitment, but such was the price of power and influence. The French had definitely gained the upper hand in Western Congo and three years of civil war had not broken the Soviet backed rebels in the north east, despite American and British aid to the increasingly fragile Congolese government. If Katanga continued to descend into disorder, SIS gave the current regime in Leopoldville perhaps two months before they were removed by the ANC and replaced with a regime more acceptable to Washington, which would have significantly deleterious effects upon British commercial interests in Katanga. Whilst bad, that was far from the worst case scenario.
“That would seem acceptable, but I’ll speak to Ottawa about getting them onboard; the broader the better.”
“Very good.”
“Full support, Richard, as much as needed. We need to be seen to be effective as well as actually being effective, both in Africa and beyond.”
“I think we can put together something that will accomplish that, Prime Minister.”
………………………………
"Ours is not to reason why, Richard, ours is but to do."
"And hopefully not die." General Sir Richard Ward, GOC Africa Command, allowed himself a slight grin over the telephone.
"Not bloody likely." scoffed Field Marshal Sir Richard Sharpe, Chief of the Imperial General Staff. "Leaving the politics to the politicians, the general orders are to go in there, pull the full bully boy boots on, pull the place into order and then pull out, without any bugger-ups. That is straightforward enough, but the War Office is keen to see how the new kit and tactics go in the field."
"Field testing?"
"Right. No free fire, but keep the casualties under control. Ours mainly, but theirs as well." Losing fifty men killed a week in South Vietnam alone was enough to make the Army circumspect on the prospect of losses. "I want a plan for pacification, not another push on Cairo."
"Any limitations, sir?"
"Keep it clean and keep it tidy. Put the kitchen sink in, but none of the tricky stuff from last time. Clear?"
"Crystal."
"Good. Once the planning is sorted, then we can start flying the material down to Rhodesia and get things ready to kick off properly."
"Very good, sir."
"This time, we get it right."
Return to Charlotteville
-
Simon Darkshade
- Posts: 1049
- Joined: Thu Nov 17, 2022 10:55 am
Re: Return to Charlotteville
Return to Charlotteville Part 1
Horse Guards, London
“Who do you think, Walter?”
“Churchill, possibly. He’s done very well with the 10th, but they are on standby for Australia and he is already out there. Really just leaves Mitch.” Field Marshal Sir Walter Walker, Commander-in-Chief of the Imperial Strategic Reserve, sipped his scotch thoughtfully.
“He did an outstanding job in Aden, but this is a bit of a step down.” Field Marshal Sharpe scowled at prospect. Castellan has been such a success that it irked him not to reward its commander.
“The Congo is a field role and Mitch is a field officer, Richard. There will be a time and place to blood the youngsters. Besides, the combined operations in Aden went off without a hitch.”
“Aye, you’re not wrong there. You can give him the good news then, as his division is nominally under you.”
………………….
“The Army force for Operation Tancred will be under the operational control of 11th Infantry Division and is to consist of 26th Brigade with 1st Lyonesse, 2nd King’s, 3rd Royal Fusiliers and 2nd South Wales Borderers; 47th Brigade with 2nd Argyll & Sutherland Highlanders, 1st Connaught Rangers, 2nd Oxs and Bucks and 1st KOYLI; a composite Zulu and King’s African Rifles brigade; and a Commonwealth brigade with battlegroups from South Africa, Rhodesia, the West Indies and Canada. Each brigade will be supported by tanks, artillery, the Recces and the RMGC, in addition to Divarty and the divisional tank regiment, which will be operating the Valiant.”
A low murmur went around the briefing room. The new Vickers tank was no Chieftain, but it’s lighter weight and reported manoeuvrability has made it much anticipated for units deploying to East and Southern Africa.
“As well as the aforementioned field forces, there will also be a detachment of Special Forces attached, supported by 15 Commando and a battalion of Rangers. They will be operating separately from the main force of the division and that is all you need at this time.”
The obvious unsaid matter here, thought Colonel Sean Hughes, 2 i/c of 47th Brigade, was that they would be operating deeper in the Congo proper ahead of the troops on the ground in Katanga, on a purely unofficial basis of course.
It had seemed almost unreal when he had first been notified of the upcoming deployment. Back to the Congo. Back to where it had all happened. Back to where it had changed.
The rest of the briefing by the amiable dunce from the divisional staff somewhat washed over him, as he had become quite familiar with the details of Tancred during the initial phase the previous week.
“Finally, we will be accompanied by members of the British press and, as special guests, a crew from the BBC’s Panorama programme. Word from on high is that they are to be granted ‘as fulsome access as practicable’, within the discretion of individual commanders. Thank you gentlemen.”
Hughes stride across the room to catch his quarry.
“Lieutenant-Colonel Quinlan!”
“Sir! Didn’t see you at the back.”
“No. Do you have a moment?”
Hughes took Quinlan into an adjoining room and outlined the special responsibility that his old comrade and friend, the now commander of the 1st Connaughts, would bear.
“The Tsarevich?! Sir, are they serious?”
“They are.”
“They want us to-“
“Accommodate him with all due courtesy and form, whilst letting him get a taste of action. Nothing dangerous, though.”
“Combat that isn’t dangerous.”
Hughes nodded in sympathy. “That’s the first part of your special duty.”
“Who next? The Dauphin?!”
“Not quite…”
Horse Guards, London
“Who do you think, Walter?”
“Churchill, possibly. He’s done very well with the 10th, but they are on standby for Australia and he is already out there. Really just leaves Mitch.” Field Marshal Sir Walter Walker, Commander-in-Chief of the Imperial Strategic Reserve, sipped his scotch thoughtfully.
“He did an outstanding job in Aden, but this is a bit of a step down.” Field Marshal Sharpe scowled at prospect. Castellan has been such a success that it irked him not to reward its commander.
“The Congo is a field role and Mitch is a field officer, Richard. There will be a time and place to blood the youngsters. Besides, the combined operations in Aden went off without a hitch.”
“Aye, you’re not wrong there. You can give him the good news then, as his division is nominally under you.”
………………….
“The Army force for Operation Tancred will be under the operational control of 11th Infantry Division and is to consist of 26th Brigade with 1st Lyonesse, 2nd King’s, 3rd Royal Fusiliers and 2nd South Wales Borderers; 47th Brigade with 2nd Argyll & Sutherland Highlanders, 1st Connaught Rangers, 2nd Oxs and Bucks and 1st KOYLI; a composite Zulu and King’s African Rifles brigade; and a Commonwealth brigade with battlegroups from South Africa, Rhodesia, the West Indies and Canada. Each brigade will be supported by tanks, artillery, the Recces and the RMGC, in addition to Divarty and the divisional tank regiment, which will be operating the Valiant.”
A low murmur went around the briefing room. The new Vickers tank was no Chieftain, but it’s lighter weight and reported manoeuvrability has made it much anticipated for units deploying to East and Southern Africa.
“As well as the aforementioned field forces, there will also be a detachment of Special Forces attached, supported by 15 Commando and a battalion of Rangers. They will be operating separately from the main force of the division and that is all you need at this time.”
The obvious unsaid matter here, thought Colonel Sean Hughes, 2 i/c of 47th Brigade, was that they would be operating deeper in the Congo proper ahead of the troops on the ground in Katanga, on a purely unofficial basis of course.
It had seemed almost unreal when he had first been notified of the upcoming deployment. Back to the Congo. Back to where it had all happened. Back to where it had changed.
The rest of the briefing by the amiable dunce from the divisional staff somewhat washed over him, as he had become quite familiar with the details of Tancred during the initial phase the previous week.
“Finally, we will be accompanied by members of the British press and, as special guests, a crew from the BBC’s Panorama programme. Word from on high is that they are to be granted ‘as fulsome access as practicable’, within the discretion of individual commanders. Thank you gentlemen.”
Hughes stride across the room to catch his quarry.
“Lieutenant-Colonel Quinlan!”
“Sir! Didn’t see you at the back.”
“No. Do you have a moment?”
Hughes took Quinlan into an adjoining room and outlined the special responsibility that his old comrade and friend, the now commander of the 1st Connaughts, would bear.
“The Tsarevich?! Sir, are they serious?”
“They are.”
“They want us to-“
“Accommodate him with all due courtesy and form, whilst letting him get a taste of action. Nothing dangerous, though.”
“Combat that isn’t dangerous.”
Hughes nodded in sympathy. “That’s the first part of your special duty.”
“Who next? The Dauphin?!”
“Not quite…”
-
Simon Darkshade
- Posts: 1049
- Joined: Thu Nov 17, 2022 10:55 am
Re: Return to Charlotteville
Return to Charlotteville Part 2
“Aldershot. Often called the Home of the British Army, normally, over eighty thousand soldiers are based here. This morning, those numbers are substantially greater, just like another grey June predawn almost twenty-five years ago. Very shortly, the first convoy carrying the officers and men of the 11th Infantry Division will begin making their way up the short road to RAE Farnborough. There, three of the Royal Air Force’s newest skyships await to carry them down on their journey to Rhodesia and thence to…the uncertainty of war.”
“CUT!”
Thomas Hemmings, the erstwhile director of disrupted production, turned around to glare at the Ministry of Information sanctioner, who was busy whispering with the khaki clad MI7 liaison attached to the Panorama crew. To say that he was displeased with their presence would be putting it mildly; the MiniInf was a necessary evil as ever it had been, but the added joy of the Army having their two bobs worth was going to make for a lengthy shooting process at this rate. For an ever-so brief instant, he almost regretted giving up photography for this new career, but the memory of the…unpleasantness…up in London almost two years ago put paid to that.
“Gentlemen, what exactly is the problem this time? We need to get this piece done so we can get some good shots of the the embarkation, before the light gets any brighter. I dare say that the Army isn’t going to turn around all these buses and lorries just because of you fellows.”
Mr Smith, their eager young Ministry assistant, nodded sympathetically; so far, he had been consistently more cooperative than Captain Latham, who seemed to view the idea of working with the press as ranking somewhere between abdominal surgery and a holiday in Belgium on the scale of attractivity.
“Terribly sorry there, Mr. Hemmings, but would it awfully set you aback if you elide the reference to the specific number of skyships and perhaps, if it wasn’t too much trouble, get rid of that last part. We’re not officially at war, you see.”
“But we are going into a war zone, though, isn’t that the point?” Paul Marwood, the earnest young presenter, walked over from the side of the road where he had been commenting on the imminent arrival of the troop buses, whose lights were now beginning to move up from the garrison.
“You can’t call it a war. We’re there with the express say-so of the Congolese government. It simply won’t do!”
“Alright, I’m sure we can think of something,” Hemmings cut in with a none-too small edge of panic to his voice. “But the skyship part? When we get to filming up at Farnborough, there will clearly be three of them there. Not two, not four. Five is right out.”
“How about ‘several’?”
“Fine, fine. Right, quiet! And…” he cued Marwood to begin once more.
“…There, several of the Royal Air Force’s newest skyships stand like three silent giant sentinels, waiting to carry them to Rhodesia…and what lies beyond.”
“CUT! That was great, Paul, spot on. Fine for you chaps?”
“Yes, that was much better.” Mr Smith positively beamed as he hurriedly joined Hemmings and the crew as they now scampered back from the road. They should get set up just in time to get the convoy going past, then it would be off to the airfield to see the embarkation, along with the Very Important Persons who would be coming to see the men off.
…………………………
Later that morning, as Hemmings relaxed with a welcome cup of tea on the officers decks onboard Her Majesty’s Skyship R301, he allowed himself a brief moment of satisfaction. Despite it all, they had done it. They were on their way.
“I never thought I’d say it, but it seems bigger on the inside.”
Marwood sat down opposite Hemmings, having eyed off the seat for some time with an almost delicate hesitancy; he wondered idly whether the young fellow had any elven blood in him.
“You know the spiel well enough: Biggest vessel built by man!”
“Giant of the Skies!” Marwood responded in strident times, mimicking the iconic Pathe News description.
“For all you unbelievers, the Titanic fits inside!”
“They certainly kept Her Majesty and the Prince Consort’s presence quiet.”
“Indeed. I’d wager that was down to the dual role, though.”
“I’m surprised Smithy let you loose.”
“He’s not that bad a fellow, Marwood. He just wants his own Frontline - Vietnam and I can hardly blame him. The Congo sells - look at how big that Italian one went.”
“How much of that came down to the director being seized by the Inquisition?”
“A fair bit, I’d say. Neither of us were first choice for this one, you know. Lord Blair originally wanted Richard Dimbleby and Peter Watkins, but they were busy with Our Island Story and the new series on the 1956 War.”
“Well, considering the surprises that we’ve got, we might have fallen on our feet. It can hardly be worse than that weekend up in the Lake District I was telling you about.”
…………………….
“Right, at ease, gentlemen.” Colonel Quinlan looked out at his officers in the meeting chamber deep within the skyship. One could barely notice the rhythmic thrum of the engines from here.
“As you’ve now gathered, we are to have some very special guests with us when we go into Katanga. Major Dornan, I’d like you and A Company to take the primary security role for the princes. This is the moment you’ve been waiting for.”
“Yes, sir.”
“If nothing else, their special escort platoon from the Guards Commando will be a useful adjunct to your own men. Both the Tsarevich and the Prince of Wales will have their own close protection team of Yeoman Warders and Royal Knights when we’re not in the field, but, just to be sure, Her Majesty the Queen has personally commanded one of the finest archmages in her service to join us while we’re in Katanga.”
Dorman’s mind was ablaze with curiosity. Who could it be? Gallows? Young Holmes? Dr Lyon? Baker?
From the shadows the colonel stepped an exceptionally tall and distinguished figure who was instantly familiar to the officers in the room.
“Gentlemen, may I present Christopher Lee.”
“Aldershot. Often called the Home of the British Army, normally, over eighty thousand soldiers are based here. This morning, those numbers are substantially greater, just like another grey June predawn almost twenty-five years ago. Very shortly, the first convoy carrying the officers and men of the 11th Infantry Division will begin making their way up the short road to RAE Farnborough. There, three of the Royal Air Force’s newest skyships await to carry them down on their journey to Rhodesia and thence to…the uncertainty of war.”
“CUT!”
Thomas Hemmings, the erstwhile director of disrupted production, turned around to glare at the Ministry of Information sanctioner, who was busy whispering with the khaki clad MI7 liaison attached to the Panorama crew. To say that he was displeased with their presence would be putting it mildly; the MiniInf was a necessary evil as ever it had been, but the added joy of the Army having their two bobs worth was going to make for a lengthy shooting process at this rate. For an ever-so brief instant, he almost regretted giving up photography for this new career, but the memory of the…unpleasantness…up in London almost two years ago put paid to that.
“Gentlemen, what exactly is the problem this time? We need to get this piece done so we can get some good shots of the the embarkation, before the light gets any brighter. I dare say that the Army isn’t going to turn around all these buses and lorries just because of you fellows.”
Mr Smith, their eager young Ministry assistant, nodded sympathetically; so far, he had been consistently more cooperative than Captain Latham, who seemed to view the idea of working with the press as ranking somewhere between abdominal surgery and a holiday in Belgium on the scale of attractivity.
“Terribly sorry there, Mr. Hemmings, but would it awfully set you aback if you elide the reference to the specific number of skyships and perhaps, if it wasn’t too much trouble, get rid of that last part. We’re not officially at war, you see.”
“But we are going into a war zone, though, isn’t that the point?” Paul Marwood, the earnest young presenter, walked over from the side of the road where he had been commenting on the imminent arrival of the troop buses, whose lights were now beginning to move up from the garrison.
“You can’t call it a war. We’re there with the express say-so of the Congolese government. It simply won’t do!”
“Alright, I’m sure we can think of something,” Hemmings cut in with a none-too small edge of panic to his voice. “But the skyship part? When we get to filming up at Farnborough, there will clearly be three of them there. Not two, not four. Five is right out.”
“How about ‘several’?”
“Fine, fine. Right, quiet! And…” he cued Marwood to begin once more.
“…There, several of the Royal Air Force’s newest skyships stand like three silent giant sentinels, waiting to carry them to Rhodesia…and what lies beyond.”
“CUT! That was great, Paul, spot on. Fine for you chaps?”
“Yes, that was much better.” Mr Smith positively beamed as he hurriedly joined Hemmings and the crew as they now scampered back from the road. They should get set up just in time to get the convoy going past, then it would be off to the airfield to see the embarkation, along with the Very Important Persons who would be coming to see the men off.
…………………………
Later that morning, as Hemmings relaxed with a welcome cup of tea on the officers decks onboard Her Majesty’s Skyship R301, he allowed himself a brief moment of satisfaction. Despite it all, they had done it. They were on their way.
“I never thought I’d say it, but it seems bigger on the inside.”
Marwood sat down opposite Hemmings, having eyed off the seat for some time with an almost delicate hesitancy; he wondered idly whether the young fellow had any elven blood in him.
“You know the spiel well enough: Biggest vessel built by man!”
“Giant of the Skies!” Marwood responded in strident times, mimicking the iconic Pathe News description.
“For all you unbelievers, the Titanic fits inside!”
“They certainly kept Her Majesty and the Prince Consort’s presence quiet.”
“Indeed. I’d wager that was down to the dual role, though.”
“I’m surprised Smithy let you loose.”
“He’s not that bad a fellow, Marwood. He just wants his own Frontline - Vietnam and I can hardly blame him. The Congo sells - look at how big that Italian one went.”
“How much of that came down to the director being seized by the Inquisition?”
“A fair bit, I’d say. Neither of us were first choice for this one, you know. Lord Blair originally wanted Richard Dimbleby and Peter Watkins, but they were busy with Our Island Story and the new series on the 1956 War.”
“Well, considering the surprises that we’ve got, we might have fallen on our feet. It can hardly be worse than that weekend up in the Lake District I was telling you about.”
…………………….
“Right, at ease, gentlemen.” Colonel Quinlan looked out at his officers in the meeting chamber deep within the skyship. One could barely notice the rhythmic thrum of the engines from here.
“As you’ve now gathered, we are to have some very special guests with us when we go into Katanga. Major Dornan, I’d like you and A Company to take the primary security role for the princes. This is the moment you’ve been waiting for.”
“Yes, sir.”
“If nothing else, their special escort platoon from the Guards Commando will be a useful adjunct to your own men. Both the Tsarevich and the Prince of Wales will have their own close protection team of Yeoman Warders and Royal Knights when we’re not in the field, but, just to be sure, Her Majesty the Queen has personally commanded one of the finest archmages in her service to join us while we’re in Katanga.”
Dorman’s mind was ablaze with curiosity. Who could it be? Gallows? Young Holmes? Dr Lyon? Baker?
From the shadows the colonel stepped an exceptionally tall and distinguished figure who was instantly familiar to the officers in the room.
“Gentlemen, may I present Christopher Lee.”
-
Simon Darkshade
- Posts: 1049
- Joined: Thu Nov 17, 2022 10:55 am
Re: Return to Charlotteville
Return to Charlotteville Part 3
“RAF Salisbury is the largest British airbase south of the Equator, yet even it seems dwarfed by today’s arrivals. Far to our left, we can see the mighty Avro Vulcans of Bomber Command and the Royal South African Air Force, alongside Rhodesia’s own Valiant bombers, the guardians of the Empire’s security in Central Africa. The main part of today’s affair is to our right.”
The camera slowly panned to the three skyships that sat on the reinforced landing ground, their ramps down and columns of men and equipment pouring out from the darkness of their giant holds into the piercing light of the African sun. As the Argyll & Sutherland Highlanders were the first off R301, they had been lead by their pipers and their skirl rang out across the expanse of the aerodrome as they marched off, company by company northward to the railway station.
“As the men of the brigade march forth, many will see them and be struck by some of the differences from what we remember of the war, or even Korea. First of all, they are wearing their new tropical uniforms and helmets, quite unlike the old wartime jungle greens. Their rifles and machine guns, likewise, are all of the newer type and even the officers’ swords have been improved. Those troops of light horse following each battalion are not the old type of cavalry, but mounted infantry, which the Rhodesians and South Africans have used to such effect here.
Coming up now, we see the new Vickers Valiant battle tanks of 25 Royal Tank Regiment, followed by the Abbots and the L121 6” howitzers towed by Scammell Pioneers. 11th Infantry Division is deploying as a fully mobile formation, not like the lighter divisions in Malaya, South Vietnam and Australia, so they have their full complement of Saxons, along with the newer wheeled Centaur armoured carriers. Here come the Royalists of the Inniskilling Dragoons, fastest and most mobile of all the light tanks in the world, they say, followed by their lighter cousins, the Scorpion LCVRs and now a company of the Armstrong-Whitworth automatic mortars, drawn along by Land Rovers.
Last of the vehicles are the armoured cars, all painted in the new African camouflage scheme. Leading are AEC Sentinel LAVs and four of the old reliable Alvis Sabres, then the swift little Fox scout cars. The largest of them all though are the new Rolls-Royce Challenger Medium Armoured Vehicles, or MAVs. They don’t bear the same armour as a tank, but their heavy protection is obvious. Every one of those guns is the same L7 105mm that equipped our Centurions, so the men of the Royal Reconnaissance Corps have a truly powerful vehicle that will be a great challenger for any who come up against it in the Congo.”
Now the view panned out again, rising up into the air soundlessly before turning to reveal that it was in a Rotodyne. Marwood sat by the wide glassteel window in the side of the aircraft, clad in a khaki safari suit and fixing the camera with an earnest expression as he gestured at the sprawling city below.
“Salisbury. Capital of Rhodesia and home to over a million people, it is here that our troops will entrain and set out for the border. It is a beautiful city, one of broad avenues and boulevards lined with jacaranda trees and the grand oaks of home. Her cricket ovals, the stately buildings of Lutyens in her centre and her bustling industry all seem to be from a a familiar England, not deep In the tropical heart of Africa.
Of all the Dominions, Rhodesia has always been thought of as the most distinctly ‘English’, perhaps as a means of asserting the ties of home in the midst of a faraway dark and mysterious continent. In less than a century, she has become the breadbasket of Africa, her fertile soil producing bountiful harvests of maize, wheat, sugar, tobacco, groundnuts and fruit and her herds of cattle topping ten millions last year. Her towering forests supply plentiful timber and her hills and mountains are flowing with the riches of every mineral known to man.
Here, we are far from the conflict that has been fought up on the border for the last decade. Men here call it the Bush War and whatever it’s name, it is among the most dangerous frontiers that the British Empire possesses on this planet. Every day, two or three of our boys will lose their lives up there in the rugged yet verdant hills that separate Katanga and Rhodesia. It is a hard land, even as it seems fair, beset by the confused troubles that have sadly been the lot of the Congo since it’s independence from Belgium. In the main, it is defended by the great border fence that has been put up over the last three years, but even that barrier strong enough to hold back a dinosaur has not been impervious to man. The border runs along the headwaters of the mightiest river in Central Africa itself; the soldiers of Rhodesia swear that they’ll keep the enemy north of the Congo until the river itself is running dry, but it is a hard fight.
And so it is that our boys are up there fighting, in defence of our freedom and the security of the men, women and children of Rhodesia and of Southern Africa. From Salisbury, it is a train journey of over a thousand miles to our railhead at Elizabethville and another three hundred miles to the border, or two days travel. With all of the vehicles and firepower we saw earlier, and they were just a fraction of the whole division, it will be the better part of a week before we cross over into the Congo.
Lieutenant-General Sir Colin Mitchell is well known across the Empire and the world for his firm and uncompromising command in the Aden operation and now he leads the 11th Division in Operation Tancred, the pacification of Katanga. General, many people are asking what our objective is in the Congo.”
“It is very simple. The Congolese government has invited us and we’re going to go in and restore order, very firmly. Simbas or rebels, bandits or Communists, they’re all the same - terrorists. We’re going to find them and stop them, by any means necessary. I have no compunction in saying that, if our men come across a chap who wants to snipe at us or throw grenades at civilians, then we shall kill him, and rightly so. Terrorism stops here.”
“A very plain statement of intent, General.”
“Oh, it’s not an intention. It is what we plan to do and what we will do. I should hope that they do try and stand up and fight. We’ve enough manpower and firepower this time, and the Royal Air Force chaps have their planes ready to support us at their airfields at Kolwezi and Jadotville and the big base at Kamina. If anyone starts any trouble, they’ll just get their head blown off.”
“You seem abundantly clear on the mission. What of the special personnel that will be accompanying you?”
“What of them?”
“Well, the presence of the heir to the throne would seem to make planning a tad more complicated, to begin.”
“Only a tad. I think it is very good for a future King to see battle alongside his soldiers. Gives him a sense of what the Empire is really based on and shows them that their leaders don’t shy away from the sharp end of the business, just like his grandfather did. In any event, this is Katanga, not Normandy.”
“Less dangerous, then.”
“No, just a different kind. There may not be German tanks, hordes of screaming Chinamen or Soviet atom bombs, but all war is dangerous. Here, though, the danger is rather greater for the other chap.”
The Rotodyne swooped down for a closing pan over the crowded Salisbury railyard, already packed with heavy equipment and vehicles, finishing with a lingering shot of four tracked vehicles with large missiles protruding from the boxy launcher on their back.
“RAF Salisbury is the largest British airbase south of the Equator, yet even it seems dwarfed by today’s arrivals. Far to our left, we can see the mighty Avro Vulcans of Bomber Command and the Royal South African Air Force, alongside Rhodesia’s own Valiant bombers, the guardians of the Empire’s security in Central Africa. The main part of today’s affair is to our right.”
The camera slowly panned to the three skyships that sat on the reinforced landing ground, their ramps down and columns of men and equipment pouring out from the darkness of their giant holds into the piercing light of the African sun. As the Argyll & Sutherland Highlanders were the first off R301, they had been lead by their pipers and their skirl rang out across the expanse of the aerodrome as they marched off, company by company northward to the railway station.
“As the men of the brigade march forth, many will see them and be struck by some of the differences from what we remember of the war, or even Korea. First of all, they are wearing their new tropical uniforms and helmets, quite unlike the old wartime jungle greens. Their rifles and machine guns, likewise, are all of the newer type and even the officers’ swords have been improved. Those troops of light horse following each battalion are not the old type of cavalry, but mounted infantry, which the Rhodesians and South Africans have used to such effect here.
Coming up now, we see the new Vickers Valiant battle tanks of 25 Royal Tank Regiment, followed by the Abbots and the L121 6” howitzers towed by Scammell Pioneers. 11th Infantry Division is deploying as a fully mobile formation, not like the lighter divisions in Malaya, South Vietnam and Australia, so they have their full complement of Saxons, along with the newer wheeled Centaur armoured carriers. Here come the Royalists of the Inniskilling Dragoons, fastest and most mobile of all the light tanks in the world, they say, followed by their lighter cousins, the Scorpion LCVRs and now a company of the Armstrong-Whitworth automatic mortars, drawn along by Land Rovers.
Last of the vehicles are the armoured cars, all painted in the new African camouflage scheme. Leading are AEC Sentinel LAVs and four of the old reliable Alvis Sabres, then the swift little Fox scout cars. The largest of them all though are the new Rolls-Royce Challenger Medium Armoured Vehicles, or MAVs. They don’t bear the same armour as a tank, but their heavy protection is obvious. Every one of those guns is the same L7 105mm that equipped our Centurions, so the men of the Royal Reconnaissance Corps have a truly powerful vehicle that will be a great challenger for any who come up against it in the Congo.”
Now the view panned out again, rising up into the air soundlessly before turning to reveal that it was in a Rotodyne. Marwood sat by the wide glassteel window in the side of the aircraft, clad in a khaki safari suit and fixing the camera with an earnest expression as he gestured at the sprawling city below.
“Salisbury. Capital of Rhodesia and home to over a million people, it is here that our troops will entrain and set out for the border. It is a beautiful city, one of broad avenues and boulevards lined with jacaranda trees and the grand oaks of home. Her cricket ovals, the stately buildings of Lutyens in her centre and her bustling industry all seem to be from a a familiar England, not deep In the tropical heart of Africa.
Of all the Dominions, Rhodesia has always been thought of as the most distinctly ‘English’, perhaps as a means of asserting the ties of home in the midst of a faraway dark and mysterious continent. In less than a century, she has become the breadbasket of Africa, her fertile soil producing bountiful harvests of maize, wheat, sugar, tobacco, groundnuts and fruit and her herds of cattle topping ten millions last year. Her towering forests supply plentiful timber and her hills and mountains are flowing with the riches of every mineral known to man.
Here, we are far from the conflict that has been fought up on the border for the last decade. Men here call it the Bush War and whatever it’s name, it is among the most dangerous frontiers that the British Empire possesses on this planet. Every day, two or three of our boys will lose their lives up there in the rugged yet verdant hills that separate Katanga and Rhodesia. It is a hard land, even as it seems fair, beset by the confused troubles that have sadly been the lot of the Congo since it’s independence from Belgium. In the main, it is defended by the great border fence that has been put up over the last three years, but even that barrier strong enough to hold back a dinosaur has not been impervious to man. The border runs along the headwaters of the mightiest river in Central Africa itself; the soldiers of Rhodesia swear that they’ll keep the enemy north of the Congo until the river itself is running dry, but it is a hard fight.
And so it is that our boys are up there fighting, in defence of our freedom and the security of the men, women and children of Rhodesia and of Southern Africa. From Salisbury, it is a train journey of over a thousand miles to our railhead at Elizabethville and another three hundred miles to the border, or two days travel. With all of the vehicles and firepower we saw earlier, and they were just a fraction of the whole division, it will be the better part of a week before we cross over into the Congo.
Lieutenant-General Sir Colin Mitchell is well known across the Empire and the world for his firm and uncompromising command in the Aden operation and now he leads the 11th Division in Operation Tancred, the pacification of Katanga. General, many people are asking what our objective is in the Congo.”
“It is very simple. The Congolese government has invited us and we’re going to go in and restore order, very firmly. Simbas or rebels, bandits or Communists, they’re all the same - terrorists. We’re going to find them and stop them, by any means necessary. I have no compunction in saying that, if our men come across a chap who wants to snipe at us or throw grenades at civilians, then we shall kill him, and rightly so. Terrorism stops here.”
“A very plain statement of intent, General.”
“Oh, it’s not an intention. It is what we plan to do and what we will do. I should hope that they do try and stand up and fight. We’ve enough manpower and firepower this time, and the Royal Air Force chaps have their planes ready to support us at their airfields at Kolwezi and Jadotville and the big base at Kamina. If anyone starts any trouble, they’ll just get their head blown off.”
“You seem abundantly clear on the mission. What of the special personnel that will be accompanying you?”
“What of them?”
“Well, the presence of the heir to the throne would seem to make planning a tad more complicated, to begin.”
“Only a tad. I think it is very good for a future King to see battle alongside his soldiers. Gives him a sense of what the Empire is really based on and shows them that their leaders don’t shy away from the sharp end of the business, just like his grandfather did. In any event, this is Katanga, not Normandy.”
“Less dangerous, then.”
“No, just a different kind. There may not be German tanks, hordes of screaming Chinamen or Soviet atom bombs, but all war is dangerous. Here, though, the danger is rather greater for the other chap.”
The Rotodyne swooped down for a closing pan over the crowded Salisbury railyard, already packed with heavy equipment and vehicles, finishing with a lingering shot of four tracked vehicles with large missiles protruding from the boxy launcher on their back.
-
Simon Darkshade
- Posts: 1049
- Joined: Thu Nov 17, 2022 10:55 am
Re: Return to Charlotteville
Return to Charlotteville Part 4
"Nearly all of modern warfare is built around the train. They are the lifeblood of any military operation, be it in Europe, South East Asia or even here in Darkest Africa and that blood runs through the veins of the railway network. That of Central Africa is rather less developed than what we are accustomed to at home, but large fast modern lines are being built up to the Congolese border to be finished within six months. For now, our journey onwards from the thriving city of Elizabethville took place on the older local lines.
Here at the border town of Mitwaba, the line stretches back almost 300 miles to Jadotville. Over the last four years, the highway up to Charlotteville has been greatly improved and built with British money and now can take three lanes of traffic in either direction. You will see that the flow of lorries and cars northward from here all properly keep to the left rather than driving on the wrong side of the road as bequeathed by the former Belgian colonial overloards of the Congo, but there are consistent issues when local traffic makes mistakes and cause accidents. For now, they've been politely directed to use the local road network, leaving the main highway for the British troops who have come to help them."
Marwood paused as the camera panned out to show a pair RMP Land Rovers parked across the juncture of a dirt road leading onto the large bitumised highway that was carved into the landscape like a thick black scar dotted with diamonds. Their temporary roadblock was being turned into something more permanent with the addition of large concrete and steel bollards newly driven into the earth and two robotic machine gun turrets being emplaced on either side of the road. The unmanned turret had been one of the great advances of the British in Africa of the last five years, allowing enhanced protection and security of fortified camps and infrastructure alike with less commitment of manpower, he thought bitterly; the initial teething problems of the accidental firing upon livestock and worse had been swept under the carpet quite conveniently.
"We can't say how many convoys use this road per day, but from what we have seen in our day up here so far, traffic has been constant. Most of them are the good old Bedford RLs we are all familiar with, but an increasing number every day are the big new Fords and Macks from Canada, the so called 'New Canadian Military Pattern Trucks'. They haul up to 10 tons of supplies on a good road like this, all while being protected by armour, special tyres and their automatic machine guns. They feed and supply our boys up in Katanga and do it well. There are no exceptions to the strict timetable which governs this road, not even for the riders of the Royal Army Motorcyclist Corps who cruise up and back on their armoured bikes at speeds which would leave the lorries quite literally in their dust.
If the highway has been restricted to the supply of our troops in the field, and the main freight lines up to the mines are naturally not used for passengers, our way forward to Charlotteville is a lot smoother and swifter than either, although not quite as swift as the Huntsmans that we see streaking out to the forward air bases several times a day. However, the good old Fairey Rotodyne is the backbone of the Army and the Empire here as elsewhere and will get us up to our destination in a little under an hour in reasonable comfort."
“Cut! That’s good for now.”
Hemmings wiped his brow with no small sense of relief. The weather here was bad enough, but being on the wrong side of the border was enough to make him antsy. It wasn’t that there was really a major threat; the patrols, frequency of traffic and the small matter of a reinforced division crossing over saw to that. Nor was even the more visceral issue than that - being cut off. Glancing back behind him, he saw the wall separating them from Mitwaba, a hulking thirty foot high blade wire fence with a cleared strip before it. Barely enough to stop an angry dinosaur; all that nonsense about them not being around these parts did not convince him. It was far simpler than that. The big story of Tancred was still back in Mitwaba, presumably. The presence of the Prince of Wales and the Tsarevich were what would put this programme straight to the forefront of public attention and acclaim.
"Mr. Hemmings?"
"Yes?" He looked up at the young lieutenant commanding their escort who was just putting his walkie-talkie back on his belt.
"The CO sends his compliments. The main body airlift is going to be starting soon and he wondered if you would care to take some footage of it lifting off. You'll be heading up on the third wave with Captain Dornan."
..................................................................................
"How high are we, Captain?"
"Oh, somewhere about 16,000 feet. Best altitude for cruising speed. We'd be doing things a tad differently if there was any real AA threat on the ground, mind you."
"Isn't there?"
"Our route has been very well sanitised and we have our friendly escorts yonder -" Dornan gestured at the quartet of Westland Tigers flying on the flank of the Rotodyne squadron "for a bit of extra security. In any event, the ANC have never even had any sort of anti-aircraft systems beyond heavy machine guns, so we’ve got no fear of Grails or Gaskins.”
Marwood looked at Hemmings and raised his eyebrow pointedly. There wasn’t any aerial filming this time around and they had been firmly briefed on what could and could not be discussed whilst en route to Charlotteville. One of those verboten topics, the second most important one after the Prince, had been any mention of Soviet arms in Katanga.
In any event, Captain Dornan either did not see their reaction or thought naught of it, so continued on his friendly talk.
“If you look down below, we’re actually going over one of our own heavy convoys now.”
They followed Dornan’s gesture to see a column of dozens of Antars carrying tanks, armoured personnel carriers and mobile guns, headed by a pair of the new Challengers. Even from this high, the BBC journalists could see their big turrets trained left and right.
“Isn’t it a bit risky to have to run everything on just one road?”
“Well, it’s not really our only option. Apart from the air, of course, there is the mine railway which we are using to bring up supplies and some of the local roads. It isn’t quite Arnhem.”
“They’re little more than narrow dirt tracks, though. Not something that could take a big convoy like that one.”
“Some are, but we’re widening and grading them every day. You're right, though. No professional commander worth his salt would simply pour his armour across a border on a single major road and hope to pot luck- that would be tailormade for disaster. No, we'll build more roads as well as modernising what these poor people have. Part of the hearts and minds campaign, you see, helping out the locals with their infrastructure, not just the big railway.”
“There has been a lot of emphasis on that idea of hearts and minds in Tancred.”
“Naturally. We did write the book on it in Malaya, quite literally! So far in this district, we’ve built over 50 new roads, dug dozens of new wells, established seven new hospitals and two dozen schools and started construction on two new local airfields and four cinemas. The RAMC has been running a vaccination programme for several months already. It is really at the heart of why we’re here - to help the Katangans and Congolese make their lives better and safer.”
“Very noble, Captain. Will you succeed?”
“Well, we’ve not failed at any challenge yet.”
’Yet’. Interesting…
“Five minutes until we land, sir.”
“Excellent. Make sure you’re strapped in, chaps. This last part is always a bit of fun.”
……………………………………..
"Bit of a change here, isn't it, Captain Dornan?"
"You're not wrong, sir."
Dornan looked out from the headquarters building alongside Lieutenant-Colonel Quinlan upon what had once been the nameless little hamlet where they had fought almost four years ago. The few dozen buildings, dilapidated garage and abandoned bar was now replaced by a modern, well-ordered fortified base at least five times larger with a chapel, a central keep, mess halls, an international radiotelephone exchange and expansive NAAFI and even a cinema. Where their little compound had been defended by the ad-hoc trenches, wire entanglements and sangars, the new base had a triple layered wall of steel reinforced concrete and bladewire; against Soviet heavy guns, it would have a life of minutes, but here in the savannah of Katanga, it was as indomitable a fortress as Krak des Chevaliers.
"We've got Brigade HQ coming up to here along with their own security detachment and the Independent Company as strategic reserve, so I'll be taking the battalion up to the new bridge at Goi-Ganga. Each of our companies will be spaced 15 miles apart for mutual fire support and reinforcement. As you know, you'll take 'A' Company up front to the north."
"Yes sir, all as planned."
"You'll be having some further reinforcements, as it were."
"I see. Guards Commando?"
"Yes, and a detachment of nice chaps from Hereford. The orders from Horse Guards are clear - give them a bit of a safe taste of life in the field and even a bit of action. If there is even a hint of risk, then use extreme force - a darn lot of it."
"Seems like a bit of a dance, sir."
"It is a dance, Captain, it all is. All the world's a stage, after all."
"Nearly all of modern warfare is built around the train. They are the lifeblood of any military operation, be it in Europe, South East Asia or even here in Darkest Africa and that blood runs through the veins of the railway network. That of Central Africa is rather less developed than what we are accustomed to at home, but large fast modern lines are being built up to the Congolese border to be finished within six months. For now, our journey onwards from the thriving city of Elizabethville took place on the older local lines.
Here at the border town of Mitwaba, the line stretches back almost 300 miles to Jadotville. Over the last four years, the highway up to Charlotteville has been greatly improved and built with British money and now can take three lanes of traffic in either direction. You will see that the flow of lorries and cars northward from here all properly keep to the left rather than driving on the wrong side of the road as bequeathed by the former Belgian colonial overloards of the Congo, but there are consistent issues when local traffic makes mistakes and cause accidents. For now, they've been politely directed to use the local road network, leaving the main highway for the British troops who have come to help them."
Marwood paused as the camera panned out to show a pair RMP Land Rovers parked across the juncture of a dirt road leading onto the large bitumised highway that was carved into the landscape like a thick black scar dotted with diamonds. Their temporary roadblock was being turned into something more permanent with the addition of large concrete and steel bollards newly driven into the earth and two robotic machine gun turrets being emplaced on either side of the road. The unmanned turret had been one of the great advances of the British in Africa of the last five years, allowing enhanced protection and security of fortified camps and infrastructure alike with less commitment of manpower, he thought bitterly; the initial teething problems of the accidental firing upon livestock and worse had been swept under the carpet quite conveniently.
"We can't say how many convoys use this road per day, but from what we have seen in our day up here so far, traffic has been constant. Most of them are the good old Bedford RLs we are all familiar with, but an increasing number every day are the big new Fords and Macks from Canada, the so called 'New Canadian Military Pattern Trucks'. They haul up to 10 tons of supplies on a good road like this, all while being protected by armour, special tyres and their automatic machine guns. They feed and supply our boys up in Katanga and do it well. There are no exceptions to the strict timetable which governs this road, not even for the riders of the Royal Army Motorcyclist Corps who cruise up and back on their armoured bikes at speeds which would leave the lorries quite literally in their dust.
If the highway has been restricted to the supply of our troops in the field, and the main freight lines up to the mines are naturally not used for passengers, our way forward to Charlotteville is a lot smoother and swifter than either, although not quite as swift as the Huntsmans that we see streaking out to the forward air bases several times a day. However, the good old Fairey Rotodyne is the backbone of the Army and the Empire here as elsewhere and will get us up to our destination in a little under an hour in reasonable comfort."
“Cut! That’s good for now.”
Hemmings wiped his brow with no small sense of relief. The weather here was bad enough, but being on the wrong side of the border was enough to make him antsy. It wasn’t that there was really a major threat; the patrols, frequency of traffic and the small matter of a reinforced division crossing over saw to that. Nor was even the more visceral issue than that - being cut off. Glancing back behind him, he saw the wall separating them from Mitwaba, a hulking thirty foot high blade wire fence with a cleared strip before it. Barely enough to stop an angry dinosaur; all that nonsense about them not being around these parts did not convince him. It was far simpler than that. The big story of Tancred was still back in Mitwaba, presumably. The presence of the Prince of Wales and the Tsarevich were what would put this programme straight to the forefront of public attention and acclaim.
"Mr. Hemmings?"
"Yes?" He looked up at the young lieutenant commanding their escort who was just putting his walkie-talkie back on his belt.
"The CO sends his compliments. The main body airlift is going to be starting soon and he wondered if you would care to take some footage of it lifting off. You'll be heading up on the third wave with Captain Dornan."
..................................................................................
"How high are we, Captain?"
"Oh, somewhere about 16,000 feet. Best altitude for cruising speed. We'd be doing things a tad differently if there was any real AA threat on the ground, mind you."
"Isn't there?"
"Our route has been very well sanitised and we have our friendly escorts yonder -" Dornan gestured at the quartet of Westland Tigers flying on the flank of the Rotodyne squadron "for a bit of extra security. In any event, the ANC have never even had any sort of anti-aircraft systems beyond heavy machine guns, so we’ve got no fear of Grails or Gaskins.”
Marwood looked at Hemmings and raised his eyebrow pointedly. There wasn’t any aerial filming this time around and they had been firmly briefed on what could and could not be discussed whilst en route to Charlotteville. One of those verboten topics, the second most important one after the Prince, had been any mention of Soviet arms in Katanga.
In any event, Captain Dornan either did not see their reaction or thought naught of it, so continued on his friendly talk.
“If you look down below, we’re actually going over one of our own heavy convoys now.”
They followed Dornan’s gesture to see a column of dozens of Antars carrying tanks, armoured personnel carriers and mobile guns, headed by a pair of the new Challengers. Even from this high, the BBC journalists could see their big turrets trained left and right.
“Isn’t it a bit risky to have to run everything on just one road?”
“Well, it’s not really our only option. Apart from the air, of course, there is the mine railway which we are using to bring up supplies and some of the local roads. It isn’t quite Arnhem.”
“They’re little more than narrow dirt tracks, though. Not something that could take a big convoy like that one.”
“Some are, but we’re widening and grading them every day. You're right, though. No professional commander worth his salt would simply pour his armour across a border on a single major road and hope to pot luck- that would be tailormade for disaster. No, we'll build more roads as well as modernising what these poor people have. Part of the hearts and minds campaign, you see, helping out the locals with their infrastructure, not just the big railway.”
“There has been a lot of emphasis on that idea of hearts and minds in Tancred.”
“Naturally. We did write the book on it in Malaya, quite literally! So far in this district, we’ve built over 50 new roads, dug dozens of new wells, established seven new hospitals and two dozen schools and started construction on two new local airfields and four cinemas. The RAMC has been running a vaccination programme for several months already. It is really at the heart of why we’re here - to help the Katangans and Congolese make their lives better and safer.”
“Very noble, Captain. Will you succeed?”
“Well, we’ve not failed at any challenge yet.”
’Yet’. Interesting…
“Five minutes until we land, sir.”
“Excellent. Make sure you’re strapped in, chaps. This last part is always a bit of fun.”
……………………………………..
"Bit of a change here, isn't it, Captain Dornan?"
"You're not wrong, sir."
Dornan looked out from the headquarters building alongside Lieutenant-Colonel Quinlan upon what had once been the nameless little hamlet where they had fought almost four years ago. The few dozen buildings, dilapidated garage and abandoned bar was now replaced by a modern, well-ordered fortified base at least five times larger with a chapel, a central keep, mess halls, an international radiotelephone exchange and expansive NAAFI and even a cinema. Where their little compound had been defended by the ad-hoc trenches, wire entanglements and sangars, the new base had a triple layered wall of steel reinforced concrete and bladewire; against Soviet heavy guns, it would have a life of minutes, but here in the savannah of Katanga, it was as indomitable a fortress as Krak des Chevaliers.
"We've got Brigade HQ coming up to here along with their own security detachment and the Independent Company as strategic reserve, so I'll be taking the battalion up to the new bridge at Goi-Ganga. Each of our companies will be spaced 15 miles apart for mutual fire support and reinforcement. As you know, you'll take 'A' Company up front to the north."
"Yes sir, all as planned."
"You'll be having some further reinforcements, as it were."
"I see. Guards Commando?"
"Yes, and a detachment of nice chaps from Hereford. The orders from Horse Guards are clear - give them a bit of a safe taste of life in the field and even a bit of action. If there is even a hint of risk, then use extreme force - a darn lot of it."
"Seems like a bit of a dance, sir."
"It is a dance, Captain, it all is. All the world's a stage, after all."
-
Simon Darkshade
- Posts: 1049
- Joined: Thu Nov 17, 2022 10:55 am
Re: Return to Charlotteville
Return to Charlotteville Part 5
The late afternoon sun bore down upon Captain Dornan with a relatively pleasant warmth, the humidity being blessedly less in the Congolese dry season. They’d chosen ‘A’ Company’s new home well and Camp Firefly was not without its comforts, but it’s primary role was still eminently plain. Fifteen miles north of the Luvua River, the forests cleared into a rough scar slashing from west to east as the land rose slightly. The location for the base had been planned and selected when they were still back in Blighty, the land cleared with a succession of blast bombs deployed by Valiants and shaped by heliborne combat wizards of the Royal Engineers.
Now there was a base better than they had defended last time around. The buildings were mainly Romney huts for the time being, but there was a landing ground for helicopters, a depot for their vehicles and, most importantly, gun positions for their mortars, artillery, tanks and rocket launchers. Beyond them was the infantry trenchline around the edge of the high ground, although the fieldworks had more of the nature of sangars to them due to their position, then the wire and open ground for a mile in every direction.
All up, in addition to the usual company weapons, Dornan could count on the support of four 125mm Light Guns, two 4.5” and four 3.5” mortars, two Valiant and four Royalist tanks, eight carriers including the RMGC boys and a single Catapult multiple rocket launcher. It was understandable given their position as the forward company, not to mention their rather special guest officers, but he supposed that with great firepower came great responsibility. If anything major came up, then he could simply call upon the big 6” guns and the rest of the 125s back at Goi-Ganga, which were positioned so they could cover any of the companies in the field, whilst the brigade reserves back in Charlotteville were less than 20 minutes flying time away. They had sixteen company firebases in their sector of Katanga, just one part in the web of firepower and control that stretched out across this part of darkest Africa.
If anything, they had learnt the lessons of the past too well. Where there had been separation from heavy weapons and guns in the past, they were now embedded at the lowest possible tactical level. This certainly provided for more lethality and firepower on the battlefield, as he had no doubt that he could take his company out on the attack against a foe ten or more times their strength with every assurance of success. This did promote a certain type of fighting solution to many potential problems as, when one has a warhammer on one’s belt, suddenly everything seemed like a nail.
‘Overkill’ was the word that the Panorama chap had used. As far as he was concerned, that spoke more to the fellow’s lack of experience in real combat than anything else. For Captain James Dornan, there was no such thing as being too strong or having too much firepower. So far, the only enemy forces they had encountered, the putative rebels, were the same type of disorganised light irregulars as the Simbas had been and had no answer to artillery, tanks and the air cover that extended over the entire province. This was the most substantive difference for the men on the ground, whether out on patrol or within their fortified camps - the RAF or the RFC were only ever a dozen or two minutes away. There were Harriers at Charlotteville alongside the new Tiger gunships and the Fairey Rotodyne Avengers, but chief pride of place there went to the great black Armstrong-Whitworth Warspite gunship. Further back at the big airfields were the squadrons of fast jets - British and South African Phantoms, Rhodesian Canberras and Spectres, Canadian Tornadoes and Kenyan Hunters. Overkill? Vae victis.
All of that tactical airpower required effective ground control and direction and ‘A’ Company had its detachment of RAF tactical air controllers at Firefly as did every other post. He had made immediate efforts to embed them within the company’s structure and this has paid off in the contacts they had fought so far. They were fairly gregarious chaps for Crabs, but did seem to view anyone who fought on the ground as faintly anachronistic eccentrics. The Royal Artillery lads were men after his own heart, in contrast - rough, ready and just as happy firing in direct support as at targets many miles away spotted by their funny little flying saucers. The Light Guns were the icing on the cake for him, giving the ability to reach out and touch somebody up to 20 miles away with ten 50lb shells a minute per gun. That was the main weapon of Firefly in truth.
They would be as vital and valuable here in Africa as they were in South Vietnam. There, artillery had proved its mettle in the jungle eminently clearly, with the new generation of British Commonwealth guns being central to victory in several hard fought battles. The one that Dornan kept coming back to was the Battle of Long Tan. Three years ago, an Australian infantry company had been engaged by a Viet Cong regiment during a battalion strength sweep in a rubber plantation and, once the enemy’s strength became apparent, called in an Uncle Target, bringing every gun and mortar deployed by the entire Anzac Division on them. The New Zealand Brigade had still been equipped with the automatic 25 pounders back then, but the Aussies had the newer 125s, 6 inch, along with a freshly deployed 8 inch regiment at Vung Tau; even the sole tank regiment within range had joined in. The king of battle had showed why he wore his crown on that day, even before the RAAF and RAN tacair could join in. The five dozen Chieftains of the relief force turned that battle into a rout and the VC had learned the bitter lesson not to take the bait of a seemingly lone company. Would the Simbas or whatever rebels were out there try the same thing?
For tomorrow’s operation, they would be able to call upon the guns here and back at battalion should it become necessary, but Dornan hardly thought it likely. He would be taking out over half of the company out into the field on a sweep and clear operation of a ruined hamlet nine miles to the north after there had been reports of suspected insurgent forces in the vicinity. Aerial recce runs had not found any definitive sight of their presence, but orders had come down from on high. A show of force mission, so he was going to show force alright - he was taking out armoured cars, carriers and tanks and the Royal Flying Corps boys would be flying cover with four Bulldogs up top.
They would have company on the ground, too - a platoon of tough bush soldiers of the Rhodesian Light Infantry and one of Zulus. Second to none in their repute for ferocity and military prowess across all of the Dark Continent, the Zulu Regiments were one of the most feared forces in all of Her Majesty’s armies, so he had welcomed the news of their attachment when the coded news had come in yesterday. The sight of sixty of the tall seasoned warriors running into Camp Firefly clad in their characteristic mix of special camouflage uniforms, leopard skins and pith helmets and carrying their traditional assegai bayonets would be enough to give any foe pause. After all, when the Zulu charged, he charged home.
The two supporting platoons would take the flanks and act as the horns of the buffalo (he had garnered an approving nod from the English lieutenant commanding the Zulus for that one) whilst he pushed forward with his carriers covered by the tanks, Maxims and mortars. Apart from those particular sledgehammers, he did have two experimental weapons attached for field testing - the L18 and the L2A9; innocuous names for what they offered, the new automatic mortar and a belt fed Wombat respectively. If there were any surprises, he had the Catapult back here registered and ready to plaster the area with rockets and the 4.5 mortars standing by to slime the buggers with Green Cross. His orders had been quite clear - it was time to take off the white gloves.
“Right then. We depart at 0920 in two coordinated columns under Lieutenants Seaworth and Cunningham, reach the target in 76 minutes and advance in open V to cover the flanks of whatever enemy force is in place. The Rhodies take the right, the Zulus take the left and I’ll control the reserve platoon and support back here.” He smacked the map with his swagger stick, indicating the positions for the forthcoming attack with an exaggerated flourish, as requested by the dashed Panorama director. The real briefing had already taken place; this was just the television adaption, he thought with a wry internal smile.
“Both of our own forward platoons are to advance through their phase lines in alternate order using fire and movement. The Saxons are to be in immediate support and the tanks in secondary support; should the enemy display any heavy resistance, then we give them a heavy stonk with the 3.5s before the Light Guns start up a walking barrage on their target lines, shifting up 50 yards every four minutes, as needed. The helos will be waiting for red smoke; anything heavier needing fast movers will be purple. The 6 inch battery back at Goi-Ganga is ‘Cinderella’. Nothing goes to chance here, gentlemen. Questions?”
This was the moment when there weren’t supposed to be any questions, but the striking blond lieutenant at the back with the insignia of the Coldstream Guards raised his hand.
“Yes, Lieutenant Romanov?”
“What will be the procedure for pursuit, Major? If the enemy run?” He spoke in perfect received pronounciation without a hint of a foreign accent.
You stay put, so I can get you on back to your Scottish palace safe and sound was what Dornan would have liked to say, but this was the real world, even when on television.
“A good question, Your Imperial Highness. During engagement, it will be purely a section issue. Beyond the scope of Phase Line Zeta, it will require approval from myself. We don’t want subunits going off in hot pursuit and finding themselves in hot water or even worse, if things got a bit sticky. Orders are quite precise on that.”
“I see.” Strange that one could find Russian ice in Katanga.
“I would say that is standard common sense, Alex, not just nannying us in particular.” Romanov’s erstwhile cousin, styled as Lieutenant Wales for Tancred cut in affably. “Without a proper notion of what the enemy have in the field, it wouldn’t be responsible to go charging in like the Cossacks. Present company excepted.” He nodded at the two talk swarthy guards in the corner who stood like silent sentinels.
“Very good, very good. I see your point, as ever.”
Now it was Dornan’s turn to nod ever so slightly at his future King. A decent head on one’s shoulders in the field was a useful enough trait for a sovereign, but adding deft diplomacy to boot was a good and decent sign.
“Thank you. Anything further? Good. In that case, it is time we were to table.”
The delectable smells emanating from the officer’s mess through the afternoon were one positive to the ‘guests’ in his care, as the best cook in the whole division had been seconded. The fellow wasn’t even Army Catering Corps, but rather an officer and gentleman himself from 25 RTR! It would be interesting to see what the erstwhile Captain Keith Floyd had come up with this time.
…………………………………………….
Their repast had indeed been the epitome of salubrious scrumptiousity, the cook Captain having discovered the very best of their fresh rations and supplies before the morrow’s operation. As well as the soldier’s traditional roast meats and beefsteaks, Floyd had whipped up a lamb curry (always popular to those who had spent time East of Suez) somehow got hold of a brace of salmon and half a dozen lobsters; it seemed that having the heir to the Empire as a guest had its benefits. The BBC fellows chipped in from their own supplies of strange fruit and the Prince’s wizard proffered some powdered corn from his Hollywood sojourn in Venice, where apparently there weren’t the same spaghetti trees as elsewhere in Italy. In any event, it would be more than sufficient to prepare them for the morning.
The young SAS officer commanding the Royal Duties Patrol, Lieutenant Peter Bailey, would be taking his men out for a bit of final reconnaissance after dark, using their new active camouflage stealth armour, so he would at least get some better intelligence on the force awaiting them. In Malaya, they had been known as Ma Rung, the Phantoms of the Jungle; now ghosts would walk on this African night. If he’d had his druthers, then he would have attacked at night, using the advantage given by their darkvision sights, but Division wanted to be able to keep track of the enemy from their eyes in the sky. Not for the first time, he gave an inward wry grin at just how much the Army was using Tancred as a field laboratory. It was certainly a more controlled environment than South Vietnam, even though it seemed like they were winning there.
The late afternoon sun bore down upon Captain Dornan with a relatively pleasant warmth, the humidity being blessedly less in the Congolese dry season. They’d chosen ‘A’ Company’s new home well and Camp Firefly was not without its comforts, but it’s primary role was still eminently plain. Fifteen miles north of the Luvua River, the forests cleared into a rough scar slashing from west to east as the land rose slightly. The location for the base had been planned and selected when they were still back in Blighty, the land cleared with a succession of blast bombs deployed by Valiants and shaped by heliborne combat wizards of the Royal Engineers.
Now there was a base better than they had defended last time around. The buildings were mainly Romney huts for the time being, but there was a landing ground for helicopters, a depot for their vehicles and, most importantly, gun positions for their mortars, artillery, tanks and rocket launchers. Beyond them was the infantry trenchline around the edge of the high ground, although the fieldworks had more of the nature of sangars to them due to their position, then the wire and open ground for a mile in every direction.
All up, in addition to the usual company weapons, Dornan could count on the support of four 125mm Light Guns, two 4.5” and four 3.5” mortars, two Valiant and four Royalist tanks, eight carriers including the RMGC boys and a single Catapult multiple rocket launcher. It was understandable given their position as the forward company, not to mention their rather special guest officers, but he supposed that with great firepower came great responsibility. If anything major came up, then he could simply call upon the big 6” guns and the rest of the 125s back at Goi-Ganga, which were positioned so they could cover any of the companies in the field, whilst the brigade reserves back in Charlotteville were less than 20 minutes flying time away. They had sixteen company firebases in their sector of Katanga, just one part in the web of firepower and control that stretched out across this part of darkest Africa.
If anything, they had learnt the lessons of the past too well. Where there had been separation from heavy weapons and guns in the past, they were now embedded at the lowest possible tactical level. This certainly provided for more lethality and firepower on the battlefield, as he had no doubt that he could take his company out on the attack against a foe ten or more times their strength with every assurance of success. This did promote a certain type of fighting solution to many potential problems as, when one has a warhammer on one’s belt, suddenly everything seemed like a nail.
‘Overkill’ was the word that the Panorama chap had used. As far as he was concerned, that spoke more to the fellow’s lack of experience in real combat than anything else. For Captain James Dornan, there was no such thing as being too strong or having too much firepower. So far, the only enemy forces they had encountered, the putative rebels, were the same type of disorganised light irregulars as the Simbas had been and had no answer to artillery, tanks and the air cover that extended over the entire province. This was the most substantive difference for the men on the ground, whether out on patrol or within their fortified camps - the RAF or the RFC were only ever a dozen or two minutes away. There were Harriers at Charlotteville alongside the new Tiger gunships and the Fairey Rotodyne Avengers, but chief pride of place there went to the great black Armstrong-Whitworth Warspite gunship. Further back at the big airfields were the squadrons of fast jets - British and South African Phantoms, Rhodesian Canberras and Spectres, Canadian Tornadoes and Kenyan Hunters. Overkill? Vae victis.
All of that tactical airpower required effective ground control and direction and ‘A’ Company had its detachment of RAF tactical air controllers at Firefly as did every other post. He had made immediate efforts to embed them within the company’s structure and this has paid off in the contacts they had fought so far. They were fairly gregarious chaps for Crabs, but did seem to view anyone who fought on the ground as faintly anachronistic eccentrics. The Royal Artillery lads were men after his own heart, in contrast - rough, ready and just as happy firing in direct support as at targets many miles away spotted by their funny little flying saucers. The Light Guns were the icing on the cake for him, giving the ability to reach out and touch somebody up to 20 miles away with ten 50lb shells a minute per gun. That was the main weapon of Firefly in truth.
They would be as vital and valuable here in Africa as they were in South Vietnam. There, artillery had proved its mettle in the jungle eminently clearly, with the new generation of British Commonwealth guns being central to victory in several hard fought battles. The one that Dornan kept coming back to was the Battle of Long Tan. Three years ago, an Australian infantry company had been engaged by a Viet Cong regiment during a battalion strength sweep in a rubber plantation and, once the enemy’s strength became apparent, called in an Uncle Target, bringing every gun and mortar deployed by the entire Anzac Division on them. The New Zealand Brigade had still been equipped with the automatic 25 pounders back then, but the Aussies had the newer 125s, 6 inch, along with a freshly deployed 8 inch regiment at Vung Tau; even the sole tank regiment within range had joined in. The king of battle had showed why he wore his crown on that day, even before the RAAF and RAN tacair could join in. The five dozen Chieftains of the relief force turned that battle into a rout and the VC had learned the bitter lesson not to take the bait of a seemingly lone company. Would the Simbas or whatever rebels were out there try the same thing?
For tomorrow’s operation, they would be able to call upon the guns here and back at battalion should it become necessary, but Dornan hardly thought it likely. He would be taking out over half of the company out into the field on a sweep and clear operation of a ruined hamlet nine miles to the north after there had been reports of suspected insurgent forces in the vicinity. Aerial recce runs had not found any definitive sight of their presence, but orders had come down from on high. A show of force mission, so he was going to show force alright - he was taking out armoured cars, carriers and tanks and the Royal Flying Corps boys would be flying cover with four Bulldogs up top.
They would have company on the ground, too - a platoon of tough bush soldiers of the Rhodesian Light Infantry and one of Zulus. Second to none in their repute for ferocity and military prowess across all of the Dark Continent, the Zulu Regiments were one of the most feared forces in all of Her Majesty’s armies, so he had welcomed the news of their attachment when the coded news had come in yesterday. The sight of sixty of the tall seasoned warriors running into Camp Firefly clad in their characteristic mix of special camouflage uniforms, leopard skins and pith helmets and carrying their traditional assegai bayonets would be enough to give any foe pause. After all, when the Zulu charged, he charged home.
The two supporting platoons would take the flanks and act as the horns of the buffalo (he had garnered an approving nod from the English lieutenant commanding the Zulus for that one) whilst he pushed forward with his carriers covered by the tanks, Maxims and mortars. Apart from those particular sledgehammers, he did have two experimental weapons attached for field testing - the L18 and the L2A9; innocuous names for what they offered, the new automatic mortar and a belt fed Wombat respectively. If there were any surprises, he had the Catapult back here registered and ready to plaster the area with rockets and the 4.5 mortars standing by to slime the buggers with Green Cross. His orders had been quite clear - it was time to take off the white gloves.
“Right then. We depart at 0920 in two coordinated columns under Lieutenants Seaworth and Cunningham, reach the target in 76 minutes and advance in open V to cover the flanks of whatever enemy force is in place. The Rhodies take the right, the Zulus take the left and I’ll control the reserve platoon and support back here.” He smacked the map with his swagger stick, indicating the positions for the forthcoming attack with an exaggerated flourish, as requested by the dashed Panorama director. The real briefing had already taken place; this was just the television adaption, he thought with a wry internal smile.
“Both of our own forward platoons are to advance through their phase lines in alternate order using fire and movement. The Saxons are to be in immediate support and the tanks in secondary support; should the enemy display any heavy resistance, then we give them a heavy stonk with the 3.5s before the Light Guns start up a walking barrage on their target lines, shifting up 50 yards every four minutes, as needed. The helos will be waiting for red smoke; anything heavier needing fast movers will be purple. The 6 inch battery back at Goi-Ganga is ‘Cinderella’. Nothing goes to chance here, gentlemen. Questions?”
This was the moment when there weren’t supposed to be any questions, but the striking blond lieutenant at the back with the insignia of the Coldstream Guards raised his hand.
“Yes, Lieutenant Romanov?”
“What will be the procedure for pursuit, Major? If the enemy run?” He spoke in perfect received pronounciation without a hint of a foreign accent.
You stay put, so I can get you on back to your Scottish palace safe and sound was what Dornan would have liked to say, but this was the real world, even when on television.
“A good question, Your Imperial Highness. During engagement, it will be purely a section issue. Beyond the scope of Phase Line Zeta, it will require approval from myself. We don’t want subunits going off in hot pursuit and finding themselves in hot water or even worse, if things got a bit sticky. Orders are quite precise on that.”
“I see.” Strange that one could find Russian ice in Katanga.
“I would say that is standard common sense, Alex, not just nannying us in particular.” Romanov’s erstwhile cousin, styled as Lieutenant Wales for Tancred cut in affably. “Without a proper notion of what the enemy have in the field, it wouldn’t be responsible to go charging in like the Cossacks. Present company excepted.” He nodded at the two talk swarthy guards in the corner who stood like silent sentinels.
“Very good, very good. I see your point, as ever.”
Now it was Dornan’s turn to nod ever so slightly at his future King. A decent head on one’s shoulders in the field was a useful enough trait for a sovereign, but adding deft diplomacy to boot was a good and decent sign.
“Thank you. Anything further? Good. In that case, it is time we were to table.”
The delectable smells emanating from the officer’s mess through the afternoon were one positive to the ‘guests’ in his care, as the best cook in the whole division had been seconded. The fellow wasn’t even Army Catering Corps, but rather an officer and gentleman himself from 25 RTR! It would be interesting to see what the erstwhile Captain Keith Floyd had come up with this time.
…………………………………………….
Their repast had indeed been the epitome of salubrious scrumptiousity, the cook Captain having discovered the very best of their fresh rations and supplies before the morrow’s operation. As well as the soldier’s traditional roast meats and beefsteaks, Floyd had whipped up a lamb curry (always popular to those who had spent time East of Suez) somehow got hold of a brace of salmon and half a dozen lobsters; it seemed that having the heir to the Empire as a guest had its benefits. The BBC fellows chipped in from their own supplies of strange fruit and the Prince’s wizard proffered some powdered corn from his Hollywood sojourn in Venice, where apparently there weren’t the same spaghetti trees as elsewhere in Italy. In any event, it would be more than sufficient to prepare them for the morning.
The young SAS officer commanding the Royal Duties Patrol, Lieutenant Peter Bailey, would be taking his men out for a bit of final reconnaissance after dark, using their new active camouflage stealth armour, so he would at least get some better intelligence on the force awaiting them. In Malaya, they had been known as Ma Rung, the Phantoms of the Jungle; now ghosts would walk on this African night. If he’d had his druthers, then he would have attacked at night, using the advantage given by their darkvision sights, but Division wanted to be able to keep track of the enemy from their eyes in the sky. Not for the first time, he gave an inward wry grin at just how much the Army was using Tancred as a field laboratory. It was certainly a more controlled environment than South Vietnam, even though it seemed like they were winning there.
-
Simon Darkshade
- Posts: 1049
- Joined: Thu Nov 17, 2022 10:55 am
Re: Return to Charlotteville
Return to Charlotteville Part 6
They were early.
The two armoured columns of A Company had finished their bumpy drive up the bush tracks that had been barely worth the name, marked by the tracking beacons laid by the SAS recce during the night. The roughness of the African roads aside, the morning has been clear of any obstacles. The Rhodies and the Zulus were up on the flanks in their jumping off positions, well concealed in the bush.
Now, as Captain Dornan surveyed the hamlet before them with his powerful former Gestapo binoculars, he was both wary and intrigued. There was something there, that was certain. From his position half a mile away on the reverse slope of a slight ridge, he could see piles of rubble, brush and thornbushes that were clearly not natural, the glint of wire and metal.
“At least five hundred, Lieutenant Bailey?”
“Yes, and more drifting in through the morning. One outer skirmish line of defence, then their main scrapes fifty yards back and the village itself fifty yards beyond that.”
“How have they been behaving?”
“No fires though the night, but there were three separate moves out to their picket line delivering food and ammunition. Nothing further since they stood to before dawn. The choppers started to spook some of them after sunrise, as anticipated.”
The Bulldogs had been flying a series of seeming search patterns off to the east to attempt to attract the enemy’s interest and this had worked, in part at least.
“Very good, Lieutenant. You can take your boys to their positions; we’re going to kick off momentarily.”
“Righto, sir.”
Dornan glanced around. There seemed to be something strange in the air. No matter. Behind him, the tanks and carriers were starting up, behind the wall of silence conjured up by the estimable Mr. Lee; bringing their guns to bear would make up somewhat for not proceeding the attack with a proper bombardment, but that in itself was more of a political dance. Looking down at his watch, he counted off the last few seconds before bringing his whistle to his mouth and blowing.
There was an immediate cacophony of noise as the Valiants and Royalists lurched through the sound barrier, firing their 90mm and 125mm main guns in a simultaneous volley before opening up with their Maxims and machine guns. The RMGC tracks joined in with their own fire from either side of Dornan’s carrier, sending green, red and blue lines of tracer streaking into the enemy line. After the tanks had advanced barely fifty yards, they halted to cover the main advance.
Now came the Saxons, peeling out from behind the tanks and streaming forward, adding their own cannon fire to the din of battle, and then the infantry, advancing in steady rushes by section. After the initial shock of their attack had dissipated, the enemy began responding with their own small arms fire and here and there the flash of a rocket propelled grenade. Nothing dangerous or heavier -
WHANG!
A projectile slammed into the front of the forward-most Valiant, failing to penetrate its armour, but attracting its ire in the form of returned fire from her sister tanks within seconds. What it had been and whether the enemy gun had been destroyed or not were immaterial at that point, though; this Rubicon had been forced and the response was preordained.
Dornan lifted up his radio handset.
“3, this is 1. Goldilocks. I say again, Goldilocks.”
Barely two seconds passed by before the sound of mortar bombs overhead broke through the din of battle with their own note, plastering the enemy line. They were just the beginning, with their four minute barrage to be followed by the guns. There was one other element he had been cleared to use as well.
“Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair.”
With an enormous crash, the L29 125mm Battalion, Anti Tank Gun (Automatic) began to fire off its improbable belt fed rounds into the enemy at a rate of once every three seconds, ripping holes through the brush concealing their field works. As the second hand on his watch ticked over into the fourth minute, the recoilless rifle and the mortars fell abruptly silent.
After a heartbeat, the respite of their absence gave way to the shriek of heavier artillery. If any resistance has survived the mortars and tanks, the Light Guns would put paid to them. That they did with a rippling roll of explosions that smashed forward into the enemy positions, ripping them to matchwood and smoke. There was only half a battery at Firefly, but their forty shells a minute was enough, rolling forward like an inexorable cloud of death. First the skirmish line was enveloped, then what passed for their main line. This was the war of machines, of steel rain.
Finally, Dornan himself had had enough. Whatever had been in front of them, was no longer.
“Cease fire! Cease fire!”
The thunderous maelstrom of fire and death gave way to an eerie silence. Amid the wreckage before them, nothing moved or even moaned; only smoke and dust rose from the stillness of the shattered earth.
“All call signs, this is 1. Forward, carefully.”
The tanks and carriers started to roll forward, this time without firing. Not that it was needed. As they crunched through the few broken remains of the pitiful defensive line, nothing stirred to meet the bayonets of their tanks and men and those of the dead that could be seen laid still.
In his command carrier, Major Dornan could see the lights representing the Rhodies and the Zulus spring up on the flanks, just as scheduled, pushing in from both sides. There was no need to worry about any of his young officers tearing off in pursuit of a fleeing foe into a trap; that required survivors.
Shortly afterwards, the advance bought the company into the remains of the village. Dornan got out to walk through the blasted ruins of the huts, escorted by a brace of men who even now kept a wary eye out for any surprises. In the centre of the settlement with no name, or what passed for it, he found himself again in the presence of Lieutenant Bailey.
“A successful operation, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, sir. You could call it that.”
“Who were they? Simbas?”
“There’s no indication of that, Major. What we’ve been able to find here is a bit more disturbing.”
“In what way?” Dead God, don’t let it be civvies. Don’t let it be children.
“The bodies we’ve found have had ANC uniforms and weapons. It’s the bloody Congolese regulars, or something set up to look like them.”
“Indeed. They’re supposed to be up north of Kalemie, staying right out of our way. We’ll leave this to the green slime.”
“Good idea.” Bailey paused. “Just one thing. None of these bodies here look like any Congolese men I’ve seen before. Look at their skin colour and their foreheads.”
Dornan looked down at the corpse that the SAS Lieutenant had indicated. Curious…
“They’re Somalis.”
The deep sonorous voice unmistakably belonged to Master Lee, who had moved over next to them, obvious distaste for the butchery of modern warfare writ large on his face.
“Are you sure?”
“In 1941, I flew against the Italians over Somaliland and the Ogaden. I know.”
“Very good. I’ll pass that through to intelligence.”
Major Dornan wasn’t sure what had happened here in this twice ruined hamlet, nor who they had fought or to what end. Sweep and clear, indeed. Perhaps it was to send a message. The only thing he knew for sure is that none of this morning’s ‘work’ would ever make its way to a television screen; no doubt some concocted reenactment of a far more palatable nature would be substituted later down the line. They’d likely keep the show of force and everything up until the artillery hit; the effects of war never made for ‘nice’ results.
They were early.
The two armoured columns of A Company had finished their bumpy drive up the bush tracks that had been barely worth the name, marked by the tracking beacons laid by the SAS recce during the night. The roughness of the African roads aside, the morning has been clear of any obstacles. The Rhodies and the Zulus were up on the flanks in their jumping off positions, well concealed in the bush.
Now, as Captain Dornan surveyed the hamlet before them with his powerful former Gestapo binoculars, he was both wary and intrigued. There was something there, that was certain. From his position half a mile away on the reverse slope of a slight ridge, he could see piles of rubble, brush and thornbushes that were clearly not natural, the glint of wire and metal.
“At least five hundred, Lieutenant Bailey?”
“Yes, and more drifting in through the morning. One outer skirmish line of defence, then their main scrapes fifty yards back and the village itself fifty yards beyond that.”
“How have they been behaving?”
“No fires though the night, but there were three separate moves out to their picket line delivering food and ammunition. Nothing further since they stood to before dawn. The choppers started to spook some of them after sunrise, as anticipated.”
The Bulldogs had been flying a series of seeming search patterns off to the east to attempt to attract the enemy’s interest and this had worked, in part at least.
“Very good, Lieutenant. You can take your boys to their positions; we’re going to kick off momentarily.”
“Righto, sir.”
Dornan glanced around. There seemed to be something strange in the air. No matter. Behind him, the tanks and carriers were starting up, behind the wall of silence conjured up by the estimable Mr. Lee; bringing their guns to bear would make up somewhat for not proceeding the attack with a proper bombardment, but that in itself was more of a political dance. Looking down at his watch, he counted off the last few seconds before bringing his whistle to his mouth and blowing.
There was an immediate cacophony of noise as the Valiants and Royalists lurched through the sound barrier, firing their 90mm and 125mm main guns in a simultaneous volley before opening up with their Maxims and machine guns. The RMGC tracks joined in with their own fire from either side of Dornan’s carrier, sending green, red and blue lines of tracer streaking into the enemy line. After the tanks had advanced barely fifty yards, they halted to cover the main advance.
Now came the Saxons, peeling out from behind the tanks and streaming forward, adding their own cannon fire to the din of battle, and then the infantry, advancing in steady rushes by section. After the initial shock of their attack had dissipated, the enemy began responding with their own small arms fire and here and there the flash of a rocket propelled grenade. Nothing dangerous or heavier -
WHANG!
A projectile slammed into the front of the forward-most Valiant, failing to penetrate its armour, but attracting its ire in the form of returned fire from her sister tanks within seconds. What it had been and whether the enemy gun had been destroyed or not were immaterial at that point, though; this Rubicon had been forced and the response was preordained.
Dornan lifted up his radio handset.
“3, this is 1. Goldilocks. I say again, Goldilocks.”
Barely two seconds passed by before the sound of mortar bombs overhead broke through the din of battle with their own note, plastering the enemy line. They were just the beginning, with their four minute barrage to be followed by the guns. There was one other element he had been cleared to use as well.
“Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair.”
With an enormous crash, the L29 125mm Battalion, Anti Tank Gun (Automatic) began to fire off its improbable belt fed rounds into the enemy at a rate of once every three seconds, ripping holes through the brush concealing their field works. As the second hand on his watch ticked over into the fourth minute, the recoilless rifle and the mortars fell abruptly silent.
After a heartbeat, the respite of their absence gave way to the shriek of heavier artillery. If any resistance has survived the mortars and tanks, the Light Guns would put paid to them. That they did with a rippling roll of explosions that smashed forward into the enemy positions, ripping them to matchwood and smoke. There was only half a battery at Firefly, but their forty shells a minute was enough, rolling forward like an inexorable cloud of death. First the skirmish line was enveloped, then what passed for their main line. This was the war of machines, of steel rain.
Finally, Dornan himself had had enough. Whatever had been in front of them, was no longer.
“Cease fire! Cease fire!”
The thunderous maelstrom of fire and death gave way to an eerie silence. Amid the wreckage before them, nothing moved or even moaned; only smoke and dust rose from the stillness of the shattered earth.
“All call signs, this is 1. Forward, carefully.”
The tanks and carriers started to roll forward, this time without firing. Not that it was needed. As they crunched through the few broken remains of the pitiful defensive line, nothing stirred to meet the bayonets of their tanks and men and those of the dead that could be seen laid still.
In his command carrier, Major Dornan could see the lights representing the Rhodies and the Zulus spring up on the flanks, just as scheduled, pushing in from both sides. There was no need to worry about any of his young officers tearing off in pursuit of a fleeing foe into a trap; that required survivors.
Shortly afterwards, the advance bought the company into the remains of the village. Dornan got out to walk through the blasted ruins of the huts, escorted by a brace of men who even now kept a wary eye out for any surprises. In the centre of the settlement with no name, or what passed for it, he found himself again in the presence of Lieutenant Bailey.
“A successful operation, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, sir. You could call it that.”
“Who were they? Simbas?”
“There’s no indication of that, Major. What we’ve been able to find here is a bit more disturbing.”
“In what way?” Dead God, don’t let it be civvies. Don’t let it be children.
“The bodies we’ve found have had ANC uniforms and weapons. It’s the bloody Congolese regulars, or something set up to look like them.”
“Indeed. They’re supposed to be up north of Kalemie, staying right out of our way. We’ll leave this to the green slime.”
“Good idea.” Bailey paused. “Just one thing. None of these bodies here look like any Congolese men I’ve seen before. Look at their skin colour and their foreheads.”
Dornan looked down at the corpse that the SAS Lieutenant had indicated. Curious…
“They’re Somalis.”
The deep sonorous voice unmistakably belonged to Master Lee, who had moved over next to them, obvious distaste for the butchery of modern warfare writ large on his face.
“Are you sure?”
“In 1941, I flew against the Italians over Somaliland and the Ogaden. I know.”
“Very good. I’ll pass that through to intelligence.”
Major Dornan wasn’t sure what had happened here in this twice ruined hamlet, nor who they had fought or to what end. Sweep and clear, indeed. Perhaps it was to send a message. The only thing he knew for sure is that none of this morning’s ‘work’ would ever make its way to a television screen; no doubt some concocted reenactment of a far more palatable nature would be substituted later down the line. They’d likely keep the show of force and everything up until the artillery hit; the effects of war never made for ‘nice’ results.
-
Simon Darkshade
- Posts: 1049
- Joined: Thu Nov 17, 2022 10:55 am
Re: Return to Charlotteville
Return to Charlotteville Epilogue
A Company’s subsequent operations out of Camp Firefly over the next month, when they were not rotated back to immediate reserve at Goi-Ganga or to Charlotteville for rest and recreation, never really amounted to the intensity of the battle at the bush hamlet. The majority had been simply the hard slog of occasional fire missions, regular scout patrols, reconnaissances-in-force and all the grinding humdrum of pacification. After that, it was time to advance up to the Katanga border for their longer term base on the Lukuga River for the remainder of their tour in Katanga. The Commandos, Rangers and Special Forces had preceded them, clearing away any over presence of the shadowy enemies through the blandly dubbed euphemism of 'direct action.' Winning hearts and minds was unglamourous stuff at the best of times and the Katangan people, whilst grateful for schools, roads, hospitals and all of the other trappings of such a campaign, remained at best indifferent to the British effort.
The 47th Brigade had operated in Tanganika District, which had been one of the hotbeds of suspected Simba activity. Whatever there were there before the well telegraphed initiation of Operation Tancred, they had been few and far between after the initial spasms. One thing that was increasingly clear to Major Dornan as the weeks and months went by was that the sheer size of Katanga and indeed the Congo itself had proved much larger than maps and planning departments in London or Salisbury had fully comprehended. The 11th Infantry Division could cover the border, on paper, when stretched out from Kalemie on Lake Tanganyika to the Angolan border, but as it stood, their four brigades were spread out just a tad thinly across over three hundred thousand square miles of mostly underdeveloped land.
They had come to Katanga, definitely killed some men, most probably killed quite a few more, provided the ANC with an excellent network of bases and transport and spent perhaps a hundred million pounds of Her Majesty's on making the lives of a foreign, wretched people in the back of beyond perhaps a little less wretched. They had been lucky; the division lost only a few handfuls of their own men across the whole operation and certainly no notable equipment beyond the usual array of lorry accidents and breakdowns. Thankfully, the sojourn of the princes at what passed for the operational front in Tancred had been without incident, with both departing back to headquarters and thence another, more secure assignment before their return home, which followed in late July.
After last time, Dornan had had his fill of 'interesting' incidents and was glad to see them safely depart into the skies and even gladder to hear of their arrival in Salisbury. The Panorama crew had gone the same way a short time later, albeit in a less glamorous and more mundane convoy of lorries along the gleaming new road that linked Albertville and Charlotteville. At least they had exercised the good sense and decency to stay back and confine themselves to recording a (Ministry of Information vetted) fly on the wall's eye view of the whole mess. Colonel Quinlan had showed him some snippets of the Army's copy of the raw footage and it had seemed good enough for its intended purpose of showing off the squaddie in the field in the best possible light, whilst seeming as natural as possible.
Now, as Major Dornan looked out from the roof of the keep at Charlotteville Garrison, or Camp Hereward as the ever-expanding base had been renamed during his last stretch up-country, he wondered what it had all been about. The intelligence briefings had reported a decline in insurgent activity across the northern half of Katanga, but five months was surely too short a time to really measure anything tangible, wasn't it? He may have lost only two men from his company, but another half dozen had been shipped out to Cape Town before now with what was now termed Battle Exhaustion, even as there had not been any great battles in the old sense. Or perhaps there had been, really. All war, in its filth, dirt, blood and waste was a battle, after all, a battle of mankind against his old enemy - himself.
Had Tancred been a success? He sure as hell didn't know for sure, but it had not been one for the Simbas, or whoever their enemy had been. He simply knew what horrors he had seen wrought last time; if he was against that, then he was on the side of the angels. Dornan was proud, fiercely proud of what his men had achieved and how they had fought and bore themselves. In that much, it had been worth it.
Beyond that, only time would tell.
...................................................................
"Operation Tancred now is over. Our part in it had ended some time before; how long ago, we aren't permitted to say, for reasons that the Army has told us and we have not elected to share. Over twenty thousand men from England, Ireland, Scotland, Wales and Lyonesse, alongside their comrades from Canada, South Africa, Rhodesia and the West Indies and alongside Africa's own fighting soldiers of the Queen set out into Katanga back in June; now they are departing in honour and with the thanks of the Congolese, having left some of their own behind. I can't tell you about what has happened to the other units in the field beyond the company of the Connaught Rangers we were embedded in, but I've seen them all march back in with their heads and colours high.
Every officer that we've talked to, both in the footage we've showed you and off air, has agreed that for the British Army, this is 'mission accomplished.' General Mitchell's strategy was executed with professionalism and precision and this victory belongs to all of his subordinates just as it does to the British Empire's renowned 'Mad Mitch'. The Congolese Army officers and their government officials have been nothing less than effusive in their praise of what Britain has done here. You've seen over these past weeks how this battle was fought and how it was won; of how the right application of firepower for freedom leads to victory. A stand for the free world needed to be taken, and we took it. The Congo and Africa are safer for it."
"Cut!" Thomas Hemmings waited two heartbeats for any intervention from the MoI or MI7 liaison, then exhaled. "And that's a wrap, gentlemen." He nodded his thanks to Marwood for his stern delivery of the fifth version of the conclusion, and looked forward to getting on the next darn plane home to England. He'd had enough of Africa for one, no, two lifetimes.
Would it all be enough? Would this be the big break he had been seeking, so that he could move on up to proper films or even, dare he think it, America? Would this turn out to be the British 'Frontline - Vietnam' that Aunty and Whitehall were after? Perhaps. Perhaps. Now there would be the long process of production, editing, adding in certain sequences and completing some interviews with the officers and men back at home. At the end of it all, he'd have one heck of a programme.
Beyond that, only time would tell.
..........................................................
"Well, Prime Minister, we did it."
"I'll agree with that part of what you say, Richard, but not what you didn't. The Army certainly did what it set out to do."
"You wanted a successful intervention in Katanga; that's what was delivered."
"There isn't any doubt that the Army did what it was ordered to do. I don't think it is a success, though. There are layers of it all. Let's break it down. On the tactical and operational level level -
"We killed over 2000 Simbas and other communist terrorists and broke whatever forces were present on the ground."
"Yes, but killing men isn't the most difficult thing for a Western army in Africa to do. One tenth of our numbers in mercenaries did the same job in '66. Strategically, though, our intervention ensured that Katanga got some breathing space to stabilise and that their government doesn't fall this year."
"Another success then."
"In purely military terms, I agree with you, Richard, but we need to step back. Weighed up against them are that we deployed a whole division for almost half a year to no great effect and spent over £200 million in doing it. We went there, did what we planned to do and got out without losing men, but that doesn't make it any less of a waste. You see?"
"Naturally, Prime Minister. 'Full support' is costly, after all. A waste? Only insofar as all war and all government spending are wastes, which has never been the line we've pushed."
"Absolutely. We can leave that type of talk to the Radicals and the Cobdenites. Some wastes are necessary in the greater interests of the realm. Take another step back though, and what do we see? What has Tancred shown us about doctrine and how we do this?"
Pendragon sipped his drink and cocked his head as he looked out blankly at the blurred window for a good half a minute.
"What worked in Malaya and Kenya and seems to be slowly working in Vietnam isn't going to work everywhere. The hearts and minds approach isn't an army boot, but Cinderella's slipper."
"Excellent. That is what we need. We already know what it is we know, and that there are some things that the Reds, for example, are up to that we don't know about."
"Known unknowns."
"Exactly. The mirror image of the first part is also true, there are things that we know that we don't know. Out there beyond that, on the other side of the looking glass, there is a fourth case - what we do not know that we do not know. In this case, how a successful doctrine and approach will go in a very different theatre. That's the second largest thing that made this a success, despite the cost, despite the fog of war on the ground."
"What was the most important?"
....................................
"It's bloody simple, Walter, simple as the map in front of our faces." Sharpe stabbed once, twice, thrice at the map of Katanga on his desk, a half bemused, half feral grin slashing across his lean face.
"Roads. Railways. Bases. Infrastructure."
"Right. Any bugger in a Phantom or firing artillery can kill men on the ground, be they in Africa, Vietnam or darkest Lancashire. What we have done is get those bases there and build up the roads we'll need one day."
"You think it will be soon, Richard?"
"I hope it will be half past never, but if wishes were fishes, we'd all be swimming in a sea of gold. If the next war comes, and we are fighting in Africa, then we need Katanga to control the centre of the whole bloody continent. We can hold the Central Kenyan Line and defend the Cape to Cairo, but we can't be outflanked up the middle."
"So we have not just the roads and the air bases, and will have the extra rail lines up from Rhodesia when they are done, but we have a whole network of fire support bases, just waiting to be used again."
"And maps, Walter, maps. Bridges, villages, the lay of the land and artillery grids, all worked out and tested in the field, twice over. When the next war comes, it will be quite the weapon.
"Indeed, Richard. Time will tell."
.....................................
Later that evening, Stanley Barton sat back in his study and gazed at the map on the wall. The world was a complex one, often dark and full of defeats and frustrations, but every shroud had a silver lining if only one looked at it from the right angle.
He looked again at Africa. His eyes flitted from Somalia down to the Congo. Men from the Ogaden, Lee had said, and he trust the word of that man like he trusted steel. There hadn't been much of an issue there for some time, not like over in the West in Biafra...
Barton froze. Walking over to the map, he grabbed the poker from next to the fireplace and laid it across, first from the East to Katanga, then from the West.
Curious. At least it would be curious, if he lived in a world where coincidences were merely that. This would bear some examination.
..............................................
Patrice Lumumba felt a sudden chill - the very last thing one would expect here - and looked up. Across the table, the leader had suddenly gone pale.
"Are you well, my friend?" Surely he would not be sick now, not with Che arriving in the morning?
Simba shook his head, regaining his composure.
"Yes, it was nothing. Someone just walked over my grave."
A Company’s subsequent operations out of Camp Firefly over the next month, when they were not rotated back to immediate reserve at Goi-Ganga or to Charlotteville for rest and recreation, never really amounted to the intensity of the battle at the bush hamlet. The majority had been simply the hard slog of occasional fire missions, regular scout patrols, reconnaissances-in-force and all the grinding humdrum of pacification. After that, it was time to advance up to the Katanga border for their longer term base on the Lukuga River for the remainder of their tour in Katanga. The Commandos, Rangers and Special Forces had preceded them, clearing away any over presence of the shadowy enemies through the blandly dubbed euphemism of 'direct action.' Winning hearts and minds was unglamourous stuff at the best of times and the Katangan people, whilst grateful for schools, roads, hospitals and all of the other trappings of such a campaign, remained at best indifferent to the British effort.
The 47th Brigade had operated in Tanganika District, which had been one of the hotbeds of suspected Simba activity. Whatever there were there before the well telegraphed initiation of Operation Tancred, they had been few and far between after the initial spasms. One thing that was increasingly clear to Major Dornan as the weeks and months went by was that the sheer size of Katanga and indeed the Congo itself had proved much larger than maps and planning departments in London or Salisbury had fully comprehended. The 11th Infantry Division could cover the border, on paper, when stretched out from Kalemie on Lake Tanganyika to the Angolan border, but as it stood, their four brigades were spread out just a tad thinly across over three hundred thousand square miles of mostly underdeveloped land.
They had come to Katanga, definitely killed some men, most probably killed quite a few more, provided the ANC with an excellent network of bases and transport and spent perhaps a hundred million pounds of Her Majesty's on making the lives of a foreign, wretched people in the back of beyond perhaps a little less wretched. They had been lucky; the division lost only a few handfuls of their own men across the whole operation and certainly no notable equipment beyond the usual array of lorry accidents and breakdowns. Thankfully, the sojourn of the princes at what passed for the operational front in Tancred had been without incident, with both departing back to headquarters and thence another, more secure assignment before their return home, which followed in late July.
After last time, Dornan had had his fill of 'interesting' incidents and was glad to see them safely depart into the skies and even gladder to hear of their arrival in Salisbury. The Panorama crew had gone the same way a short time later, albeit in a less glamorous and more mundane convoy of lorries along the gleaming new road that linked Albertville and Charlotteville. At least they had exercised the good sense and decency to stay back and confine themselves to recording a (Ministry of Information vetted) fly on the wall's eye view of the whole mess. Colonel Quinlan had showed him some snippets of the Army's copy of the raw footage and it had seemed good enough for its intended purpose of showing off the squaddie in the field in the best possible light, whilst seeming as natural as possible.
Now, as Major Dornan looked out from the roof of the keep at Charlotteville Garrison, or Camp Hereward as the ever-expanding base had been renamed during his last stretch up-country, he wondered what it had all been about. The intelligence briefings had reported a decline in insurgent activity across the northern half of Katanga, but five months was surely too short a time to really measure anything tangible, wasn't it? He may have lost only two men from his company, but another half dozen had been shipped out to Cape Town before now with what was now termed Battle Exhaustion, even as there had not been any great battles in the old sense. Or perhaps there had been, really. All war, in its filth, dirt, blood and waste was a battle, after all, a battle of mankind against his old enemy - himself.
Had Tancred been a success? He sure as hell didn't know for sure, but it had not been one for the Simbas, or whoever their enemy had been. He simply knew what horrors he had seen wrought last time; if he was against that, then he was on the side of the angels. Dornan was proud, fiercely proud of what his men had achieved and how they had fought and bore themselves. In that much, it had been worth it.
Beyond that, only time would tell.
...................................................................
"Operation Tancred now is over. Our part in it had ended some time before; how long ago, we aren't permitted to say, for reasons that the Army has told us and we have not elected to share. Over twenty thousand men from England, Ireland, Scotland, Wales and Lyonesse, alongside their comrades from Canada, South Africa, Rhodesia and the West Indies and alongside Africa's own fighting soldiers of the Queen set out into Katanga back in June; now they are departing in honour and with the thanks of the Congolese, having left some of their own behind. I can't tell you about what has happened to the other units in the field beyond the company of the Connaught Rangers we were embedded in, but I've seen them all march back in with their heads and colours high.
Every officer that we've talked to, both in the footage we've showed you and off air, has agreed that for the British Army, this is 'mission accomplished.' General Mitchell's strategy was executed with professionalism and precision and this victory belongs to all of his subordinates just as it does to the British Empire's renowned 'Mad Mitch'. The Congolese Army officers and their government officials have been nothing less than effusive in their praise of what Britain has done here. You've seen over these past weeks how this battle was fought and how it was won; of how the right application of firepower for freedom leads to victory. A stand for the free world needed to be taken, and we took it. The Congo and Africa are safer for it."
"Cut!" Thomas Hemmings waited two heartbeats for any intervention from the MoI or MI7 liaison, then exhaled. "And that's a wrap, gentlemen." He nodded his thanks to Marwood for his stern delivery of the fifth version of the conclusion, and looked forward to getting on the next darn plane home to England. He'd had enough of Africa for one, no, two lifetimes.
Would it all be enough? Would this be the big break he had been seeking, so that he could move on up to proper films or even, dare he think it, America? Would this turn out to be the British 'Frontline - Vietnam' that Aunty and Whitehall were after? Perhaps. Perhaps. Now there would be the long process of production, editing, adding in certain sequences and completing some interviews with the officers and men back at home. At the end of it all, he'd have one heck of a programme.
Beyond that, only time would tell.
..........................................................
"Well, Prime Minister, we did it."
"I'll agree with that part of what you say, Richard, but not what you didn't. The Army certainly did what it set out to do."
"You wanted a successful intervention in Katanga; that's what was delivered."
"There isn't any doubt that the Army did what it was ordered to do. I don't think it is a success, though. There are layers of it all. Let's break it down. On the tactical and operational level level -
"We killed over 2000 Simbas and other communist terrorists and broke whatever forces were present on the ground."
"Yes, but killing men isn't the most difficult thing for a Western army in Africa to do. One tenth of our numbers in mercenaries did the same job in '66. Strategically, though, our intervention ensured that Katanga got some breathing space to stabilise and that their government doesn't fall this year."
"Another success then."
"In purely military terms, I agree with you, Richard, but we need to step back. Weighed up against them are that we deployed a whole division for almost half a year to no great effect and spent over £200 million in doing it. We went there, did what we planned to do and got out without losing men, but that doesn't make it any less of a waste. You see?"
"Naturally, Prime Minister. 'Full support' is costly, after all. A waste? Only insofar as all war and all government spending are wastes, which has never been the line we've pushed."
"Absolutely. We can leave that type of talk to the Radicals and the Cobdenites. Some wastes are necessary in the greater interests of the realm. Take another step back though, and what do we see? What has Tancred shown us about doctrine and how we do this?"
Pendragon sipped his drink and cocked his head as he looked out blankly at the blurred window for a good half a minute.
"What worked in Malaya and Kenya and seems to be slowly working in Vietnam isn't going to work everywhere. The hearts and minds approach isn't an army boot, but Cinderella's slipper."
"Excellent. That is what we need. We already know what it is we know, and that there are some things that the Reds, for example, are up to that we don't know about."
"Known unknowns."
"Exactly. The mirror image of the first part is also true, there are things that we know that we don't know. Out there beyond that, on the other side of the looking glass, there is a fourth case - what we do not know that we do not know. In this case, how a successful doctrine and approach will go in a very different theatre. That's the second largest thing that made this a success, despite the cost, despite the fog of war on the ground."
"What was the most important?"
....................................
"It's bloody simple, Walter, simple as the map in front of our faces." Sharpe stabbed once, twice, thrice at the map of Katanga on his desk, a half bemused, half feral grin slashing across his lean face.
"Roads. Railways. Bases. Infrastructure."
"Right. Any bugger in a Phantom or firing artillery can kill men on the ground, be they in Africa, Vietnam or darkest Lancashire. What we have done is get those bases there and build up the roads we'll need one day."
"You think it will be soon, Richard?"
"I hope it will be half past never, but if wishes were fishes, we'd all be swimming in a sea of gold. If the next war comes, and we are fighting in Africa, then we need Katanga to control the centre of the whole bloody continent. We can hold the Central Kenyan Line and defend the Cape to Cairo, but we can't be outflanked up the middle."
"So we have not just the roads and the air bases, and will have the extra rail lines up from Rhodesia when they are done, but we have a whole network of fire support bases, just waiting to be used again."
"And maps, Walter, maps. Bridges, villages, the lay of the land and artillery grids, all worked out and tested in the field, twice over. When the next war comes, it will be quite the weapon.
"Indeed, Richard. Time will tell."
.....................................
Later that evening, Stanley Barton sat back in his study and gazed at the map on the wall. The world was a complex one, often dark and full of defeats and frustrations, but every shroud had a silver lining if only one looked at it from the right angle.
He looked again at Africa. His eyes flitted from Somalia down to the Congo. Men from the Ogaden, Lee had said, and he trust the word of that man like he trusted steel. There hadn't been much of an issue there for some time, not like over in the West in Biafra...
Barton froze. Walking over to the map, he grabbed the poker from next to the fireplace and laid it across, first from the East to Katanga, then from the West.
Curious. At least it would be curious, if he lived in a world where coincidences were merely that. This would bear some examination.
..............................................
Patrice Lumumba felt a sudden chill - the very last thing one would expect here - and looked up. Across the table, the leader had suddenly gone pale.
"Are you well, my friend?" Surely he would not be sick now, not with Che arriving in the morning?
Simba shook his head, regaining his composure.
"Yes, it was nothing. Someone just walked over my grave."
-
jemhouston
- Posts: 3837
- Joined: Fri Nov 18, 2022 12:38 am
Re: Return to Charlotteville
Not an ending, but that's all for now.
Excellent story.
Excellent story.
-
Simon Darkshade
- Posts: 1049
- Joined: Thu Nov 17, 2022 10:55 am
Re: Return to Charlotteville
Thank you. The last 12 months got very busy, so I kept chopping and changing at my ideas until one came that just clicked and gave me this epilogue tonight.
What I wanted to get across is that not all successes and failures are clear cut; not all enemies are clearly known; and that something is going on in Africa.
I've dropped some stuff in the timeline updates that shows how some parts seemingly play out, but my intent with those tidbits is always to be able to flesh them out into little stories, like this one and its predecessor. One of the best aspects of TBOverse and TLWverse is the little side stories which add to the world building, flavour and depth of the setting. For Dark Earth, it looks like I'll have to write it all myself, but that isn't an issue or complaint, just a matter of finding the time. Hopefully this will be the year for polishing off a lot of the partway done stories and pieces.
I feel now that there is more to be told in the 'African Cycle', possibly drawing on some ideas from 1955 Dirk Bogarde film 'Simba', the 1955 novel 'Flamingo Feather' by Laurens Van Der Post and a few other bits and pieces.
What I wanted to get across is that not all successes and failures are clear cut; not all enemies are clearly known; and that something is going on in Africa.
I've dropped some stuff in the timeline updates that shows how some parts seemingly play out, but my intent with those tidbits is always to be able to flesh them out into little stories, like this one and its predecessor. One of the best aspects of TBOverse and TLWverse is the little side stories which add to the world building, flavour and depth of the setting. For Dark Earth, it looks like I'll have to write it all myself, but that isn't an issue or complaint, just a matter of finding the time. Hopefully this will be the year for polishing off a lot of the partway done stories and pieces.
I feel now that there is more to be told in the 'African Cycle', possibly drawing on some ideas from 1955 Dirk Bogarde film 'Simba', the 1955 novel 'Flamingo Feather' by Laurens Van Der Post and a few other bits and pieces.