Lieutenant Sebastian Wood
Observation Post 6, Ceasefire Line
The East African Republic
Friday 8th May 2020, 0900hrs Local Time
“Another beautiful day in paradise.”
Lieutenant Sebastian Wood, of the 1st Battalion, Royal California Fusiliers, glanced up from the pop-up camp chair that he had acquired for himself where he was working on a field packet worth of paperwork as his Platoon Sergeant entered the observation post. Woods was a year and a half out of the Royal Military Academy, Kingston, six months into his posting as Platoon Leader of 2 Platoon, B Company, 1st Battalion, and was incredibly grateful for Sergeant Joe Marshall. Although Wood had spent his secondary education at the Army Foundation College, Roswell, from the age of fourteen before accepting an appointment to Kingston, and as such had a solid foundation upon which to build the fact still remained that he was nineteen years old, holding the King’s Commission and responsible for the twenty-seven men under his command, both in combat and administratively. Kingston provided a world-class standard of training for prospective officers, however there were many things that only practical experience could provide and, as such a good officer sought to the advice of his senior NCO. Eager to be a ‘good officer’, Wood had immediately done just that upon assuming command over the platoon and the two had developed a good working relationship.
“You have a weird sense of humour, Joe,” Wood smiled. “The patrols get off okay?”
“Just fine, Sir,” Sergeant Marshall nodded.
Every day, as they had for the months that had passed since the beginning of the peacekeeping operation in the East African Republic, keeping the rebels and the Government apart whilst the Ministry of Foreign Affairs worked to achieve a diplomatic solution, the battalion had relieves their counterparts from the 2nd Battalion, Royal Texas Fusiliers, and manned the chain of observation posts along the ceasefire line. Each of the battalion’s platoons had manned a particular observation point, and send two of their three sections on patrols along the ceasefire line in both directions, keeping their third section in reserve in case they were needed. Six months had passed since the Apilonian forces had assumed their positions along the line without incident; the East African Army’s leadership was clearly aware that the troops themselves, and the air and naval support present at Camp Lemonier, whilst comparatively small, were more than enough to prevent any breaches of the ceasefire and had avoided doing exactly that. It had also been made plainly clear by His Majesty’s Ambassador to the East African Republic that any breach of the ceasefire would bring the Kingdom in on the side against the aggressor, and President Emmanuel Xavier wanted to retain his grip on power.
However, every officer and man in Apilonian Forces East Africa was well aware that the East African Civil War had been caused by President Xavier undergoing some form of mental break, and no one was prepared to say that it was outside of the realms of possibility that his mental health would deteriorate further. It was for that reason that each of the Observation Posts had been carefully sited to give the best possible fields of fire and, at any given time, one soldier from the section kept in reserve was manning a M2 Browning .50 calibre machine gun and responsible for keeping an eye on the ceasefire line whilst the rest of the section was able to relax and the command element to get on with their own duties. In the event of an attack, each company’s weapons platoon was sited at the company command post, a mile or so further back than the observation posts, and could provide supporting fire, long enough for the battalion command post further back from the line to get a handle on the situation and direct a response. Given that modern Fusilier battalions, which served as the backbone of the Army’s lighter brigades, were officially designated as ‘protected mobility infantry’ and equipped with the Foxhound protected patrol vehicle, the battalion had good operational manoeuvrability to respond to an attack.
No one on the Ceasefire Line knew it yet, but they would find out how important that would be sooner than they expected.
“I will say, I’m so glad we were allowed to put up an awning, the sun would have been murder otherwise,” Wood commented, glancing up at the awning in question that had been erected above the sand-bag surrounded OP. “I know we’ll have to take it down before Private Harper can fire his mortar, but even so…”
Sergeant Marshall chuckled.
“Looking after your men is important, Sir, better to take a few seconds to get a mortar off than be down a few men from heat stroke,” He replied sagely. “Besides, we’ll realistically have enough warning to get the awning out of the way if push comes to shove.”
“They might have mentioned something about that at Kingston,” Wood commented dryly, albeit his smile betrayed his tone.
“Indeed,” Sergeant Marshall sniffed. “But you only truly understand in the field, right, Sir?”
“Whatever you say, Sergeant,” Wood grinned. “Anything from intelligence whilst you were at Lemonier?”
“Nothing worth reporting, the Government looks like they’re shuffling their troops around again, but nothing serious,” Sergeant Marshall shook his head. “I will say one thing, that staff intelligence officer is damn fine, so anytime you need me to go trawling for intel…”
Wood rolled his eyes and fixed his Platoon Sergeant with a pointed look. Captain Rebecca Longstreet, a fiery (in both temperament and hair colour) but equally intelligent Texan, was the staff intelligence officer for Apilonian Forces East Africa, leading a detachment from the Intelligence Corps, responsible for keeping the Apilonian peacekeepers fully apprised of any developments on either side of the ceasefire line. He knew full well that half the battalion doubtless had a thing for her, but he really couldn’t have his second-in-command saying stuff like that, not with Private Marston manning the Browning almost certainly within earshot.
“I’m sure I should have to remind you, of all people, that that is an officer that you’re talking about so crassly,” Wood said after a few moments, but unable to keep his amusement of his tone. “Besides, I think we all know that she’d eat you for breakfast if you tried.”
The snort of amusement from Private Marston, who admirably did not turn away from his post, confirmed to Wood that the young soldier had indeed been able to hear their conversation.
“That’s enough from you, Marston,” Sergeant Marshall snapped, re-asserting his authority, before turning back to Wood. “Just keeping you on your toes, Sir.”
“Sure,” Wood smirked.
There was no warning to prepare any of them for what happened next. Shortly after zero nine fifteen, OP6 and every other observation point along the ceasefire line came under artillery fire. Under cover of night, the East African Army had moved several batteries worth of M-46 Howitzers, long-ranged 130mm towed field guns, into position at the extreme edge of their twenty-seven kilometre range and camouflaged them well to miss the early morning Apilonian reconnaissance flights. In what was clearly a pre-arranged offensive, these batteries opened fire simultaneously, each targeting one of the forward observation posts along the ceasefire line, doubtless intending that, shortly after the duty watch handover, the first line of officers would be at their command posts and be killed in the opening salvo of the attack. Fortunately for Lieutenant Wood, Sergeant Marshall and Private Marston, although the position of the observation posts had been impossible to keep a secret the advanced age and relative simplicity of the artillery pieces themselves meant that the first few rounds targeted at OP6 peppered the ground around them rather than hitting directly. Outside, the rest of 3 Section were picking themselves up from the ground where they had thrown themselves and were hustling into a defensive formation.
Even as the shouts and exclamations died down, Wood found himself sprung into action on instinct. It stood to reason that the enemy, he had no qualms calling them that now that they had opened-fire upon him, would have forward spotters who would pass details back to the artillery gunners to adjust their fire. Which meant that staying at the observation post, upon which the fire would almost certainly be dialled in, was suicidal and as much as it went against the grain to leave a fortified position the prospect of getting blown up by an artillery shell was even less appealing.
“Marston! Dismount that Browning and lug it with you, Sergeant Marshall, assemble 3 Section by the Foxhounds and get ready,” Wood ordered sharply, getting a handle on the situation. “Signaller, report contact to battalion!”
After confirming that Private Marston had indeed dismounted the Browning, and was making good progressing lugging the heavy weapon over to where the rest of his section was waiting, Wood took one last quick look around to ensure that he had not left anything classified or important, before ducking out himself and scrambling across the dusty ground towards the Foxhounds that 3 Section was taking cover behind. Mere seconds later, an artillery shell dropped itself onto the observation post, destroying it and throwing up a cloud of dust and throwing Wood to the ground through the force of the explosion, knocking the wind out of him and leaving him dazed in the dust.
The next thing that Wood knew was two sets of hands on him as he was pulled to his feet and half-dragged the last few yards to the cover of the Foxhounds. Shaking his head a few times to try and shake off the lingering effects of the explosion he looked around him, seeing Sergeant Marshall and 3 Section hunkered down behind the small rock formation as artillery shells continued to rain down on what had been their observation post.
“Are you okay, Sir?” Sergeant Marshall asked, it was obvious that he had asked a few times without Wood noticing.
“I’m fine, Sergeant,” Wood said firmly as he got his bearings. “Signaller, what’s the word from battalion?”
“There’s reports of artillery bombardment all along the line, all of the observation posts have been destroyed or abandoned for safety,” Private Jack Dawes, from the Royal Signals, reported. “Battalion is ordering all units to pull back to the second defensive line.”
Wood was silent for a few moments as he considered the implications of this order; for starters it suggested that the battalion commander, Lieutenant Colonel James Donovan, clearly believed that the artillery bombardment was the precursor to a general assault across the ceasefire line and the observation posts were clearly not going to be able to provide an effective position from which to fight. It also stood to reason that the East African Government’s would follow-up this surprise attack in order to try and push the Apilonians out of country as quickly as possible, clearly banking on the odds that if the Apilonian forces already present were wiped out quickly and decisively, the Kingdom would be loath to send more troops into what had already proven to be a bloodbath. Wood wasn’t too sure the logic tracked on that, as the Kingdom not only had history in East Africa, as it’s former colonial master, but if several thousand Apilonian servicemen and women were killed the public, not to mention the Senate, would be screaming bloody murder and demanding retribution.
Of course, for the troops on the ground that was academic at this point; they had a war to fight.
“Any word from the rest of the Platoon?” Wood asked after a moment.
“They reported sighting of enemy infantry and technicals advancing towards the ceasefire line,” Sergeant Marshall replied promptly. “They’ve not yet been engaged, and I’ve taken the liberty of ordering them to regroup here.”
“Good, get 3 Section into their Foxhound and on their way to our fighting positions on the defence line, you go with them” Wood ordered crisply, his decision made. “I, Private Dawes and Private Harper will remain here with the other Foxhounds for 1 and 2 Section.”
“Roger that, Sir, don’t get yourself blown-up,” Sergeant Marshall replied wryly. “Corporal Wilson, get 3 Section, mounted up!”
Wood watched as Sergeant Marshall and 3 Section mounted up in one of the Foxhounds and set off for the second defensive line, several kilometres back from the ceasefire line, roughly halfway between back to Camp Lemonier. Once they disappeared behind a rock formation, he turned back to watch rise in the terrain, upon which the remains of the observation post was smouldering, over which his two other sections would appear. As he waited, Wood listened carefully and could hear artillery fire continue to impact in the distance; the shellfire had ceased on the remains of his observation post; clearly the spotters had reported its destruction and the East Africans were smart enough not to waste ammunition that they would soon need. But that was all there was, so far, no small arms fire indicating direct contact between Apilonian forces and East African troops. That, Wood considered thoughtfully, was their first mistake; rather than following up their apparently successful bombardment with an infantry assault, that would have broken the entire battalion, they were allowing the Royal California Fusiliers to regroup and man prepared defensive positions.
The days of the King’s African Rifles, the elite colonial light infantry force that had helped control the then Crown Colony of East Africa, were well behind them it seemed.
“Sir!” Private Dawes called out, dragging Wood from his thoughts. “2 Section.”
Sure enough, 2 Section was withdrawing quickly but carefully over the rise between them and the Foxhounds, one fireteam providing overwatch would the other ‘bounded’ forwards, in what was known as a bounding overwatch, until they joined the small perimeter that the remaining three members of the platoon command element had formed around the Foxhounds.
“Corporal Watson,” Wood said by means of greeting as the section leader knelt down beside him. “Good to see you boys.”
“Sir,” Corporal Watson nodded his agreement. “We saw a company-sized force moving this way, backed up by three technicals.”
“We’d better get to the defensive line then,” Wood commented dryly. “Did you see 1 Section?”
“I think so, Sir, a group of eight moving tactically a kilometre and a half to the east,” Corporal Watson nodded. “If that was them, they’ll be here any minute.”
As if on cue, 1 Section appeared over the rise by the smouldering observation post and moved quickly past it to join the rest of the platoon gathered around the Foxhounds. Wood took a quick report from Corporal Adler before ordering the two sections into their Foxhounds and Privates Harper and Dawes into the command element’s vehicle, taking the wheel himself. It only took a few minutes for the three vehicles to cross the distance to the defensive line, which gained them valuable time in which to prepare for the advancing East African infantry. Right now, the concern of the troops along what was effectively the frontline was to resist, and ideally repel, the offensive that was about to crash into the defensive line. By all accounts, the battalion had been able to retreat in good order from the observation posts, for the most part, and were manning key defensive positions that were not pre-sighted for enemy artillery and, as such, would need to be advanced upon by the enemy infantry. As per the general operational plan that the Apilonain Forces East Africa were operating under, the idea was that the battalion on the line would hold off the enemy long enough for the additional forces based at Camp Lemonier to get their arses in gear to allow for a counter-attack.
Right now, however, it was all about surviving the next hour.
“Marston, get that Browning mounted again, Gunners set up firing positions for those LMGs, Harper, get that mortar of yours placed,” Wood shouted orders to his men who were already making some preparations. “All sections stand-to on the firing line!”
