Expatriates

by James Wesley, Rawles

  The colonel paused, and then added, “I need you get up there, go through the PEACHs site selection process, and get the stores left behind at Robertson as well as those we shuttle up there in position quite quickly. And—how do I put this?—Be bold, but don’t be hasty. A lot will be riding on your decisions. Consider that, if you miscalculate, you could be providing logistics stockpiles for the Indos rather than our own forces.”

  Caleb gave a grim nod. “That’s a heavy responsibility, sir.” Caleb looked down at his clasped hands for a few moments and then asked, “Sir, to have recourse to a Plan B, I’d like your permission to bring along enough demolitions and thermite to deny everything we have to the invaders in case they do fix any of our hardstand positions and roll up on us.”

  “That would be wise, Caleb. I’ll see to it that you can requisition whatever demo gear you need, and I’ll have someone from the Engineers give you the über short course in making things go boom. If need be, I’ll have a sapper detailed to go with you to provide refresher training to your logisticians. Most of us haven’t discussed demo-ing our own supplies since we took our branch courses—and for me that was many years ago.”

  He brushed his hand over his bald head, for emphasis.

  “The position I’m giving you is something I’d normally give to a major. And in fact if it were in my power, I’d promote you before sending you out. But as you know, the promotion process has become very bureaucratic in recent years, and the promotion boards hold inordinate power. In some ways, we’re still stuck with the peacetime army mentality even though we’re on the brink of war. So I’m making the recommendation that you be given a standard commission and that you move up in rank. While we wait for the gears of bureaucracy to turn, I’m sending you with a letter that gives you a lot of leeway—more or less a roving commission, with a checkbook to match. I trust that you won’t disappoint me.”

  “I’ll do my best, sir.”

  “Very well, then. Ready a small advance party to be on the road within thirty-six hours. You’ll have to do a lot of thinking on your feet. The PM said ‘improvise,’ so make that happen. You’ll be counting a lot upon the cooperation of the local civilians. Anything they might lack in volunteer spirit, you can make up for with the Crown’s good checks.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  Reynolds sat down in his desk chair to indicate that their meeting was drawing to a close. Waggling his index finger to punctuate his words, Reynolds said, “Again, be bold, but don’t be hasty.”

  “Will do, sir.”

  34

  CRESCENDO

  “If it were possible for members of different nationalities, with different language and customs, and an intellectual life of a different kind, to live side by side in one and the same state, without succumbing to the temptation of each trying to force his own nationality on the other, things would look a good deal more peaceful. But it is a law of life and development in history that where two national civilizations meet they fight for ascendancy. In the struggle between nationalities, one nation is the hammer and the other the anvil: one is the victor and the other the vanquished.”

  —Bernhard Heinrich Karl Martin von Bülow, German Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs and later Chancellor of the German Empire

  Gallipoli Barracks, Enoggera, Queensland, Australia—February, the Third Year

  The evening after his briefing by the brigade commander, Caleb sent Chuck Nolan an e-mail. He wrote a one-line message that simply said, “Check Your Inbox (NTXT).”

  By prior arrangement, Chuck knew this meant he was to use their “not secure but semiprivate” method of avoiding e-mails, which could be intercepted. With this method, rather than sending e-mail back and forth, they would log in to Caleb’s DarwiNet account using Caleb’s password and check the “Drafts” e-mail folder. There, he found an e-mail that originated from his office computer, which was unusual. It read:

  (UNCLASSIFIED)

  FROM: W01 CALEB BURROUGHS

  HQ, LOG GRP 2, 7 CSSB, GALLIPOLI BARRACKS, ENOGGERA, QLND

  PRIORITY: HIGH

  TITLE: Most Urgent: Need Your Southern (Not Yankee) Ingenuity

  Chuck:

  I will be arriving in Darwin in three or four days. I must ask you to clear your calendar so that we can meet to discuss some pressing issues related to my branch of service. I’ve been put in charge of a project of great importance that will see me posted there for an extended period. I will be arriving with a few subordinates. I can’t go into any details via phone or Internet. Can you be ready to quit your civvy job to be a contractor for my endeavor? Treat this with the utmost discretion. Consilio et animis.—Caleb

  (UNCLASSIFIED)

  Reading between the lines, Chuck recognized that “issues related to my branch of service” could only mean a military logistics operation of some sort. He quickly replied, also in the form of an unsent draft, in the same folder:

  Caleb:

  You can be assured of my full cooperation. Given the current exigencies, my boss would probably be agreeable to a leave of absence, or if need be, even releasing and rehiring me. I’ll put myself at your disposal for your project. I’m sure that Ava will understand, given the circumstances. You have my mobile number to coordinate a meeting.

  Amat Victoria Curam—Chuck

  —

  Caleb arrived in Darwin four days later in an Australian Army Bushmaster Protected Mobility Vehicle (PMV) that had been requisitioned from the Army Logistic Training Centre. These Irish-designed and Australian-built vehicles could carry up to nine passengers. This one carried just Burroughs, the truck’s driver (a female lance corporal with a plain face), a supply sergeant, and a load of mixed cargo in the back. All three of them were wearing MultiCam Australian Defense Force (ADF) uniforms with the latest-issue bush hats of the same camouflage pattern.

  They seemed particularly proud of their vehicle because it was equipped with a Common Remotely Operated Weapon Station (CROWS)—a piece of weapons technology that came to the ADF by way of the U.S. Army.

  All around them, there was a steady stream of civilian evacuees heading south. The Indonesians had warned that they “could not be responsible” for the safety of anyone who remained north of the 24th parallel. The Australian government grudgingly echoed this, urging evacuation. They did mention that there would be “an undetermined number” of stay-behind resistance forces operating in the north. They asked all civilian refugees to leave their houses unlocked to accommodate these Stay Behinds.

  Caleb met Chuck at the main gate of Robertson Barracks, which had recently been evacuated. There were no longer soldiers manning the gate. Caleb had a standard issue AUG rifle slung across his chest. Chuck could see the glint of brass cartridge cases through the rifle’s translucent magazine. Seeing this loaded rifle was a reminder that Australia was now on a war footing and that their conversation would be serious business.

  Leaving their vehicles parked in what had been the security inspection lane, they sat down to talk at the desk of the guardhouse. After inquiring about each other’s health and pouring a couple of lukewarm cups of Daintree tea that Caleb had brought in his thermos, he gave Chuck a ten-minute briefing about his mission. He concluded by requesting, “So . . . I’d like you to be our explosives expert, bouncing between all three sites, training both those in uniform and the civilian contractors. You might even be training some of the civilian Stay Behind militia members. You’d also oversee the safe storage and handling of all explosives, rockets, and mortar bombs at the FLBs.”

  “I know something about civilian explosives, but I don’t know much about military explosives or artillery shells,” Chuck protested.

  Caleb wagged his finger dismissively. “You haven’t had military courses, but you still have all those military manuals that we put on our memory sticks, right? Well, just consider this the on-the-job training to ‘go with.’ And for w
hatever it’s worth, there will be no artillery shells. The biggest thing that goes bang we’ll be handing out will be some 81-millimeter mortar rounds and some satchel charges, but those are just like civilian explosives. There will be some rockets, but this isn’t rocket science. I just need you to teach everyone the common sense stuff, like not transporting detonators and the explosives in close proximity, and warning them about static electricity around blasting caps, that sort of thing.”

  Chuck nodded. “Okay, I’ll do it.”

  35

  TO YOUR GUNS

  “Had the Japanese [army’s territorial conquest in Asia] got as far as India, Gandhi’s theories of ‘passive resistance’ would have floated down the Ganges River with his bayoneted, beheaded carcass.”

  —Mike Vanderboegh, in Sipsey Street Irregulars blog

  Darwin, Northern Territory, Australia—February, the Third Year

  With war imminent, AOGC had minimized all of their oil and gas exploration in the north to concentrate on production and distribution in the southern half of the country. So Chuck’s boss was willing to release him on an unpaid leave of absence. Chuck Nolan cleaned out his desk, and his ADF contract started the same day. He was asked to “find some trustworthy fellas who can think outside the box, to come on board, to help man the FLBs.” He immediately thought of Peter Jeffords and Joseph Navarro and called both of them.

  Joseph agreed to work as a contractor without any hesitation. Peter asked for a night to think about it. He called back the next morning. “Rhiannon and I talked and prayed a lot about it. We decided that she ought to take Sarah down south where it’s safe. But we agreed that it would be a good idea for me to stay here and help out for two reasons: First, I’m done with running. We were run out of the Philippines because we had no choice. Here, I have the opportunity to help stop the Indos, at least in some small way. Second, I got to thinking about what it will be like living at those logistics base camps that you have planned. It’ll be a lot of foul-mouthed soldiers from the Big City together with an assortment of rough-around-the edges Top Enders. A bunch of bogans, mostly. In other words, it’ll provide a great opportunity for Christian witness! Sign me up.”

  Chuck began work the next morning. He enthusiastically plunged into his job, and soaked up the military logistics jargon. His years of field work in harsh conditions in the oil fields and in oil field wildcatting prepared him well for life at an austere logistics base in the jungle.

  Chuck soon learned that a CSSB normally included a headquarters element, a transport squadron, a health company (with medical and dental assets), a field supply company, and a field workshop. Normally a CSSB is responsible for maintaining three to fourteen days of supply depending on the commodity. But for the Northern Territory FLBs, the guidance was for twenty-one to twenty-eight days until any resupply.

  Caleb was specifically tasked with scouting locations for three forward logistics bases (FLBs). He was tentatively given direction to locate them on Crown land, but private property could be also used with compensation, at his discretion. The stated goal was to set up the bases on well-drained level ground in forested areas. By cutting just a minimum number of trees and through skillful use of camouflage netting, it was hoped that these bases would be difficult to spot from the air. Each of the FLBs would be provisioned with stocks of fuel in 2,500-gallon flexible rubber “pillow tank” blivets, ammunition field rations, batteries, and water trailers. To conserve precious military manpower, the FLBs would be staffed with eighty percent civilian contractors and just a few army officers and enlisted personnel.

  The first site Caleb selected was a forested tract near the town of Batchelor that was owned by a private plantation company. They were gradually cutting mixed stands of native timber and replanting to create African mahogany plantations. He eventually picked a particularly dense tract of mixed mature second-growth timber that had originally been logged in the 1950s. The tract, in a broad north-south valley, was thirty-four miles out of Darwin. The trees were tall and dense, and inside the grove he could barely see the sky. Old logging roads that could easily be upgraded to accommodate large trucks crisscrossed the grove.

  Hiking the property, he found that it was so deeply shaded, it felt almost claustrophobic. But he could see that all that would be needed was limbing some trees for truck clearance and felling a few trees to make room for storage tents and hardstand parking places. The access was perfect: a number of lanes that turned out directly onto Litchfield Park Road—a paved secondary road. He was surprised to see that the lanes had been kept free of deadfall. He later learned that it was feral pig hunters who had kept the lanes cleared. The hunters liked to retain the ability to haul out the heavy pig carcasses (up to 115 kilos for boars) in their utilities.

  The FLB site would be almost undetectable, even to someone driving by on the paved road. To the casual observer, the lanes would be indistinguishable from dozens of other existing logging roads. With some gravel, these lanes would be drivable even in the wet season. This FLB site was dubbed Site G and informally nicknamed the Grove by everyone involved.

  When Caleb approached the plantation company about leasing two hundred hectares, the plantation manager told him, “My price is firm at one dollar for the duration of the hostilities. Just do your best not to burn it down.”

  Once the lease was signed, a flurry of activity began at Site G. More than forty camouflage nets arrived on contract commercial contract trucks, driven by “red right arm” civilian truckers who seemed confused why they had been directed to GPS coordinates rather than to a street address.

  Next came a pair of 2.5-ton capacity rough terrain forklifts—made by YTO in China—painted bright yellow, but that was soon remedied with two coats of flat olive drab spray paint. Caleb had thought ahead and had directed his NCOs to bring forty-eight cans of military specification black and olive drab spray paint.

  Chuck Nolan helped set up the site. It was laid out in what the Australian NCOs called a defensive donut. The only access road ended in a lollipop-shaped road loop with hardstand position under the thickest clumps of trees. The donut was about three hundred yards across, so Chuck soon found that it was easiest to use his mountain bike to make his rounds.

  Nolan’s work clothes were usually a pair of Aussie Army MultiCam trousers, one of his forest green AOGC button-down long-sleeve shirts (still with an AOGC logo above the left pocket, embroidered in dark blue), a pair of Bates American-made lightweight hiking boots, and the MultiCam boonie hat that his sister had given him just before he moved to Australia. That hat originally had its left brim tacked up with a few stitches of thread to make it look like an Australian bush hat. Thinking it looked too trite, Chuck cut out those threads before his flight to Australia. Another gift from his going-away party became something he carried every day. It was a Leatherman Wave multi-pliers tool with a special blasting cap crimper built into the pliers’ jaws. This Leatherman had been given to him by his parents and was one of his favorite and most useful possessions.

  The FLBs were thrown together in a hurry. They were short on men, short on supplies, and they were desperately short of knowledge about what would happen next. But they were diggers, and diggers always found a way to muddle through.

  36

  EXIGENCIES

  “A person can be a partisan or a survivalist, but not both. The survivalist defends himself, his people and his redoubt against all comers. It’s not just his right, it’s his duty. He may have standing patrols or mount a rescue operation, or do a preemptive strike against bad guys advancing on his community, or even take control of a strategic hilltop. He may make arrangements with other survivalists for mutual aid, much like volunteer fire departments do. All this is defensive. What he will not do is join with others in wholesale annihilation merely to expand turf. Legitimate defense does not involve gang war. The survivalist wins this game by not playing, which is to say he wins by staying away from crowds. S
ame as always.”

  —Ol’ Remus, Yer Ol’ Woodpile Report blog

  Darwin, Northern Territory, Australia—February, the Third Year

  Peter Jeffords and Tatang Navarro came to work at the Site G base while it was still under construction. Tatang brought his M1 Garand and Jeffords had his Pindad SS2 .223. Because it was standard issue with both the Indonesian Army and Marines, Caleb asked Peter to give training classes on it at all three FLBs. “I want every man—whether army or civilian—to be able to pick up a Pindad and know how to load it, shoot it, and clear stoppages. And if you have the time, even teach them how to field-strip it.”

  After introducing himself, Peter always started his lectures and demonstrations by holding up the SS2 rifle and saying, “I inherited this Pindad rifle from an Indonesian soldier who passed away rather suddenly.”

  After the minimum age restriction for army contractors was dropped to age eighteen, Joseph Navarro also came to work at Site G. He was quickly and informally issued a greasy L1A1—a UK Commonwealth inch pattern FN FAL—that the Australians preferred to call SLR or Slur—Self-Loading Rifle. This obsolete 7.62 mm rifle, manufactured in the 1960s at the Australian Lithgow Arsenal, had been pulled from deep war reserves. It had a wooden stock and handguards which distinguished it from the other FAL variants he had seen when he was in the Philippines. Long after even the Australian Army Reserve had transitioned to the F88 Austeyr (the ADF’s version of the Steyr AUG), there were still thousands of L1A1 rifles held in reserve. This was one of them. Joseph immediately recognized the rifle’s design since it was the granddaddy of Peter’s Pindad.

  Peter was issued a set of military web gear and a pair of 7x32 binoculars. He selected his particular binoculars from among the packing crate because of the small reference number painted in red enamel: 316. This number resonated with him because of John 3:16, the most-cited verse in the New Testament.