1 Rifles Company, 2nd Battalion, ‘Moerasjagers’
Zwijnweg Township, Katoenwissel, New Batavia
Like a smear of pink paint, the sun wrought it's dying hue over the dim evening sky. The front lights of the Vosshond LTV (light tactical vehicle) were switched on, illuminating the path ahead and indeed the ever darker dwellings beside the dirt road. Atop the lightly armoured four-wheeled drive vehicle, training his machine gun on the alleyways and doors of the bustling slum was Corporal of Rifles Sjoerd Bokkenhoeder, an NCO of four years and coming towards the end of his contract. He could continue his service within the Beëdigdmacht and become a sergeant with a cushy pension awaiting him, or leave the force and find a new job. Sjoerd had given this little thought but turned over in his mind whether a change of scenery would be nice. The buckle on his helmet dug into his chin and even with the coolness of evening approaching the thick swarm of insects and the humidity made for a sweaty face, the remains of swatted flies mixed into the dried sweat. Sjoerd, and indeed all the patrol hoped only to return to barracks for a shower, cooler attire and an icy stiff drink.
The Company was patrolling one of the many ‘Dorpschaps’ or townships that lay on the outskirts of Katoenwissel; the provincial capital of Nieuw Blaubossen. Katoenwissel, or in English; Cotton Exchange was the heartland of the Afro-Batavi; freed slaves brought to New Batavia from Africa to work the plantations of cotton, tobacco, rice, sugar and of course the mines; formerly coal but more recently uranium too. Freed in 1898 by the 1897 Emancipation Act they continued in their previous jobs but as shareholders; most were rarely paid. Many revolts, during and after slavery had occurred but most had been destroyed by the Beëdigdmacht; the domestic branch of the armed forces; serving the roles as army, police and counter terrorism units. The most significant was the 1968 Uprising, funded and trained by the USSR the Afro-Batavi launched an insurgency coupled by strikes and riots. Whilst the main body of dissent was rooted out and destroyed with it leaders executed, insurgents fought in the swampland forests for another decade. It also scuppered the attempts of moderate afro-Batavi activists trying to integrate into the wider white and Créole society. Zwijnweg Township was a slum, makeshift houses on an open plain, most of its inhabitants working in the cotton fields, pig farms and sugar plantations for pitiful amounts of money. They were no go zones for whites or Créoles and only Beëdigdmacht patrols like this one were suitable for the job of policing these hostile communities. Usually patrols were met with sullen faces and children running provocatively in front of the vehicles. Very rarely but not totally unheard of, were the patrols attacked. Many still had hidden weapons; AK-47s, machetes, rocket propelled grenades. Most would simply drag the soldiers out and hack them to death with kitchen or farming implements.
But today even the children weren't kicking a ball across the track or pulling faces at them. They stood meekly by their houses, milling around in suppressed agitation.
“Saargent!” Called Sjoerd into the belly of the LTV, peering down.
“Korporaal?”
“Awfully quiet Sergeant.”
“Just stay wary Corporal.” Came the gruff reply.
And so the LTV continued its way, crunching over the loose dirt track, Sjoerd swivelling in the machine gun to watch far and wide. Like a serpent flying forth to kill its nervous yet unsuspecting prey a propelled grenade flew into the ground before the vehicle, bursting into a ball of flame and debris. Sjoerd immediately fired into the general vicinity of its launch, cutting down a woman washing clothes on a line and tearing down a plywood wall into wood dust, killing the launcher behind it. Whilst doing this the road around them burst to life, most of the negroes running for their lives, screaming, yet a few emerging from their hovels with light arms began firing at the vehicle, namely at Sjoerd who fired back until his bullet-ridden cadaver slumped into the car below. Surrounded, the soldiers returned fire where they could, lobbing the odd grenade out of the vehicle, until leaning over the pierced body of the driver, the Sergeant activated the red phosphorus; sending a shower of acidic substance several yards forward into some of the insurgents who writhed in agony as the remainder of the vehicle occupants fled its interior. Taking cover in a side ditch in the road they held off, the sergeant demanding a helicopter for evacuation over the radio. But it was too little too late. Encircled, outgunned and running low on ammunition they prepared to receive several dozen implement wielding negroes who descended into their position.
Governor House, Constantijnstad, New Batavia
The sharp crack of several hundred boots resounded across the parade square of the Governor’s Residence; 3rd Battalion of the Yeoman Guard, the guard battalion assigned to duties in New Batavia was awaiting its weekly review by the Governor-General; Lord Lodewijk de Waaij the Baron of Veerburcht-op-Muijzen. Lord de Waaij was a relatively new governor of the Territory; three months in. He was a close friend of the Steward of the Commonwealth; the Head of State and he had seen the job as an opportunity to expand his realm of understanding, not to mention enjoy the near tropical delights of New Batavia; its food and geography. Like the Battalion he was clad in white military uniform, with pith helmet and black feather plume, and black riding boots. Accompanied by his aide de campe, in similar garb, he strode into the parade square and was met by Lieutenant Colonel Hendrik van Hertogstroom who saluted sharply.
“The finest force in our region, Lieutenant-Colonel.. so I am told. No other army near us is so well accustomed to counter-insurgency operations. Nor is it so well drilled.” Proclaimed the Governor after returning his salute and swatting away some flies with his horse-hair whip.
“Of course Sir, we have decades of recent experience behind us and few local armies have such emphasis on training as we do.” Replied the commanding officer as they approached the ranks of men, rifles shouldered, stood at attention.
“Bataljon zal geweren voorleggen!” Roared a Major, issuing the cautionary phrase of command.
“Geweren voorrrrrrrrrrrrrr-legen!”
The battalion, in a series of short sharp and unitary movements transferred the rifles from their shoulders and presented them in front of themselves. It also meant for the ensign to dip the standard. The Governor, accompanied by his aide and the Lieutenant Colonel walked up and down the ranks, past the colours and the battalion mascot; an alligator of the name Tandig or ‘Toothy’. Suddenly, a staffer from the house and running out, his blue shirt making obvious his sweat.
“Sir, sir!” He cried out. The aide stopped him, and let the young man whisper in his ear.
A few minutes later, the Governor, back in his residence, was sat in his office, with the Secretary for the Interior; Izaäk Kuddekruis seething down the line back in Batavia.
“Putting aside the fact, Governor, that an armoured vehicle and its crew were overpowered by a mob of black fucking communists-”
“We don't actually know they are co-”
“Shut up. That aside, I want to know what steps your administration will be taking in terms of punitive action and to make sure it doesn't happen again. Give these apes a banana and they’ll want the whole fucking fruitbowl next. You don't need me to remind you that you are new to the job and that world. It's not fucking sleepy villages and polite citizens over there, it's a tinderbox. Don't let it meet the flame. Show them what you're made of or at least what you should be made of. The Steward will not be impressed if he has to send troops to New Batavia. Sort it.”
Lord de Waaij slammed the phone down. The late evening air was much less humid now; the swamp orchestra performing its shrill cacophony of ribbetting frogs, chirping birds and rustling crickets, a fine ambience to enjoy with a glass of Kaaïmantraanen; a spiced fruity liquor and a gastronomic symbol of New Batavia which the Governor now generously poured for himself over ice. It's namesake was the Tears of Caymans, the savage swamp predators whose beady eyes emerging from the murky bayou were the last sight of many a pelican, white buck and even stray child. Iconic, strong and not excessively pricey; it was to New Batavia as Jack Daniels to Tennessee. There was a knock on the wooden door.
“Come in.”
In stepped a tall young man in a three piece cream linen suit, polished brown leather brogues and a navy blue tie. As he took his jacket off, his blue shirt strongly betrayed the fact he was suffering from the heat.
“Gabriel..” Said de Waaij to his chief policy advisor Thijsman Jocx. “You're fucking dripping. Have a bloody drink.” He exclaimed, pouring a second glass of Kaaïmantraanen for Thijsman.
“Thank you sir, the car here had a malfunction with the bloody ventilation. And I made haste getting here. Anyways, I've come up with a few options for you. Firstly most of the culprits are dead as far as we know but we did take some into custody. We could publicly execute them. There is also the option of evicting that whole Township and dispersing them into others which are historically less incendiary. Lastly there is always the option of trying to negotiate with them, try and reconcile et cetera. Or we could do a mix of all three. Execute the prisoners publicly, evict the Township then commence reconciliation programmes.”
De Waaij, clipping the end off a cigar to light it pondered briefly.
“If these chimps want to face Batavian steel and lead let them come. They have no external backing this time. I want the captured culprits whipped publicly then hung outside the township. Mobilise the reserve battalions of the Beëdigdmacht; I want a permanent presence in the townships. Install a curfew as well. Yes, that'll do it….”
Res Publica CotidianoReserve Beëdigdmacht Battalions Activated in New Batavia
-Martial Law for Townships and Black Ghettos
(pictured above: 4th Battalion (reserves), Bovenpachter Musketeers, awaiting marching orders)
The Governor General of New Batavia; His Excellency the Baron of Veerburcht-op-Muijzen declared last night New Batavian Time: all black-majority settlements to be placed under martial law indefinitely and subsequently ordered 12 reserve battalions of the Beëdigdmacht to be activated for duties. This order follows the ambush of a Beëdigdmacht fire team of the Moerasjager Regiment in the Zwijnweg Township near Katoenwissel, Nieuw Blauwbossen. The Governor has called for calm in New Batavia, saying that it was a 'sporadic burst of violence and unacceptable savagery against our brave armed services.' Governor House informed us that they had briefed the Steward on the situation and future plans and had advised the events were under control.
The leader of the primary opposition to the Steward; Lord Hexelburcht, Baron of Maagdskop has taken the opportunity to condemn the 'anachronistic attitudes to race' by the ruling BOP and current Steward and has instead called for an integration program and talks with black leaders. Interior Secretary Izaäk Kuddekruis called the remarks 'untimely inflammation' and 'childishly wishful and ignorant." Meanwhile leader of the parliamentary far-right bloc; Ijzerenvuist called the Steward to; 'send the Fleet to New Batavia and end this perpetual fannying about.' The Secretariat for the Fleet confirmed that no new military actions were planned for Vlootschaar as a result of unfolding events.
Nostra Domina Pascocastrum (Our Lady of Wijdburcht) Cathedral, Wijdburcht, Batavia
Thick was the incense that billowed from the swaying thurible as the long column of red cassocks drifted past, their Marian hymn echoing through the open and wide Cathedral. And when most of the congregation had departed from the pews, the Baron of Elandbrug remained seated whilst the organ voluntary of Widor’s Toccata was played by an organ scholar. He listened to the end before kneeling on the cushioned bench in front him, hands clasped before his head which he hung low. The burden of Stewardship was heavy on his shoulders. This was his second year as Steward of the Commonwealth; head of state and commander in chief. His mandate was from the House of Lords in which he sat and ratified by the House of Clergy. The Baron of Elandbrug, or Lord Boudewijn van den Heydenkerk-Withek as his full hand was, was from one of the oldest and noblest families in Batavia, ruling over the large area of Elandbrug. A conservative through and through, a platform of maintaining the status quo had been enough to secure his election from the Lords. However he was not head of Government; that was First Secretary Sir Constance Haerstra; a true rural patrician with a knighthood for services rendered as an overseas exporter; promoting Batavian agriculture abroad. His electoral mandate was much wider; the leader of the conservative Bataafs’ Oss Partij (Batavian Ox Party) with the most seats in the House of Freeholders elected by all landowning Batavian males over 30.
To the Baron when he had first been sworn into office and had taken the sacred oaths, it seemed the main threat that Batavia faced was liberal globalism; running contrary to the mercantile but isolationist tendencies of the Batavi. Now riots and unrest was fermenting in New Batavia like a bubbling broth; soon the pot would foam over the edges. The most recent ambush had been one of many attacks and violent encounters between the black community and the white Batavi and Breixi. God forbid matters return to the flaming riots and insurgency of gone decades, when the Batavian Fleet had been compelled to take action along with the land forces, with tanks, paratroopers and jets. Calls were being made in all the parliamentary chambers and indeed widely discussed in cafés and taverns about better integration of blacks, affording them the same rights as Créoles or ‘Mengtbloeden’; allowing them to serve in both the Vlootschaar (Fleet) and the Beëdigdmacht (Army), not to mention desegregate transport and education. But the BOP had held firm in its position; training the blacks militarily would be disastrous and used against them to horrific effect. Equally, against this was that it would increase manpower and many believed despite their systematic abuse by the state they were still loyal to the Commonwealth, especially when faced with an overseas enemy. Who knew?
Standing up, the Baron genuflected in the isle before the tabernacle and bowed curtly to a monk attending to a shrine to St. Wenceslous the Bright, a mediaeval Duke of Herthooïe well known for being both charitable and scholarly. Collecting his beige overcoat to drape over his blue three piece pinstripe suit he was joined by two bodyguards and his Equerry; Major Jeroen Groenwijk from the Garde des Chevaliers: a heavy cavalry Guards regiment of the Beëdigdmacht taking the roles both of ceremonial guards and active war fighters as part of the armoured ‘Centaur’ battlegroup.
“Sir, there are reports of major unrest in New Batavia. Looting rioters in the slum districts of Constantijnstad, Nieuwhaven and Katoenwissel and several townships have blockaded themselves in. Several large ranches and plantations are also believed to have been ransacked with reports of landowners and their families being killed.” Whispered the major softly, standing close to the Baron. The Baron briskly walked out of the Cathedral.
“For fuck’s sake!” He exclaimed, having left the presence of God. His car was waiting on the road at the bottom of the steps.
“I thought we were past this.”
Downtown Constantijnstad, New Batavia
The searing heat of a blazing tobacconist drew beads of sweat from the brow of David Maaïer. He watched with morbid captivation as the liqueur shelves roared with flame and the screaming store owner, engulfed in red flame like a dying phoenix, stumbled from the doorway with soul piercing wails of despair as he was consumed by flame and his skin, like that of a roasted hog became crispy and he fell to hard pavement writhing before the boiling fluids of life hissed from the lips of his charred face.
David had come to what was originally a demonstration by urban blacks, with placards and chants. The Beëdigdmacht had watched them diligently, allowing them to march, there were bigger fish to fry than a mere protest at the current status quo. But quickly the demonstration had turned ugly, a brick was thrown at the horse of a mounted officer, nearby shops were raided and youths in balaclavas and neck scarves had emerged chanting violent slogans and brandishing flick knives. Beyond the billowing smoke and orange flickers David could see the lines of the Beëdigdmacht, a thin line of riot shields and two water cannon trucks, the occasional mounted officer strutting past. They had decided to let the riot burn itself out, cordon off the affluent sections of the city and allow the looters to pillage these areas instead. Despite the recent mobilisation of reserve battalions, the Beëdigdmacht had been concentrating its newly raised forces in the rural areas; it had not anticipated such a widespread action. Nonetheless, more troops were on the way, it was simply a waiting game. Every now and again a rioter or a small group thereof would approach the lines of soldiers, only to be hosed away with water cannon and beaten to a pulp by a dozen or so troopers with batons. Helicopters hummed overhead, and sirens wailed all around the city. This was only one of many quasi coordinated demonstrations converging into downtown Constantijnstad. But slowly and indeed surely, the throng of rioters, David included who walked cautiously amongst them, pressed forward. Some pushed trolleys filled with throwable goods such as glass bottles, hard foodstuffs and almost anything they found in shops that would hurt on impact. He saw the flash of blades, both small flick knives and machetes, held low.
David knew matters were about to escalate into a sharp spiral of bloody mess and tried to, having turned around, walk towards the back of the surge. But it was too late and he was swept along in the jostle.
“Nai h’rekt!” Came the shouts in the Batavian Créole (Mengdtaal), meaning ‘fuck the law’ from the proper Batavian: Naaï het recht. What started as a few shouts became a unified chant, roaring at the line of troops with cruel faces. Then the barrage started, hurling the contents of the trollies at the thin line of blue clad soldiers in riot gear. First it was bottles, cans, crates, eggs, fruit and the like, smashing on the riot shields or the ground in front. Then came bricks, causing the line to break to allow the heavy projectiles through, but one soldier succumbed; hit on the head with a brick, despite his riot helmet he fell to floor and was carried away. Another riot van of a dozen troopers of the Beëdigdmacht arrived to thicken the ranks, but they were still grossly outnumbered and rioters knew it. And now, with flaming objects, including the odd Molotov cocktail raining down in the police, the crowd came within mere paces of the shield line, spitting and cursing, those who came too close were knocked back. David looked behind him to see the fire from the Tobacconist spreading along the street, yet no fire engine could put it out so long as this riot raged.
The crack of a gunshot rang out. There was initial panic as most of the rioters began fleeing, thinking the troops were firing at them. But David, looking behind him as he tried to escape, saw a bloodied riot shield be cast aside as a trooper was dragged out of the way by medical staff.
“IDIOTS!” He screamed at the hooded youths, who were cheering, now flashing their machetes and blades. Suddenly, the soldiers began banging their shields with their batons, advancing slowly, before breaking into a run, giving chase as most of the crowd dispersed, watching as the the armed youths put up a fight. Then the troopers retreated. Maybe because the crowd dispersed, maybe because there were still too many armed rioters. David wondered as he watched round the Avenue corner. Then ever louder he heard the clop of horse hooves, before seeing them emerge from the smoke and flares, forty mounted troopers, not with batons, but full riot gear and sabres, at full gallop down the street. Those who remained in the street were run down, trampled and some slashed. David saw the hooded head of one rioter split in half before he ran faster than he ever thought his legs could carry him. Behind him he heard screams and gunshots resounding, adding to the unholy cacophony of sirens, the crackling fire and the tramp of soldier’s boots as they advanced.
Beëdigdmacht Central Command New Batavia, Ooïbeek, New Batavia
All was a flurry at the Beëdigdmacht Headquarters in New Batavia. The logistical challenge with calling up tens of thousands of reserves in one go was enough to worry about in its lonesome; simultaneously conducting martial law and quasi military police actions was another pot on the stove. Ooïbeek was one of the most hated postings in the Beëdigdmacht, a modernish military complex in the middle of nowhere. Sure it had cafés and clubs and all the amenities the staff officers and families wanted but it was too detached from the cities as far as they were concerned.
“Gentlemen.” Announced General Sir Anton d’Heijdrecht, a tall and ageing man, his face betraying the mark of conflict, yet also the stoicism and elegance of his class. He looked around the table of standing senior officers, shifting nervously out of apprehension yet also weary from sleepless nights.
“The Steward is not impressed. For years we have boasted to the parliament in the motherland that we have the situation under control. That we've infiltrated potential militant groups, that we've dismantled areas fertile for insurrection, and most importantly that even if such things should boil to the surface that we, as one of, if not THE finest counter-insurgency force would be able to quash it quickly.”
The General paced slowly round the room, hands behind his back.
“This hasn't happened. Charred suburbs and raped women are testimony to last night’s failure. We failed to contain a flicker of flame, then we poured gasoline over it. Brigadier Grijsveld, why didn't the VETOB (Intelligence and Counter-Insurgency Component) provide the adequate information and forebodings of such events as last night? Bear in mind the gravity of this. 324 and counting blacks dead, 16 white civilians, and 13 of our soldiers are also dead.”
A thin faced and spindly man, like the rest of his colleagues, in flecktarn combats began rummaging through his files.
“A fair criticism is that we underestimated the extent of potential violence that spread last night. The violence that erupted was mainly of an ad hoc nature and spread through word of mouth or by two secret radio channels we have now shut down. The only organised events have been the ambush near Katoenwissel and the riots in Katoenwissel itself, incited by a certain Willem Zuiker. He's a Mengtbloed, his mother was white and from a family of lawyers though she claimed he was adopted from an orphanage. After studying and then converting to African folk religion at university he changed his name from Wilhelmus Esdoorn to Willem Zuiker. He's been heading a militant African racialist group advocating for ‘shamanist socialism’. We've infiltrated the group but have let it grow to see who comes up on the radar. We knew of its plans to cause the riot in Katoenwissel; we were unable to predict that this would stir other blacks into widespread rioting.” The Brigadier paused to take a sip of water before continuing, running his hand through his collar nervously as he gauged the unimpressed expressions from his coffee drunk colleagues.
“Whilst acknowledging that most of this uproar is headless, there are three heads that can be… severed.” The Brigadier produced a photo from his file.
“That's the aforementioned Zuiker. Although he made radio announcements last night, he did not show his face. He's generally elusive; it'll be a task indeed to track him down and kill him.”
A second photo was brought out.
“This is Jan Schepper. Or in shamanistic circles; Yooni Hwasego. He's a practicing shaman of their voodooistic nonsense. Also Zuiker’s second man. He's more prolific than his boss. We know exactly where he is and can take him out swiftly. Then there's Xavier Schoffeler…” grimaced the Brigadier, brandishing an aged photo of a black man in combat fatigues with a red beret bearing sickle and hammer badge. Disgruntled murmurs spread round the room.
“Schoffeler is the only known prominent figure with any kind of military experience. He's a communist through and through, trained by the Cubans in Angola. He's fought in several African bush wars and is highly regarded in such circles. W-”
“Who the fuck allowed him back into the Commonwealth? Why the hell has he not been arrested or shot?!” Barked d’Heijdrecht, loosening his tie whilst his head grew redder than a beetroot.
“Brigadier Tjarda, here's what you're going to do. Cut those heads off immediately and as publicly as possible. Why we allowed such breeds to exist in this country is still beyond me despite your explanation. I want them dead. See it done. This unrest must be slammed into oblivion or all our necks go on the block!”
