by Stuart Slade
That was a fairly indecisive engagement as well. Neither side was really interested in advancing and forcing the issue so the tanks exchanged “shots” at long range. That, at least, pleased the Greenforce infantry who didn’t have to put up with the thunderflashes tossed around their position any more. Strachan’s radio beeped again. He listened to the message with a smile.
“That’s going to liven things up Sergeant. First Airmobile Brigade have just put a battalion assault team behind the objective. Used Junglies to drop in two companies of motorized infantry and a company of assault vehicles.”
That was the whole point of this exercise of course, Strachan reflected. The Fairey Junglie rotodynes, so-called after their mottled green-and-black camouflage schemes, had speed and load-lifting capabilities that couldn’t be matched by helicopters and they could deliver equipment to areas inaccessible to fixed-wing aircraft. Strachan could picture what was happening now. The Junglies had touched down, dropped their back ramps and were unloading the armored vehicles they carried. Armored was a bit of an exaggeration. The Boarhound armored personnel carriers were splinter-proofed at best, but they allowed the infantry to move fast under a modicum of protection while the Chevalier ‘tanks’ were the same vehicles fitted with a pair of 120mm recoilless rifles. No match for a regular unit of course but loose in an enemy rear area, they could create chaos.
And that’s exactly what they were doing by the sound of it. Strachan switched his Landrover’s radio over so he could eavesdrop on the Greenforce communications network. The situation had certainly broken loose back there and he guessed his umpiring colleagues were hard at work sorting out the confusion. He could almost see the little tracked vehicles dashing into the headquarters area while the 120mm armed Chevalier ‘tanks’ provided fire support. Radio messages on the Greenforce net were already descending into chaos as the signals sections tried to maintain contact under fire and close assault.
“Order, counter-order, disorder.” Harper repeated the old proverb with relish.
“And they were expecting this to happen.” Strachan was fascinated by the way Greenforce was coming unglued as its command control facilities were eliminated. The defense was collapsing quickly as the Blueforce armor up front got the word and started to close on the disorganized and uncoordinated infantry. Strachan returned his attention to the young officer he had been watching. Despite the confusion and blizzard of disconnected and contradictory radio messages, he was managing a reasonably neat and effective disengagement under fire. Probably the most difficult of all evolutions to pull off. Yes, this young man had definite promise. Strachan got the radio message he had been waiting for, fired a red flare into the air and sounded the siren mounted on the back of his Landrover.
“How did they spot us Sir?” It was the young Lieutenant, about 30 minutes after the exercise had been concluded. He’d told his Sergeant to get the men ready to move out, then left him to get on with it. Strachan approved.
“They didn’t. But they looked at the terrain and tried to decide where they would put troops if they were defending and fired a few shells at those spots on spec as it were. The place you set up in was an excellent defensive position, so much so it stuck out as a potential target. You’d have been better off setting up in front of it and falling back to it when you came under attack.” Strachan glanced at his notebook. “Still, Lieutenant Cross, you did well for your first time out.”
“But, with respect, Sir, we lost, Sir.” Conrad Cross sounded dispirited by the way events had turned out.
“But you lost well, Cross. Any army can look good when it’s winning. It’s what happens when everything goes to hell that marks a really good army from those that don’t make the grade. You kept control of your troops even when the front was collapsing all around you. That’s something to be proud of. You come from a military family?”
“No Sir. My father runs a small house painting business, in Birmingham. He served in the War of course.”
“What regiment?”
Cross looked a little embarrassed. “Twenty Ninth Panzergrenadiers, Sir.”
“Ah.” Strachan acknowledged the German unit designation almost absently, When the significance of the name and designation dropped into place, he looked sharply at the young man. “Your father is Matthew Cross?”
“Yes, Sir. You know him?”
“Heard of him.” Strachan decided to prevaricate a little. Some of the details of that case were best forgotten. “He was recommended to one of my officers who bought a house up that way.”
Casa Rosada Presidential Palace, Buenos Aires, Argentina
The glass in the windows was both bullet-proof and explosion-resistant. They gave the world a slight sickly green tint when viewed through their impressive thickness. The planning group for Operation Soberania weren’t that interested in looking at the view. They had more important things to consider. The thickness of the glass also served to deaden sound from outside the palace. That meant the noise of the riot currently in progress didn’t reach the planning group either. They wouldn’t have been concerned with the situation even if they had heard the noise, civil disturbances were for the riot police to handle. They would disperse the rioters and identify the ringleaders. Sooner or later, those leaders would join the long list of desaparecidos, those who had “disappeared” into the maw of Argentina’s seemingly unstoppable political security system.
President Jorge Videla looked at the summary file in front of him. “Are we ready to move?” It was his only question.
“Yes Sir.” Defense Minister Leopoldo Galtieri was confident. Operation Soberania had been a goal of his for many years and his planning for it had gone back long before the official start two years ago. Even now, with the assault on Chile having full government approval, there were parts of this plan that went far beyond anything officially sanctioned. “We are concentrating the fleet now and refitting the ships for prolonged service. After they have come out of the refit yards, we will start preparing to load the amphibious forces. Fifth Battalion, Naval Infantry, will go ashore at 20:00 on 22 March next year to seize the islands of Horn, Freycinet, Hershell, Deceit and Wollaston. Two hours later, Third and Fourth battalions will land on Picton, Nueva und Lennox Islands and secure the eastern mouth of the Beagle Channel. With our naval infantry in place, we will start the invasion of mainland Chile the next day. Fifth Corps will occupy Punta Arenas and Puerto Natales in Chilean Patagonia while Third Corps will seize Santiago and Valparaiso. We have deployed First Corps northwards to guard against an attack from Brazil. After we have seized Chile, we will hold a plebiscite which will, of course, demand the annexation of Chile into our country.”
There was a brief ripple of amusement at the idea of a plebiscite producing any result other than that expected by the people in this room. Videla nodded as he contemplated the assault that had just been described. “Estimated casualties?”
“Between 30,000 and 50,000.”
Once more Videla acknowledged the brief answer. It would be a short, bloody war that would end in a major conquest. The surge of nationalism that would go with it would help squash the brooding resentment that had caused the riots outside today and the ones that had gone before. The casualty list would make it easier to describe those who had led the riots as traitors, betraying those who had died to win extra glory for Argentina. The government didn’t actually need justification for disappearing those who defied it, but it helped.
The real problem was that Argentina had a financial crisis on its hands of daunting proportions. Inflation was running out of control. The country’s trade deficit had become unsupportable and the foreign exchange reserves were running out. Argentina was self-sufficient on its basic requirements. It produced enough food for its citizens to eat well and its oil production was enough to keep the country running but a modern state required much more than that. If something wasn’t done soon, a creeping paralysis would start to bring the economy to a grinding halt. Then the rumble of discontent woul
d become a deafening roar.
“Are there any other comments on Operation Soberama?”
“We cannot move any earlier than the end of March?” The Finance Minister was concerned at the delay might be too long for Argentina’s precarious financial position to endure. One of the primary reasons for the operation was to seize Chile’s raw material resources so Argentina could exploit them.
“We cannot. The weather will be too bad. March is the earliest and even then it will be risky. The window of suitable weather conditions really is very narrow.”
“There is one thing.” The Foreign Minister spoke carefully. “We have received some suggestions that the Americans may have some indications of what we have planned.”
“So?” Galtieri’s voice was loaded with contempt.
“Operation Soberania is precisely the kind of military action that they have said they will not tolerate.”
“I say again, so?”
“Do we really wish to chance nuclear destruction?”
“The Americans are bluffing. Once they may have meant what they say, but those days are long past. That fool Carter made it clear that they will no longer try to interfere in the actions of other countries and who has he been replaced by? A Hollywood actor! We have no need to fear the Americans.”
“I hope you are right, General. For all our sakes, I hope so.”
Prison Hospital, Puerto Belgrano Naval Base, Argentina
“Pant hard it’s nearly there. Just one more effort.” The midwife spoke comfortingly to the young blonde woman on the delivery bed while she dabbed sweat from her patient’s forehead. The soon-to-be mother sobbed, but tried to gather herself for the last effort.
Across the room, a naval officer glanced impatiently at his watch. “How much longer? We’ve got more important things to do than this.”
“Soon, very soon.” The midwife dabbed her patient’s forehead again. “Poor lamb. As if being held here isn’t bad enough, she had the bad luck to be carrying a baby as well.”
Captain Alberto Astrid looked at his watch again. “Bad luck had nothing to do with it. Just get that baby delivered, and hurry up about it.”
He started pacing backwards and forwards, still glancing impatiently at his watch. Eventually the sounds of the birth were interrupted by those of a baby crying. Astrid stepped over to the midwife who was now attending to the infant. “Is it healthy?”
“Yes… “ The midwife started to speak but Astrid held up his hand. “That is all we need to know right now.”
“Please, may I see my baby?” The voice from the woman on the bed was weak. That exaggerated her Swedish accent to the point where her Spanish was almost unintelligible.
“No.” Astrid spoke with contempt.
“At least, is it a boy or a girl?” She was crying now; a mixture of exhaustion, fear and despair.
“That is no concern of yours.” Astrid drew his pistol, held it so the women could see it and know what was about to happen, then shot her in the head. “Orderlies, take that down to the incinerators and burn it.”
The midwife was trying to comfort the baby that had started crying again with the sound of the shot that had killed its mother. “Why, why did you do that?”
Astrid didn’t even bother to answer. He wasn’t accountable to anybody, least of all to a midwife who would not be much longer for this earth if she kept asking questions. He simply gestured to her to follow him as he left the delivery room and walked down a long corridor towards the public area of the hospital. There was a young couple waiting in a side room, an Army officer and his wife. Their faces lit up when they saw Astrid and the midwife.
“Major Mazza, Madame Mazza? Allow me to present you with your new…”
“Son.” The midwife completed the phrase.
“Son, yes. Take good care of him.”
“Oh we will, Captain. This is the dream we have both lived for.” Madam Mazza’s face was rapturous as she looked down at the infant now in her arms. “We never thought we could have this joy. Thank you Captain, thank you from the depths of our hearts.”
“The mother?” The Major looked down at his new son with pride.
“A young woman who loved, not wisely, but all too well. She is delighted her baby has a good home. Major, we must complete the adoption papers. Perhaps you and I can see to that while Madame Mazza tends to her new responsibility?”
Major Mazza nodded and started to follow Astrid out of the room. Before they left, Madame Mazza took one hand from the baby she was holding and grabbed Astrid’s sleeve. “Captain Astrid, thank you once more for fulfilling our heart’s wishes and making our family complete. You truly are a saint.”
Tank Platoon, Transvaal Rifles, South African Border, Just West of Tshinsenda.
“It might be thought that the veroordeel missionaries would have given up by now?” Lieutenant Bastiaan van Huis didn’t much like the mission his platoon of Oliphant tanks had just been handed but orders were orders. Besides, his platoon was probably the most experienced around and the poor bloody infantry going with them would need the best support they could get. Van Huis was quietly confident his platoon was the best in the brigade, if not the whole division.
“Perhaps they think the stams need the protein?” Sergeant Anders Lehmkuhl was looking at the map while he spoke. On paper, the job wasn’t that difficult. Advance about five miles in, shoot the hell out of the stamkamp, rescue the missionaries and then get back to friendly territory. They’d done a lot worse than that, including one epic that had taken them nearly eighty miles into stam country and then out again.
“They don’t really eat them do they?” Private Meade Dippenaar was a newbie. He’d just joined the platoon and had been assigned to tank number five as the loader, making him the lowest of the low. He’d stay there until van Huis had a read on the man and could see where his talents lay. If he didn’t have any, then he’d stay the loader of tank number five.
“No, jongmens. Not so often. Usually they do much worse than that.” Lehmkuhl knew the bitter truth of what he was saying. There was a very strict time limit on rescues like this. They’d been too late all too often.
“Then why do they keep going?” Dippenaar couldn’t see why he should have to risk his life for some people who didn’t have the sense to stay out of obvious danger. He accepted that the platoon would have to go; he just wanted a reason why they should. One that he could explain back home.
“Because they believe the Lord will protect them? Or they believe the stories are exaggerated or our propaganda? Because they believe that this time it will be different? The terrible thing is, the worst of the militias across the borders are Christian, or at least they claim they are. They do the atrocities anyway; missionaries and aid workers regardless. So who knows what the sendelings think when they set out? They go because they are who they are and we must try and save them because we are who we are. That’s the meaning of being a soldier Doc. We fight for those who cannot, or will not, fight for themselves.”
Dippenaar’s nickname in the platoon was Doc from his initials. He nodded quietly to himself. He didn’t quite understand the answer van Huis had given him but it sounded right and he memorized it for the future.
“What I don’t like is the short run.” Staff Sergeant Zander Randlehoff was the commander of number two tank and van Huis’s second in command. “Why are the stams holding them so close to the border? Don’t they realize we’ll be coming to get them?”
It was a good question, van Huis had been waiting for one of his men to ask that and he had had a private bet with himself that Randlehoff would be the one. “Why do you think, Staff?”
“Because it’s a bloedig trap that’s why!” Randlehoff spoke emphatically, the Afrikaans curse spat out like a bullet. “They want us to come straight down here and charge in. They know we’re running against the clock and it’s the fastest way.”
His finger tapped a strip of clear ground between the two great patches of oerwoud that flanked their target
. It looked as if a flood at some time had washed the trees and ground cover away, leaving what looked like a roadway through the heavy terrain. “Does anybody want to bet that’s soft silt and full of mines?”
The assembled troops nodded. It was common knowledge that Randlehoff was up for promotion to officer and generally agreed that the platoon would be the worse off without him. They could see for themselves that the tanks would bog down in the soft silt and get blown apart by mines and RPG fire.
“And that’s why we’re not going that way broers. We’ll swing north, cross the border five miles north of here where there’s hard, clear ground. We’ll get the guns to pound on Kawimba. That’s another five miles north and with luck the stams will think we’re heading there. We’ve got two platoons of moddervoete with us. One of them will make a feint north to keep the stams thinking we’re heading that way. The other will come with us when we swing south and hit the stamkamp from the north. There’s a road we can use so we can move fast. Their Ratels can go first; we’ll follow as fast we can.
“Once we’re in, the stamkamp is pretty simple.” He pushed some pictures out over the maps. “Two semi-circular kamps, each with eighteen huts. Cupped between them, three kraals and eleven other huts. That’s the civilian area. We try and keep clear of them. Shooting comes from there, we shoot back, but otherwise we leave them alone. Poor bastards suffer more from the militias than any of ours do. Now, see this big one here?” His finger tapped a single large hut a little separated from the rest. “That’s where any surviving missionaries will be. If there are any surviving. Now, important thing. East of the main kamp. See this arrowhead? There’s seven huts along the main shaft, and there’s five on each diagonal. This is where whatever militia is over there live. Way they’re laid out, looks like any serious firepower will be in there. So we take them out fast; no need to leave them breathing. Then swing in to grab the rest. Any questions?”
