The Free World War

by Matthew William Frend

  The magnified image of thousands of sprawling green acres disappeared as he put away his binoculars. He looked up at the sun high in the bright blue sky, feeling its heat emanating off the armor encircling his torso.

  Dropping down into the turret of the Chaffee light tank, he said, “Okay you guys, it’s going to be 127th Recon business as usual.”

  “You trying to break it to us gently?” asked Keponee, inspecting a round of the main gun’s 75mm ammunition.

  Cooper ignored him, realizing the effects of the highly-motivating pep talk given by Colonel Corday that morning would have worn off of his crew by now, “The good news is there’s a solid looking dirt track running downhill through the valley.”

  “And?” Keponee enquired as he replaced the round back in its rack and picked out the next in line.

  “The bad news is there could be anything in the forests on either side.”

  The driver, Greene, who had been peering out of his front hatch, lowered into his seat and faced his commander. “Like you said, it’s business as usual.”

  “Man, you should be honored that Uncle Sam chose us, this insignificant bunch of highly-trained nobodies, to perform this critical reconnaissance mission.”

  “I am honored … so much that my chest puffed out and all my medals popped off onto the floor of this fine little tank.”

  “Well then, we’ll just have to go and earn you some more, won’t we?”

  Keponee grinned as he checked the firing controls and then the sights on the 75mm. He held the Company record for one-shot kills, although due to the gun’s limited effectiveness against heavy armor, those kills were all anti-tank guns or thin-skinned transport. To downsize the gun for mounting in the M24’s turret, it had been modified with a thinner barrel and a lighter recoil mechanism than the original anti-shipping version than the one equipped on the B-25 Mitchell bomber.

  It irked the gun-aimer whenever he thought of such a precisely engineered weapon being used in such a haphazard way. Rounds being blasted all over the ocean from an aircraft moving at three hundred miles per hour. In contrast, he treated his craft as if he were a sniper with a very large rifle. A French-Canadian who had moved to the United States before the war, he thought of himself as a painter, his brush-strokes producing a Renaissance masterpiece, banging away at ships produced a kind of abstract art, where the paint had been thrown randomly at the canvas.

  Cooper took a final scan around with his field-glasses, stifling the rising fear that stemmed from thoughts of an ambush. It was times like these that he thought of his brother, a marine who’d served in the Pacific. He’d been injured during the Black Sea landings a month ago, losing his pitching arm.

  No more fast-balls on the weekend for you brother.

  With renewed resolve, he reached down to the spot on the outside of the turret where the tank’s nickname, “Three-Z,” was painted, giving the armor a pat for good luck. He pulled closed the top hatch. Inside the dimly lit turret the crew were completing their halt checks prior to resuming the mission.

  “Report!” Cooper barked.

  “Gunner ready!”

  “Wait …” Greene said, tapping the fuel indicator dial which promptly moved from zero to its correct reading, “Driver Ready!”

  “Bog ready!”

  “Loader ready!”

  Satisfied they were prepared to roll out, he gave his final instructions. “Greene, I want everything out of this baby as soon as we roll,” he told the driver.

  Greene put his eye to his periscope, tracing a path forward along the track as it wound down the valley.

  “Once the downhill section levels off, start zig-zagging … but keep in mind we may need to do an about-turn – so make sure you leave enough room for that.”

  “Flat out, then start dancing … you got it.”

  “Hap,” Cooper said to the bow gunner, or Bog, “keep the .30 cal on the forest. Fire at anything that moves.”

  The sound of the machine gun being cocked was the only confirmation received from the front gunner.

  “And short bursts only! That ammo’s so expensive a box is worth more than a week’s pay. Okay – let’s move out!”

  The twin Cadillac engines growled as Greene gave the M24 some revs. The ear flaps on the crew’s leather helmets dampened the sound of the tracks rolling over the drive cogs as the Chaffee headed down the incline into the valley.

  Given full throttle, Three-Z took off like a thoroughbred out of the starting gates. At forty miles per hour, Greene eased off slightly and let gravity do some of the work to take them the rest of the way down the pot-holed dirt track to the valley floor.

  Cooper swiveled his periscope around, searching for signs of the enemy in the wooded slopes on either side. It wasn’t a matter of if they were there … just when they were found. Earlier sightings from foot patrols through the forest had confirmed the Reds were active in this valley. Determining exactly where, and whether they had prepared defensive positions, was the scout tank’s job.

  Forty-four miles per hour.

  Cooper thought he felt the tank leave the ground momentarily. “Er … Greene …”

  “Whoo-hoo … we’re air recon!” called the driver, then in a less enthusiastic voice said “… I know … I know … just let me get her to forty-five!”

  “Greene!”

  Cooper sensed an immediate deceleration. Thirty seconds later they leveled off onto flat ground.

  “Eyes on those trees!”

  The tank slowed and Greene began to deftly manipulate the controls. They left the firmly packed surface of the road and moved onto the cultivated field to their left. The furrowed soil of the rows of young cabbages slowed them even further.

  The driver put them into a curving arc so that they wouldn’t present as predictable a target. It was all they could do.

  As a scout in the recon platoon they simply had to go out and locate any hostiles. The speed of the Allied advance sometimes demanded risky and unsafe tactics. In this case, the division needed to pass through this valley … today.

  Completing their first semi-circular sweep, they crossed over the road to the fields on the other side. Cooper thought of the irony of their situation. If there was an ambush waiting up in the forest, they could only succeed in their mission if they sprang it.

  Not a job for the faint-hearted.

  If the Reds let them through to see if anything was coming along behind, then the scout tank would have failed.

  Cooper yelled over his mic, “Hap! Time to go to work!”

  The Bog opened up with the .30 cal.

  As the piston-hammer beat of the machine-gun rang in their ears, the crew could see the rounds streaming out toward the woods.

  Incendiaries.

  As Greene swung them to within two hundred yards of the tree-line, rounds that found a solid enough surface such as dry bark or branches, ignited on impact. The zirconium sponge inside the tips exploded at five thousand degrees.

  Instant wild-fire.

  The Chaffee wheeled away from the string of growing fires, bumped over the track and then started more fires on the other side. Cooper knew that as they became more intense, even well-entrenched troops wouldn’t stick around in the face of an advancing wall of flames.

  More sweeps, and a dozen fires were soon blazing behind them.

  Cooper was getting anxious, still no reaction. Maybe the Reds had already pulled back. Suits me, nothing like an easy day’s work … and he started thinking of how to make the best use of the upcoming weekend pass.

  Claaaang!

  It sounded like a sledgehammer had struck the turret. A ricochet.

  “Where’s it from?” called Cooper.

  “Got it …” Hap had seen the muzzle-flash from just off to one side from where he was aiming his next spray from the .30 cal.

  He instantly changed aim. “Laying fire on target!”

  Bright orange rounds squirted into the woods in a continuous stream.

  I don’t care
if that’s a month’s pay …

  Greene kept them running straight at the ambush, but backed off the speed to help out the gunners.

  From either side of where Hap’s rounds were going, automatic weapons fire was coming back at them. The invisible rain of thudding steel hammered away at the tank’s inch-thick armor in the background, but the crew were too focused on killing the ambush for it to register.

  Keponee never took his eye off the target area. He’d held his fire, waiting for a couple of seconds of level ground, before finally pulling the trigger.

  From only one hundred yards, the 75mm high explosive shell hit something, because sparks burst out a fraction of a second before a fireball erupted skywards among the trees.

  “Hit!” he shouted, but the others had seen the flash anyway.

  Hap stopped firing for a second, checking his aim, then resumed as soon as he saw blinking muzzle flashes from entrenched infantry.

  On the receiving end, the Soviet soldiers had to quickly adjust their range as the approaching American tank had closed underneath their sights.

  One soldier, in frustration, stood up in his trench to improve his aim. An incendiary bullet struck his forehead square on. It penetrated his skull before igniting, instantly incinerating his brain. Contained within his steel helmet, the jets of flame had nowhere else to go but to vent out through his eye sockets and mouth. A commie jack-o-lantern.

  “Get us out of here!” Cooper yelled, as he saw two puffs of smoke appearing from the woods several hundred yards ahead. More anti-tank guns.

  Explosions rocked the Chaffee from side to side as they charged across the field.

  “C’mon, c’mon … they’re getting the range … fire smoke!”

  “Firing smoke!” Keponee responded, as the main gun was being loaded. He stabbed at a button on a control box and an 80mm mortar mounted on the side of the turret coughed out a bomb. It landed behind them, spouting white phosphorus into the air. The cloud provided precious seconds of cover, as they completed their turn and got back on to the dirt track.

  Greene pushed the M24 to its maximum speed as the enemy anti-tank guns peppered their wake with explosions. Cooper hated showing the enemy the Chaffee’s tail, where its armor was weakest. They rotated the turret as they sped off, firing more phosphorus from the main gun.

  Once out of range, and leaving behind a spate of forest fires along with a very angry regiment of Russians, the crew let out a collective sigh of relief. Time resumed its normal passage, slowing down from the fire-fight where every minute had been compressed into fractions of a second, and back to a heartbeat of normality.

  “Well, we did it!” Cooper said, complimenting his crew.

  “And lived to tell about it … dieu merci!” added Keponee.

  Greene patted Three-Z on the inside of her hull, “Man, she lived up to her name again, Zpeed, Zwerves and Zmoke – she’s got ’em all.”

  They didn’t need to call in their discovery over the radio. An artillery observation post at the top of the valley had already called it in. By the time the Chaffee was safely back at the head of the trail, a squadron of Douglas A26 Invaders were flying in at low altitude. They had a very clear indicator of their target – the furthermost area of woods on fire.

  The hatches on the light tank popped open and Cooper’s crew watched as the first medium bomber strafed the edge of the woods with its multiple 20mm-nose cannon.

  Trees splintered and shattered in a maelstrom of shredded greenery. Cooper would have felt sympathy for those scrambling for cover in the burning forest, but years of war had hardened him from such emotions. His dispassionate eyes merely reflected the unfolding carnage. The Invader finished its run by dropping six thousand pounds of bombs.

  The Russians’ trenches provided no shelter. Huge columns of fire lifted flaming fir and pine trees into the air. The tons of fiery timber were tossed around as though weightless, then tumbled back to earth to feed the growing firestorm.

  Cooper’s satisfaction intensified as the bonfire grew. A second bomber went in, then a third. A holocaust of cannon-fire and bombs ensued as plane after plane unloaded, until a two-mile stretch of valley had become a cauldron from which no life would emerge.

  Assholes.

  That was for you brother.

  “Alright, show’s over, let’s get out of here.”

  ∞

  History teaches us with unmistakable emphasis that appeasement begets new and bloodier wars.

  Douglas MacArthur

  “Where are we?” Arjon asked Thiessen, shivering at the BlindFold-induced cold.

  “Chosin Reservoir … North Korea.”

  He looked around him with a bleak indifference that blended well with the frozen rock of the surrounding mountainside.

  Arjon knew that Korea was a country in Southeast Asia, but he hadn’t heard a reference to “North” before.

  An icy wind penetrated past his shivering skin and gripped his bones.

  “W … why are we here?” he chattered through clenched teeth.

  “To show you what lies beyond your AI’s original simulation. We needed to see a bigger picture. One that confirms the state that the Earth would be in with an ineffective Union of Nations.”

  A distant thunder ebbed through the blustering wind.

  Arjon wondered at Thiessen, standing, looking over the edge of a precipice in the direction of the thunder, and seemingly oblivious to the conditions. Although he was dressed in the Skinteractive tunic, it didn’t seem as though his insulation stemmed from anything physical. It was more that his mind was engrossed in a great purpose which removed his environment to an insignificant background.

  The thunder grew in intensity, until the percussion could be felt through the thin air. Arjon realized it wasn’t being caused by storm clouds, but cannon fire.

  A staccato burst of machine-gun fire followed, then a cacophony of small arms, explosions and yelling.

  The ground beneath Arjon’s feet shuddered with the trembling quake of rock being blasted nearby. He had to check himself mentally, almost being consumed by his sensory integration with the BlindFold. The cold was forgotten as he joined Thiessen at the edge of their vantage point, and watched with horror as on the snow covered slopes below, a sparse line of United Nations troops fired desperately into an approaching swarm of attacking soldiers. The advancing horde were wearing distinctive fur caps and dull khaki quilted jackets.

  Chinese.

  “What does this all mean?” Arjon asked pleadingly. “Those men are hopelessly outnumbered …”

  “We have analyzed multiple iterations of this simulation … trying to determine all of the contributing factors that have led to this … situation.”

  Arjon listened with only half of his attention, most of which remained riveted to the tragedy unfolding below.

  Hundreds of Chinese communists were being cut down, but thousands more kept coming. As the smoke and explosions from grenades, artillery and gunfire obscured the height of the battle, the viewers could only see the lines of UN soldiers filtering away from the carnage as they executed a fighting withdrawal.

  “So you see,” Thiessen spat with disgust, “… this is the result of yet another example of the lack of commitment and pusillanimity shown by the world leaders of this alternate history.”

  The simulation closed.

  Thiessen explained. “Those men were fighting for the United Nations – against an invasion of the South by the North Koreans. The North Koreans had been beaten – driven back to the Chinese border … then the Chinese attacked.”

  With a pained expression, he continued, “The rules of engagement imposed upon the commander of the UN forces, General Douglas MacArthur, were that he could not contain the attacking Chinese with airstrikes against their airfields in China, or their lines of supply coming across the border. Effectively, he was tasked with fighting a war with one hand tied behind his back.”

  Arjon removed his BlindFold, exhausted from the chilling reali
ty of both the atrocious conditions, and the shock of witnessing the battle.

  “That doesn’t sound very reasonable? Why? Who?”

  “MacArthur labeled those in power as ‘appeasers.’ It appears there was considerable fear of a more widespread conflict with the communists.”

  “It’s hard to believe … another horrible war.”

  He thought of his life now, in a world that had known only peace for three centuries, and then remembered how human history before that had been stained by the barbarity of violence.

  “Yes, it appears that the tragedy of human history continues unabated in this alternative world, and that in their ignorance, they have failed to overcome the instinctive savagery that is characteristic of our primitive origins,” Thiessen advised sadly.

  “Our investigations have uncovered the same disturbing trend … that of perpetual conflict scarring this alter-humanity.”

  Reclining within the comfort of the bower, Arjon put his head in his hands and thought deeply.

  A robo-serve brought cups of a refreshing nectar, and then withdrew silently.

  “So …” Arjon finally said after recovering some of his composure, “when comparing this to our own history, it seems that the influence of a determined General, and those of similar visionary minds, have helped us to avert this onerous fate?”

  “So it would seem.”

  “But that notion would challenge the accepted ideology that our peaceful utopian society was founded on the principles espoused by the teachings of the great philosophers and spiritual figures from our past – such as the Dalai Al Pakha, Burrudha and Ji-zhu Geist?”

  “Principles of non-violence and dare I say it … pacifism?”

  “There will no doubt be an outcry if we do not present these findings extremely carefully.”

  “Carefully? Qwerty! There hasn’t been a war in three centuries!” Arjon cried, unable to keep his voice down. “There isn’t a standing army on the planet! If we start proclaiming the warriors of our past as the ones upon which whose deeds the foundations of our society have been built, it could have catastrophic consequences.”

  “Perhaps,” Thiessen conceded. “But the truth must be known!”