Back in 'Lam (CLOSED, IC)

[Verona Beach]

The year is 1966. The tiny island of Canolam (called Cahno Lam back in the day) is undergoing a change. For centuries it was ruled by a hereditary oligarchy led by the Clans of the island. But the people were tired of the Clan Council. A mass defection occurs in the military as a pro-Republic revolt starts in the south. Two countries in the region race to align themselves with either side.

Wellsia, the closest nation geographically and politically to Cahno Lam, begins sending volunteers and arms en masse to the Clans Council to maintain their staunchest ally in the region.

Verona Beach, the second-closest nation desperate for allies in their time of rule by a pariah-type government, gleefully sends aircraft, guns, vehicles and advisors to the Republicans. As the war would wear on, however, their involvement would elevate much farther than just advisors.

Factions

Clans Council

Roundel

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Aligned with: Wellsia
Enemies: Verona Beach, Republicans

The old government, fighting to restore order and maintain the status quo ante bellum and be an increasingly pro-Wellsian state in the Isles.

Republicans

Roundel

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Aligned with: Verona Beach
Enemies: Wellsia, Clans Council

The new government rebels, fighting to establish a democracy and become a pro-Verona Beach state.

Verona Beach

Roundel

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Aligned with: Republicans
Enemies: Wellsia, Clans Council

The biggest supporters of the Republicans, fighting to establish a democratic pro-Verona Beach state.

Wellsian Volunteers

Roundel

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Aligned with: Clans Council
Enemies: Verona Beach, Republicans

Supporters of the old government who volunteered to aid the ally of Wellsia.

[Wellsia]

August 25, 1966
The Master of Arms slammed his ceremonial staff hard on the polished mahogany floor, and in a clear loud voice announced: "His Highness, Lord of Household Ian Ochoncar of House Ochoncar, Ahren of the Deorai, Hereditary Governor of the Uerteru Peninsula and the North Passage Colonies".
Two large men dressed in the traditional garb of the Deorai pushed a large wheelchair to the center of the room. In the chair sat a little old man, he was well over 100 years old, and while his body was giving out, his mind was still sharp as ever.
Gripping the handles on his wheelchair, Lord Ian shocked the gathering as he pushed himself to his feet and took two steps up to the podium. Pulling the mic down to his level and with a slight shakiness in his voice spoke: " Gentlemen of the Council, I have received news that our friends and allies, the Clan Lords of Camolan are facing a revolt, not only from their ungrateful people, but also members of their military forces. It is our duty to defend the rightful government of Camolan and I am here to request, no demand that this esteemed body declare full support of the Clan Lords and send regular forces of both the Imperial Army and Navy to crush those that betray their Lords."
Overprocurator William Maule stood up and bowed toward the old man. "Lord Ian, we have also heard of the problems assaulting the legal government of Camolan and as one Head of Household to another< I respectfully request that you use restraint here. What you may not know is that Verona Beach is assisting the rebels. The Council in session has decided that war with Verona would not be to our benefit. We the Council of 104 has already agreed to provide money and weapons, to the loyal forces of the Clan Lords, but we will NOT send Wellsian military personnel to fight in Camolan."
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
August 27, 1966
Hamish Dewar Sr. sat at his table reading the newspaper, four of his five children sat at the table with him. His wife Magdha was in the other room changing the baby. His stared at the headline of the paper and in large numbers it read VOLUNTEERS WANTED.
Lord Ian was asking for volunteers to go to Camolan and fight for the legal government against the rebels and their supporters from Verona Beach. Since the government would not get involved officially, volunteers with military training were be asked for. With 15 years of service and a rank of Adjutant, Hamish felt he was more then qualified. Volunteers would get double pay while in Camolan, with two years pay giving to the widow of anyone killed. He looked around at the small hamlet he and his family lived in, and thought how much nicer of a house he could build with the extra money. Of course leaving Magdha and the children would be hard, but he already knew he was going to take Lord Ian up on it. He smiled and winked at his oldest son 16 year old Hamish Jr. The convincing of Magdha would be a tougher fight then anything he faced in Camolan. His redheaded firebrand of a wife was a lot harder to face then rebels and beach boys. He just hoped that they would get the new semi-automatic rifles in place of their tried and true, but outdated bolt-action rifles.
Taking a deep sigh, Hamish called out:" Magdha sweetheart, I have something to talk to you about."

[Verona Beach]

August 30, 1966
Government House, Victoria Ward, Verona Beach

"...And who did you say was involved?" A stout man holding a cigar paced the room, looking like a discount haggard Winston Churchill. The heels on his loafers clicked on the marble tile floor inside the drawing room, and the smoke from his cigar curled around him like a genii's cloud. Anyone alive at that time would have recognized him as Fitzroy William MacAnderson, Chief Minister of Verona Beach and one of the most disliked world leaders of the era. Just behind Ian Smith of Rhodesia or Hendrik Verwoerd of South Africa, maybe, but after he endorsed them he wasn't lagging too far behind. Sprawled across the table was a large map of the Isle of Cahno Lam, with little flag-adorned pieces denoting each side. The Chiefs of General Staff were huddled about the table, also wrapped in clouds of various tobacco products.

"The Wellsians, sir." A general piped up, flabbing his jowls while speaking in traditional British fashion. "Well, not the government per se... but they did sanction weapons, money, and volunteer legions. That's what our lads told us anyways. Sneaky bastards." The general snuck the last sentence under his breath, despite the fact that the sentiment was shared among everyone in the room. Wellsia and Verona Beach had been in a state of buildup that could lead to a war neither side wanted but foolishly thought could win. Cahno Lam would be perfect- Having an ally in the region would be huge, and one geographically close to the Wellsians would be a good place to build up troops and make a threatening stance.

"As you all know, gentlemen..." MacAnderson broke from his pattern of wearing a circle pattern in the linoleum to lean at the head of the table. "The situation is dire at home. We cannot afford to slip any more than we are in the polls without taking drastic measures. We're already sending arms and vehicles, and our advisers aren't doing much, correct?" He gestured with the remains of his Cuban at the little Veronite flag piece in the south of the country. "I say we formulate a plan to slowly build up our presence in 'Lam, then we have enough troops to start a full-on assault. A war should do good to rally the people behind our regime, keep it propped up until the '70 general elections." The Chief Minister looked around the room. "And as we all know, Cahno Lam is the perfect place for an airfield. Until we have Sky Knight running, we won't have the range to potentially strike Wellsia with bombers. I see no problems with this plan. Do you, gentlemen?"

All the staff nodded, except one, who raised his head. "How will we get the justification to go into full combat, sir?" MacAnderson sighed, his brilliant plan stopped for the moment by the fact that he would now have to worry what the world thought of him for once. "Just... figure an excuse out. Make a Gulf of Tonkin-looking incident- just anything will work, really."

"I'm going to retire, good day- In fact, start sending new advisers as soon as possible. Maybe a couple Air Service squadrons. Good day, gentlemen." MacAnderson walked out the open double doors through the gilded colonial-style halls. As he exited the building, the regular crowd of protesters were there, shouting their slogans. He'd learned to ignore them as usualy, and got into his limousine and sped home for the night. The generals immediately strode to the nearest telephones in the room, ordering fresh troops to "advise."

[Wellsia]

Hamish sat on a crate slowing slicing off pieces of apple and eating them. He looked out at the organized chaos that existed in loading a reinforced division for combat transport. He smiled at the continued official stance that all Wellsian troops were 'volunteers' and that the government had nothing to do with it. Do they really think the beachboys general staff is that stupid, he wondered. This was an Imperial Division through and through, the tanks, APCs, trucks, artillery, even the uniforms were just green colored Imperial weapons.
Scanning the base he saw a Subaltern walking toward him, with that stern look of an officer on his face. Oh, hell, he thought, fresh out of the academy with some notion that officers are God's give to the world and all NCOs are lazy bums. He's going to come over here and give me the riot act for lollygagging and expect a salute or something. Guess I should stand up and act like a proper soldier and salute him . With that Hamish cut off another piece of apple and slipped it into his mouth.
To Hamish's surprise the Subaltern hopped up on the crate next to him. "Excuse me Adjutant, what do you think about us going to Camolam?"
Hamish took another bite and replied, "Sir, I think that we need to go there to keep Verona from getting to big for their britches, so far the beachboys have only had to go up against the die hard loyalist still supporting the government, and even they are more trained as police then real soldiers. The beachboys and the Republicans have never faced real soldiers yet, won't they be surprised," with that Hamish chuckled.
"By the way Adjutant I am Francis Fettleworth V, a pleasure to meet you."
"Adjutant Hamish Dewar, at your service sir. You Commandant-marshal Fettleworth's grandson?"
"Yes, and my father is Commandant-chief of the 9th Fusiliers."
"Got some big shoes to fill boy, but something tells me you'll be OK, I would serve under you with pleasure sir, you don't seem to one of those shave tails that think because you have a bar on your collar that you know everything."
"Thank you, Adjutant Dewar, enjoy your apple, I'm afraid before long eating a apple will be something we will all miss." With that Francis jumped to his feet, snapped to attention and saluted, then quickly turned and walked away.
Hamish watched him leave and thought to himself, 'wonder what Fionna would think of that boy, what are you doing Hamish, matchmaking is Magda's job, you have a war to fight, but maybe, just maybe'

[Verona Beach]

Lochdargour Airfield, South Cahno Lam
1350
September 9, '66

The roar and hum of jet engines surrounded Flight Sergeant Maxwell Bishop as he carried his flight gear. He jogged away from his aircraft with his crew, leaving the holed Canberra bomber on the tarmac. Mechanics ran toward it after they left, swarming it like worker ants. Bishop practically had rivers of sweat running down his forehead as he shakily took some deep breaths. I survived that. I... survived that, he thought to himself.

One of his crewmen might not be so lucky. His suit was ripped in several places with red stains, and he had to be held by up by Bishop and his co-pilot. His breathing was ragged and unstable, and his heart beat irregularly. Cahnolamaean medical staff raced to meet them, lifting him from their now-bloodied shoulders onto a stretcher. They rushed him off to somewhere unfamiliar for Bishop as he had just been stationed at this base. He assumed that it was a helicopter, but he couldn't think well as his brain was still rattled from the hectic chaos aboard the aircraft but 15 minutes earlier. He was part of one of the first bombing missions conducted on Oligarchist positions on behalf of the Republicans. Like most soldiers, he couldn't understand why they were helping a government across the Mesder, but he knew it had to do with the Wellsians, and that's where his thinking usually ended.

Just been stationed here... And we've already got a wrecked aircraft and a wounded bombardier. What a good sign. It was at least some bittersweet "solace" for the airmen that a government-approved cameraman was on hand to capture some black-and-white footage of the situation on the ground, memorializing the wounded airman forever. Ever since they heard that a plane was attacked by anti-air in Cahno Lam, McAnderson's administration knew what to do.

Two days later, after careful splicing, the footage appeared in a news segment about how a Canberra was running "reconnaissance training" for Cahnolamaean pilots when Oligarchist forces holed the aircraft. Chief Minister McAnderson himself used the footage as an excuse to plead the Regulars' Assembly to declare war on the Oligarchist government.

The vote would pass with a supermajority on September the 12th.

[Wellsia]

Port Bailleth, Camolan
Hamish watched as his platoon loaded on the civilian bus. Word was they were moving south to join an offensive against rebel forces operating about 30 miles south of the city. Looking up he watched as a company of 8 P.1101 Demon fighters flew overhead. From the direction they were headed he was sure they were heading for the Rebel held city of Lochdargour, were the beachboys had an air force base.
Hamish spit on the ground, and shook his head. Things were changing quick, and in ways that were not good for the Wellsian Expeditionary Division. Now that Verona Beach had entered the war for real, by declaring war on Canolam, they would soon be facing Verona regulars, not trained rebels, that so for had fallen back every time Wellsian forces engaged them. New directives from High Command was to retake as much of the country as possible and then dig in when the beachboys arrived in force. The goal was to bleed the beachboys dry and force them to attack well prepared defensive lines and then hit them hard with counter attacks until they couldn't take it any more. Hamish wasn't sure how this would work, but he was just an infantryman and would leave the thinking to the Commandants and Marshals and hope that at least one of them wasn't a total screw up.

[Verona Beach]

Lochdargour
1400 Hours
September 24

The sound of the general quarters alarm, despite them no longer being on a vessel, still imposed a feeling on panic and hurry on the Canolamaeans and Veronite soldiers. Colour Sergeant Fred Kilkenny had barely rolled out of bed when the first bombs hit from the Wellsians. The concrete barracks shook, and a series of dull thuds filled the room. He fell, uncoordinated, into his combat uniform. Grabbing his rifle, he raced outside, crossing the runway in a hunched run. It was a good thing he left, too- seconds later, a bomb landed square in the barracks building, setting it to pieces and flattening Kilkenny to the road. He unsteadily stood, continuing his run with ringing ears. He eventually met an officer, who shouted something he couldn't hear and pointed in the direction of the outer defenses. Fred continued his exhausting travel over to the edge of the airfield away from town, where a helicopter was beginning to spin up. As his hearing returned, the battle again dared to try and take it as Veronite jets began to take off from the airfield to shoot down the Wellsian Demons. More explosions filled the once-quiet air as the two untested air forces danced the dance of death above the airfield. Kilkenny clambered into the helicopter, as it began to climb into the air in the direction of where the Wellsians were supposedly coming from. It glided over the forests, approaching where scout planes had reported their position. They touched down outside a village in a tactically important clearing, disembarking from the helicopter. They met a few other squads there, and set up a hasty defense to ambush the advancing Wellsians as the helicopter slipped back to the airfield.

[Wellsia]

Southern Camalam

Hamish, was worried, the company moved through the jungle like it was taking a stroll back on Wellsia Island. Ever since Steadholder Tweedle had taken command, Hamish had nothing but dread. Tweedle was a green staff officer, given the company, mainly because there was no one else. This was the same reason the Hamish was at company level, when his rank of Subadjutant should have him at a Wing command unit. If only the green horn would listen, then things mught be better, but he was one of those that knew it all, without knowing anything. Stepping up Hamish addressed him. "Steadholder, I know speed is essential, but it would be wise to put a squad or even a half squad up ahead as scouts, we can see nothing in the underbrush and the beachboys could have half a regiment not a quarter-mile behind those shrubs."
"Grandpa, don't be such a worry wart, the rebels want stand and everyone knows the beachboys can't fight. We only have two more miles, till we set up the fort to hold this region, you can send out your scouts from."
Steadholder Tweedle never finished his sentence, before another word could leave his mouth the back of his head exploded as a full-metal jacket bullet passed through it. "Everybody down," commanded Hamish, "sniper". Before he could reach the ground the world exploded around the Wellsian as from both in front and on both sides automatic fire ripped out of the underbrush. Falling behind a down tree, Hamish watched as the lead elements of the company was decimated. Damn it was true, thought Hamish the beachboys were armed with fully automated rifles. "Form a cul-de sac," Hamish commanded "and keep your heads down. Machine gunners spay those damn woods, you might get lucky, everybody else pick your shots. They can't have to much ammo, and the way they are using it we'll have the advantage soon."
Three more men fell from the accurate shooting of the beachboy sniper, before Hamish heard someone yell "There he is!" before a shot rang out and he saw the beachboy fall from the top of a tree suspended by his safety vest. Two more shots smashed into the body, just to make sure the SOB was dead.
"Subadjutant"
Hamish turned and was surprised to see young Fettleworth laying beside him. Fettleworth was commanding the third section with the automatic-rifle squad attached and was to the rear of the company when death had made it's call. "Sir, mind my manners, but what the Hell are you doing here, you should be back where it's safe. You're our last officer."
'Subadjutant,' the young man said with a smile, "I have third section and the AR squad back on that ridge, we need to get the rest of the command back there as well. I have contacted brigade and in ten minutes the artillery is going to level this area. I want to take the grenadiers with me back first and with my own two we are going to fire as a group to do maximum damage. When we open up from the ridge start pulling the men back."
Hamish looked at the Subaltern we added respect. "Sir, next time you should send runner, and not put yourself in undo danger. I'll get the men out of here, you keep your head and ass low and get back where your needed, Sir. Any grenadiers left alive fall back to ridge and report there. the rest of you goons give em everything you got." Semiautomatic rifles and machine guns open up as three grenadiers and the Subaltern slipped back to the the ridge line behind the cul-de-sac.

Looking over the battlefield, Fettleworth quickly gave his orders. Grenadiers concentrate fire on the right and move left, make sure you lob your grenades beyond our men. Squadleaders open up lets make it to dangerous for the beachboys to poke there heads up while our men get out of there".

Behind him the ridge line opened fire with semi-automatic, automatic and mortars give the Wellsians a slim chance to make it out of the Veronian death trap. "Lets get out of here, leapfrog back, till we can reach the ridge line."
As Hamish knelt on the ridge he heard a familiar scream and the jungle was turned into a mad mans version of Hell as artillery shells begin pulverizing the area.

The remains of the company marched back into the base, they had left just six hours earlier. Hamish saw the regiment's Commandant-chief and the brigade's Steadholder-marshal standing looking at the shot up company. Out of 80 combat troops that had march out that morning only 48 returned and three of them on makeshift stretchers and four more half carried by their fellow soldiers. "Ten-hut" he yelled, parade formation, you're the Fourth Fusiliers and lets show them what that means." The tired, wounded men snapped to, forming into the remains of squads and sections, remaining weapons on shoulders and with pride and determination they marched through the gathering of their fellow soldiers. Hamish couldn't help but think to himself. "HQ going to have to do some rethinking now, the cake walk is over, and who ever said the beachboys can't fight can go bugger himself.'

[Verona Beach]

A Few Meters Ahead of the Wellsian Front

Fred Kilkenny was in his groove, something that surprised even him. He shouted orders smoothly, directing his squad into complex maneuvers that impressed those who knew him as a confused, spacey lad passed up for officer academy several times. The test of action had him jiving around, dancing in a crouch through the underbrush. A few of the squads stayed hunkered in their small faux trenches they had dug, some men struck down by the spraying of the Wellsian machine guns. The sniper in safety vest and ghillie suit hung crazily, swayed by passing bullets and remaining, almost a reminder to soldiers to keep down. It seems the Wellsians had them pinned down in this position, but they had to keep them stalled until reinforcements came from the airbase. Whenever that would happen would be determined by air superiority- something surely attainable by those fine pilots, all a matter of time according to the lieutenant. Until then, however, they were hunkered in that infernal jungles in their tiny holes, peppered by their never-ending ammunition.

Fred wasn't going to wait around to get shot idly like some of his comrades. He was a man of action in this moment, the jungle heat his call to action like the heroes of old. The racing of his heart flooded his ears and throat, ruining his ability to talk. He shouted something at his squad's light machine gunner. He nodded and ducked into the thickest bush, spraying at the far left flank. He didn't anything as far as he knew, but that didn't matter- that wasn't the goal anyways. Not this time. The whole group of men then began racing to the right side, going to where they thought a gap in the line was. They crawled for what felt like hours through the thick grass, hoping not to be spotted while the Wellsians focused on the fire from the other side. Eventually, they got to where they thought a good place would be, and initiated a hastily assembled phase 2.

They all removed grenades from their belts, removing the delicate pins. They flung them in seemingly random places, scattered across the line. The thuds and screams that followed signaled their next move. A burst of fire leaped from the squad, their weapons firing almost in unison at those unfortunate to have leaped up to avoid fire. As the Wellsians had somewhat recovered and began to fire at their squad, pinning them down again and striking one man dead, the Veronites began a series of maneuvers that was reminiscent of Whack-a-Mole: Soldiers popped up from cover, took some potshots at Wellsians, and dove down. The counterfire provided by the Veronite soldiers allowed, with one more casualty, Kilkenny's squad to return and bolster their lines.

[Wellsia]

Hamish and Fettleworth stood at attention before Steadholder-marshal Dorrien. Dorrien looked at the two soldiers, "Gentlemen, I have read your report and the truth of the matter, is what happened to you is happening all along the line. Every company level or smaller battle with the Veronese as resulted in either defeat of at best a Phyrric victory. Latest reports show that it costs us seven men for every two of the enemy. We can't keep this up, the division is being bled dry. Subaltern Fettleworth, we have received numerous reports of your actions on the battlefield and it has been decided that you are to be promoted to Steadholder and the remains of the company is now yours. Subadjutant Dewar, we are not sure what to do about you. You failed to make sure the ambush didn't take place, you had no scouts out and as senior NCO, it was your duty to advise the company commander of his short comings. but then you organized the the company and held off the enemy and with Mister Fettleworth here was able to withdraw the company to safety. You will neither get a promotion or a reprimand. I will give you the choice of either staying with the company or taking a billet at your rank level with the second wing 6th Infantry."
Hamish looked over at Fettleworth and didn't even have to think about it, "Sir, if I have the choice, I'll stay where I am."
"Very well, Steadholder, Subadjutant, we have 20 new men to add to your company, also, you will be given a new TO&E organization, we are doing away with the auto-squad and adding a second group to each Squad to increase automatic fire in response to the, what did they call them, oh yeah, these new automatic individual rifles are now known as storm or assault rifles. Also the three sections are being reorganized into two platoons. Oh yea, now for the good news, you have three weeks to form and retrain your company, the Fourth Fusiliers are going to be part of a major counterattack to reestablish the lines and hopefully stop the Veronese offensive that is overwhelming our lines. Dismiss."

[Verona Beach]

June 26th, '66
400 Hours
Drumnacolm, 20 km North of Lochdargour

Private Déhwaj Mu-Rsan seemed to be consistently pissed off. As his transport helicopter beat over the jungle to the outskirts of the city, the crackle and stench of distant anti-aircraft fire permeated his ears and nose. He dare not look out the front of the helicopter to see the bursts of flame, lest it pitch suddenly and ditch him out. He concentrated on the beating of the helicopter blades as the trees turned to fields, then houses, then even more houses. He grimaced, and began to think. He was one of the first to be called up for the draft back home, and he was just past three weeks out of basic before they deposited him in this burning hellhole to shoot up some city or another. Of course, he thought. Draft the Xrevarans off to war, then they'll all die in this godforsaken country and they won't be around to ask that they be treated like humans. Well, he didn't feel treated as a human here either, but he supposed that was the point.

Déhwaj's ponderings on racial inequality were interrupted by the incoherent shouting of orders by his squad commander. He shook his head and looked around through the open doorway. The view had significantly changed since last inspection- There was an entire city of rubble around him, with ragged spikes of concrete shooting up around him in a crazed fashion. Artillery blasts rocked the earth around the copter, and one smacked square into the side of a building next to their position. It made a terrible noise and sent rubble into the street. Screams could be heard, as could gunshots.

It was only then, as the chopper began slowly setting down onto a building that hadn't yet collapsed, that Private Mu-Rsan fully realized he was entering this world of chaos and destruction. He waited what seemed like an eternity for the chopper's wheels to clap onto the ground, but they never did. The helicopter just... stopped. Déhwaj glanced downwards and balked- from his angle he was still many feet up. He was about to open his mouth in protest when the sergeant shouted for him to exit the craft.

His feet made contact with the hard roof. He checked. It was merely a two foot drop he had made. He gripped his FAL, gritted his teeth, and followed his squad down the stairs into the building. At the ground floor entryway, they unpacked the traveling radio and received their orders- they were to make northwest until they met up with the rest of the battalion near the old Fire Brigade HQ, so marked due to its large, easily identifiable tower. Déhwaj sighed and followed his squad from the relative comfort of the building to the rubble-strewn open killing fields that were the streets of Drumnacolm.

[Wellsia]

[b] Drumnacolm, Camalam.

The Battle of Drumnacolm had now bogged down into a slug fest, Wellsia and the loyalist had pushed to the outskirts of the city before the Beachboys and rebels had been able to stop them, now orders were to finish taking the town or level it, this was to be the commanding victory that was needed to break the rebellion and the Veronese. Fettleworth looked over at Hamish and shook his head, the company had been sent into this hell hole with orders to clean the Beachboys out house to house. Hamish cursed as he heard the tale-tale sound of more Veronese helicopters arriving, which meant more reinforcements. This was a weakness of the Wellsian military that needed to be addressed. The battle raged around them, Wellsian artillery pounded the city just yards in front of their lines. A sniper fired from one of the buildings up ahead, in quick response the 3.5-inch (90 mm) Recoil less rifle team put an explosive round through the window taking the top off the building. The company's mortar teams lobbed shell after shell into the enemy lines as the battered 4th Fusiliers rose up and advanced to the next wall of rubble.