The Last Centurion

by John Ringo

  Then, instead of just pushing forward and crashing into the damned village, they milled around on the fields firing at medium ranges.

  If they'd backed way off and fired, that would have been one thing. But the stupid fuckers stayed in our engagement basket the whole time and fired from ranges where their accuracy wasn't that great.

  Nelson: "Never interrupt an enemy in the process of making a grievous error."

  I actually told my Abrams to back off.

  But they clearly got some sort of order and started to roll towards the village. They weren't rolling fast, which was stupid, but they were rolling.

  Then I told my Abrams to come in.

  It was Second Platoon and a scattering of Nepos, mostly driving. The guys who had picked up enough English to be able to take commands. They'd never done real tank gunnery before. Oh, we'd fired some rounds at the vehicles in the desert, including while in movement, but they'd never engaged moving targets while moving themselves. And the Nepos? Well, they'd just recently learned to drive trucks. Now they were driving seventy-three-ton tanks and taking orders from TCs in English which they sort of understood.

  To the north of Khuwaitla, at about six klicks, was the town of Tal Zallat. The road they'd taken to the north went up through Tal Zallat in a bend.

  There wasn't much to Tal Zallat. Just some houses and a mosque like Khuwaitla. But the houses were big enough to drive Abrams into and disappear.

  Hopefully the people got out, first.

  As soon as I saw the Iraqi units starting to "consolidate" and get under some control I called the Abrams.

  Down from the village they came like . . . Boy, I want to get poetic. "Like an avenging north wind" was what I was going to say. Actually, it was more like ten bouncers jumping into a big riot in a bar.

  They opened fire at max range and mostly missed. But they just kept coming in a spread-out line, cannons booming from time to time and kicking up a big pall of dust.

  The Iraqis were just getting the idea to drive into Khuwaitla. They couldn't drive around it because of the watercourse. But they could drive into it. They started rolling forward and all of a sudden they're getting hit from the flank.

  A Bradley on the flank was the first vehicle to get hit by one of the tanks. It was the tank of the platoon leader. You could see the "silver bullet" track right in on that fucker on the playback of the gun camera. And it went through the turret and out the other side. Set off all the main gun ammo on the Bradley and apparently killed all the crew and scared the driver enough he bailed out.

  By then our Abrams were down to under two klicks and starting to score. The Iraqis suddenly decided that the Javelins in Khuwaitla were less important than the tanks on their flanks and tried to turn to face our Abrams.

  And then the Strykers hit from the south.

  They'd bridged the watercourse well to the south and moved up through a screen of trees a couple of klicks down. This was my last platoon of U.S. infantry, First Platoon, and they had a dual mission.

  As they moved up, they dropped Jav crews into depressions and those guys started lighting up the armored vehicles. But the main purpose of the Strykers was the line of trucks, filled with infantry, which were following the tanks.

  The trucks were mostly still on the road and pretty spread out. U.S. ten tons. (Thanks, State Department!) And a bunch of them had .50 calibers in ring mounts, which can do a number on a Stryker.

  If there was any effective fire from those trucks, it wasn't evident. The Strykers spread out and took them all under heavy fire with main guns and the TC's gun. They took out one of the lead trucks, first, which backed up all the others. The others tried to escape onto the fields. Some of them bogged down. None of them were as fast as the Strykers off-road.

  The Iraqi commander wasn't done, though. He still had about fifteen Bradleys and ten Abrams and he finally got his artillery firing into Khuwaitla. It was random and mostly fell on the back side of the village but it was a nuisance and we took some casualties. Including one of the Strykers in the village when a 155 round fell right on it.

  Out in the fields, it was mano y mano as the Abrams and Bradleys charged each other. I couldn't have that.

  "Scouts. Roll out and take the Brads in the ass."

  Strykers are not supposed to engage Bradleys. Bradleys are much tougher and even have TOW missiles on them.

  But when four Strykers are attacking from the rear while ten Abrams are attacking from the front, thirteen Bradleys are in a bit of a pickle.

  There were still the remaining Abrams, though. The enemy's that is. One of ours had been taken out and more were about to be charging right at each other. And with them heading north, most of the Jav teams couldn't get an angle of fire.

  "Samad. Get the remaining Jav teams out of the houses. Have them engage only the enemy tanks."

  Time of flight became an issue. The two groups closed fast. But Javs started launching up. Not as many as I'd hoped. Clearly we'd lost some of the Nepos. But they were outbound.

  The two groups closed to within less than a klick when the Javs started falling on the enemy Abrams. Coming down from the rear, they had a choice (based on their targeting software) of engine, turret or gun.

  Most chose engine. Nice big heat source.

  It got very fast and furious for a moment. Then six Abrams charged out of the smoke and dust. They ran actually through the formation of Strykers, turned around and charged back in.

  "All Javelins, cease fire."

  I hoped I'd been in time.

  Javelins are very smart rounds. And, somehow, the Nepos managed to sort our Abrams from their Abrams. I couldn't.

  Out at the trucks, our infantry was accepting the surrender of the surprisingly large number of survivors.

  Battle of Khuwaitla bottomline:

  Enemy losses.

  Destroyed vehicles:

  Forty-three Abrams Main Battle Tanks.

  Fifty-three Bradley Armored Fighting Vehicles.

  One hundred and four trucks.

  KIA: 3800 (approx).

  WIA: 2500 (approx).

  Prisoner: 1586 (exact).

  Captured equipment:

  Six damaged Abrams MBT.

  Twelve damaged Bradley AFV.

  Seventeen Ten-Ton Trucks.

  Nine Paladin Mobile Artillery Systems.

  Friendly losses:

  Four Abrams Main Battle Tanks. (Two recoverable.)

  Three Stryker Infantry Carriers. (One recoverable.)

  Two Stryker Scout Vehicles. (One recoverable.)

  One Hemmitt. (Supply truck. No, the wounded weren't on it.)

  Nepalese Auxiliary Infantry: Sixteen WIA, four KIA.

  U.S. Army Personnel: Seven WIA, nine KIA.

  Twenty-three and Thirteen to Twenty-five hundred and Thirty-eight hundred.

  That's balling the ace.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Honorable Bastard

  We weren't done but we mostly were done.

  Wellington had a great quote for the moment the last enemy vehicle was stopped:

  "I have never lost a battle. But I cannot but think that the only thing worse than a battle won must be a battle lost."

  The fields between the village and the ridge were covered with burning vehicles. Guys were wandering out there chaotically. There were still some shots, especially .50 caliber. A defeated enemy that don't want to be killed had better surrender on a battlefield. Running is the same as fighting under the laws of war.

  A lot of my boys, American and Nepalese, were dead. More were injured and that was in a way worse. We didn't have any doctors or medevac.

  And we still hadn't taken Mosul or Irbil or the fuel we needed.

  I ordered my guys to take prisoners and sort them out. And to use the "special protocols."

  Normally, say back in WWII, the way that you take prisoners is this.

  You round them up. Any who "show fight" are taken under fire but otherwise you just round them up.

&nb
sp; You separate them into three groups: Officers, NCOs, enlisted.

  You keep the groups separate.

  You ensure the security of the prisoners at all times. Once you capture an enemy fighter, his security is higher than your own security or those of your fellow soldiers.

  That's if you're fighting the Germans. Which we don't do anymore.

  With Middle Eastern forces, especially any that included or could include "hardcores," that is guys who were fundamentalist nutballs, you used the "special protocols."

  There were still three groups: Officers, enlisted and "hardcores."

  How to define "hardcores"? It's an art. First, you look for any guy who's got a beard. Military units, even most Middle Eastern units, are down on beards. I'm not talking about stubble, I'm talking about a full-up soup catcher. Fundamentalist Islamics are big on soup-catchers. (Says you're supposed to have one in the Koran. Surah something. Look it up.)

  Closer up, you look for the guys who are glaring at you. Look, these guys just took a pasting. Ever been in a fight you lost? I mean, just got the shit kicked out of you? Do you glare at the guy who just kicked your ass? No.

  Not unless you firmly believe that Allah or whoever is on your side. Then you keep glaring while he kicks your ass again and again.

  Got a beard and glaring? Definite hardcore. Beard and not glaring? Possible. Glaring? Probable. We tended to be conservative. Possibles went into the "hardcore" file.

  And you didn't just round guys up. You had them strip down, first. Why? Because hardcores hid grenades and shit in their clothes and would use them on you. And you couldn't be sure you got all the hardcores. Although if a guy had a grenade in his pocket you could figure he was a hardcore. So everybody, from generals to privates, stripped down to underwear. Then the guys searched their clothes. Then a rank tab or other sign of rank, if any, was ripped off the uniform. They were told to hold that in their hand and keep it where it could be seen. Then they were separated.

  I hadn't brought anywhere near enough fast-ties. Those are basically big cable ties that are used for temporary handcuffs. I hadn't planned on fighting a large force much less capturing a good bit of it.

  So we had to go to "special special" protocols.

  The enlisted non-hardcore were the most numerous. They always are. They're cattle. Middle Eastern units, by and large, are conscription units with low-morale conscriptees. They don't give their captors trouble. We put them out in one field with a couple of Strykers on guard and told them to get their clothes back on. They were given shovels and told to dig latrines and given some rations and water. They were told to stay in a bunch, don't try to wander off and they'd be fine. Best we could do for them at the time.

  (Oh, explaining the latrines is always fun with guys like that. They think they're digging their graves. It gets explained.)

  The officers, about twenty, were marched down to Khuwaitla. They were run into a barn and told to hold there. Guards were posted including a Stryker. They were given food and water. One tried to escape. He got shot. Must have missed a hardcore.

  The hardcores, a fair number (about a hundred including some "officers" and such-like), were marched into a field. They were spread out. They were told to put their clothes on and sit. Do not stand. Do not talk. If you do either, you will be killed.

  Some of them didn't believe us. One stood up.

  Had Nepos watching them. Why? Nepos are very interesting when it comes to human life. They take it as a dishonor (they got this from Samad and Ghurka stuff) to kill a true noncombatant. That is, a woman or a kid or an old guy. Even an unarmed male who is not a combatant.

  They also don't torture. Don't believe in it. Consider it dishonor. Don't rape.

  Combatants? You'd better do what they say or you're fucking dead. And they sort of enjoy it.

  Guy stood up. Two .50 calibers opened up. He was hit. Guys on either side were hit. Guys behind him were hit. Some just wounded.

  They screamed and bled out. The Nepos giggled.

  U.S. troops might have hesitated. Should have, probably would have, gotten eaten up by it. Sure, they're hardcores, they're the core of the terrorist motherfuckers we've been fighting since the taking of the U.S. embassy in Iran. They're the guys that flew into the Twin Towers. But they're humans.

  Nepos don't think that way. There are targets and non-targets and they don't care what happens to a target.

  We get along great but we're not exactly alike.

  That wasn't all that was going on.

  There were still forces in Mosul. I punched the remaining tanks and Scouts up to the pass. They found the Paladins that were still intermittently firing. Captured them. (A Paladin has a .50 caliber on it and their guns can be lowered to direct fire. They're there if a group of infantry hit your unit. If you're a smart Paladin commander, however, when a Main Battle Tank comes calling you surrender. Quick.) More prisoners. Dispatched a couple of trucks with Nepo guards and some guys to drive the Paladins back.

  We "consolidated" on Khuwaitla in the meantime. Gathered wounded, redistributed ammo, reammoed. Ran a supply truck up to the guys on the Pass. No movement in the direction of Mosul they could see.

  We did what we could for the wounded. I'd brought a plentiful supply of medical stuff with us and picked up more in Baghdad. Most of what was wrong, though, the medics could barely touch. Horrible burns on a couple of guys. One amputation from a tank round. Shrapnel. One of the Nepos, who had been hit on the head so hard a chunk of skull was missing, wanted to go back on duty. We sedated him.

  The Kurds in Mosul had a doctor. He was short on medicines. I had lots of medicines. As soon as things were stabilized it was time to link-up.

  So I had somebody go get the commander of this ratfuck.

  Yes, he'd survived. Got picked up from the "truck" group. Was in a wheeled mobile command post which had stopped and everybody bailed when the Strykers hit. Smartest thing they could do.

  He was alive. He'd gotten his clothes back on. He was turning the rank tab over and over in his hands when I walked in.

  Decent looking guy. Clean shaven, good haircut. Uniform wasn't tarted up with medals. Smart eyes. Not glaring, just smart.

  "Captain Bandit Six," he said very dryly in really clear English. "What a surprise to see you up here."

  We talked. He didn't do the usual Arab thing of beating around the bush. I got out a bottle of hooch from the Iran LOG base. He didn't turn down a belt or two.

  Turns out he was a "real" colonel. Sunni but American trained and hadn't been part of the Resistance. (Not all the Sunnis were.) Survived the Plague. Kept some people together. Family, some guys from his unit.

  Bigger fish took over in most of Baghdad. Not military, a Sunni mujaheddin type. Not even from Iraq, an Egyptian. Grabbed the LOG base. Colonel joined forces with the bigger commander. Fighting would have been stupid.

  He was pretty good. Experienced. School trained. (Command and General Staff among others. Guy was better trained than me.) Things were quiet in the south. He was dispatched with most of the combat forces around to go up and take the oil fields from the Kurds. Well, beating up on Kurds was just patriotic duty to any Iraqi. Kurds were mountain raiders, ground-mount Vikings, barbarians. Well-known fact. Been that way since time immemorial. The guys on the plains get raided by the Kurds . . . Go back to that bit and read it. Then take it from the POV of the guys in the "empires." "Fucking Kurds."

  Couldn't hold fighting the Kurds against him except they were my allies. The Kurds were bastards to the Iraqis and vice versa.

  "By the way, wiped out the other armored force down in Baghdad."

  "Yes, I was told." Very dry again. "Actually, I found out through sources. What I was told was somewhat different. I was also told you were on your way to Syria. That I shouldn't worry about you."

  "I tried very hard to give that impression," I admitted. "So what do I do with you? You know all the laws and such. And, trust me, I'm down to basic law not regs put on top. Not even basic law
to tell truth."

  What I was saying was, I no longer felt constrained by the Geneva Convention. Easiest thing was to shoot everybody out of hand.

  "Believe it or not, I actually have Kurdish POWs," he replied. "I am keeping them as well as I can."

  What he was saying was he felt constrained by the Geneva convention. Fucker.

  On the other hand, if he was willing to play by the rules . . .

  "Parole?"

  Parole, in military terms, means that the officer and his unit agree to no longer engage in combat against a particular enemy. So he couldn't be used to beat up on the Kurds or us. But he could be sent down to watch the Shias or whatever and free up forces from down there. I'd take that.

  "If I give my parole Mullah Hamadi will have me killed," he replied, smiling. "And find an officer who is willing to lead this shattered force. I will give it, but you might as well shoot me."

  Fuck.

  "I don't suppose you can get the forces besieging Mosul to surrender?"

  "Probably not and if I could I would not give the order."

  Honorable bastard.

  "What if you agree to remain under parole here," I asked. "Until the local issues are decided?"

  "I would go for that. But there are elements of my force which will not."

  "The hardcores. What to do with them?"

  "Give them to the Kurds for all I care."

  Honorable and knew who to be honorable about. I was starting to like this guy.

  And so it was done.

  I called the Kurds. I told them to tell the guys in Mosul that when the tanks came back they were ours. Don't shoot.

  I left most of the prisoners in Khuwaitla with a group of Nepos and, notably, our LOG and wounded. The enlisted prisoners were moved into the shattered houses and given food. They didn't cause problems. The officers did a couple of times. The colonel settled that out. The Nepos were just there to make sure nobody got really stupid. There were a couple of hardcores in the enlisteds. They got stupid. The rest got the hint.

  We waited until the next morning then rolled to Mosul.

  Don't get me wrong, nobody got any sleep that night. There were hardcores to handle, which is never easy even with blood-thirsty Nepos. Shit had gotten fucked up. It had to be unfucked. I had to spread out units as observation posts and hope they didn't get overrun. There were still some guys moving around that had avoided the sweep. We had to round them up. All the vehicles had to be logged, which since we were spread to fuck and gone took time. I put in a quick call to home. More on that later. There was a probe up towards the pass. It got turned back.