by Dave Edlund
“I’ll feel better the sooner we get out of here.” Peter agreed. “We can load your dead and wounded in the trucks. We leave the rest, unless you want to bury them.”
Hamaad spat on the ground. “Those animals are not Muslim and they are not Christian. They are pigs and do not deserve burial. Let their bodies rot in the sun.” Hamaad turned and swiftly walked away to issue new orders to his men.
“Well. He was certainly clear on that topic,” Gary said.
“Yes, I guess he was,” said Todd with a smile on his face. “Can’t say I cared much for those Janjaweed fellas either.”
Todd had no sooner finished his quip when the first RPG round exploded against a tree just to their left. Instinctively, everyone ducked and looked in different directions, not knowing where the round had come from. Almost immediately, the sound of automatic rifle fire filled the air and bullets kicked up clouds of dirt and sand, but luckily no one was hit. Another RPG round exploded close to the first one.
The counter attack that Peter had feared had just begun.
Chapter 17
Darfur
June 12
“Get your men inside the tree line, and take the students with you!” Peter shouted to Hamaad as he stripped the two rifles off his back and shoved the Winchester .30-06 into Ethan’s hands, keeping his prized Weatherby.
Ethan didn’t need any instructions, and he recognized the rifle as much by the familiar feel as by sight. He had shot and hunted often, usually with his father but sometimes solo. As he took the rifle, his mind flashed to the pine-forested mountains he knew well and loved. The beauty and serenity of the wilderness, the quiet and peaceful surroundings—at this moment it all seemed impossibly far away and out of reach.
Ethan opened the bolt just a fraction, checking that a round had been chambered. He locked the bolt and put the safety in the fire position, keeping the barrel elevated and looking to his father.
Waving with his left hand, Peter wasted no time. “Get behind the log! They’re coming up the wadi from the south, just as we did!”
Gary, Todd, and Ethan all jumped into action, running past the scattered tents and sliding into the earth behind the fallen tree. The trunk was long; maybe 25 feet or more between the large root ball and the first thick, barren branches projecting randomly in many directions. With a diameter of about two feet, the tree would offer protection from small arms fire. Peter could only hope the RPG accuracy would not improve.
Hamaad and his remaining SLM soldiers took up defensive positions within the grove of acacia trees, spreading out and guarding against a possible attack from the north. Wendy, Brad, Joe, and Sam were huddled in the center of the grove.
From his position kneeling next to the ragged root ball, Peter scanned the wadi. Scattered bushes and occasional boulders dotted an otherwise desolate dry creek bed. The RPGs had been fired from somewhere in that bleak landscape.
After the initial barrage, it had suddenly become eerily quiet. All eyes were probing the wadi in front of their position.Sweat dripped profusely down Peter’s forehead, his chest and back were drenched, and his senses were on high alert. Ethan was next to his side, and further off to his right Gary and Todd were peering over the top of the tree trunk, calmly sweeping their rifles back and forth, looking through their riflescopes, trying to locate the enemy.
Peter glanced over his shoulder to the acacia grove and Hamaad’s men behind him. Quickly he did the math: the SLM number had been reduced to nine men plus six wounded. Peter didn’t know if the wounded were capable of fighting. He assumed they were not. That left only thirteen able men, counting himself and now Ethan—an unlucky number.
If the attackers didn’t number too many, given their defensive position, they might stand a good chance of prevailing. But he knew that his rifle ammunition was getting low, and he had to assume the same was true for the rest of his men.
“Don’t shoot unless you have a clear target,” he said. “We can’t afford to waste ammo.”
They didn’t have to wait long. Ethan spotted the Janjaweed militiaman first. Moving quickly up the wadi in a low crouch, sprinting between positions of cover, the man was dressed in flowing robes that had probably been white at one time but were now multiple shades of tan from the dirt and dust. He carried a Chinese-made type 81 assault rifle with a bandolier of ammunition pouches strapped across his shoulder and chest.
“Ahead, maybe 300 yards,” he whispered just loud enough for his father to hear. Then another militiaman appeared, following the first. Then another, and another. Where moments before there was only dirt and scattered bushes and rocks, there was now a swarm of more than a dozen Janjaweed approaching the horizontal log.
“Here they come,” said Gary, making no attempt to keep his voice down.
“Hold your fire… hold… hold… now!”
The skirmish line at the fallen tree opened up with random, well-aimed shots. The Janjaweed were unaccustomed to the long-range accuracy of the scoped sporting rifles—weapons designed and crafted for the singular purpose of placing their deadly bullets in a two-inch group at 200 yards, or further. And the skillful owners of these rifles were very capable of hitting their targets out to 400 yards and beyond.
In contrast, the obsolete surplus military rifles used by the Janjaweed were equipped with open sights and had been badly abused for at least the last three decades. In addition, the Janjaweed militiamen were neither trained, nor practiced, in marksmanship. This combination of factors meant that they could place accurate shots to a distance of perhaps 100 yards—a far shorter distance than the Americans they were squaring off against. The militiamen simply pointed their weapons in the general direction of the Americans and pulled the trigger, expecting the volume of automatic fire to yield a lucky hit.
Under the circumstances, the militiamen were outgunned and outclassed. Still, they kept coming—and dying before they could approach to an effective range.
WHOOSH… BOOM! Another RPG struck just short of the root ball. Dirt rained down on Peter and Ethan. Peter shouted down the line, “We have to keep those RPGs out there. If they get close enough to aim effectively, we’re done!”
The bolt-action rifles kept firing; militiamen falling with each shot. Peter had lost count of the number they had killed or wounded, but thought it must be 30, maybe 35.
As effective as the sporting rifles were, they did have a serious drawback: their magazines only held four rounds. Peter’s .340 Weatherby was even worse, holding only three rounds due to the large caliber of the cartridge. As much as possible, three men would continue aiming and shooting while one reloaded.
Peter checked his ammunition supply. He was down to his last box and he laid it open on the ground within easy reach. He glanced to Gary, “How’s your ammo?”
“Getting low. If they keep coming, we’re going to have to fall back to Hamaad and let his soldiers share the fun.”
“Yeah? I just hope the Janjaweed haven’t split their force trying to do an end run.”
“If they do, if they try to flank us, they’ll run squarely into Hamaad. I sure wouldn’t want to… those SLM soldiers are pretty pissed right now.”
So far, the attacking force remained focused on the southern line and none of the militiamen had gotten close enough for the SLM rebels to engage them. So Hamaad held his men in position in the grove of trees, ready should the tide of battle change. For now, they were perfectly happy that the odd Americans were picking off the enemy.
Then, just as suddenly as it started, the rifle fire ceased as the militiamen stopped advancing up the wadi. Just as suddenly as they had appeared, they seemingly melted into the parched earth, no longer visible, no longer targets.
The skirmish line was silent, but no one dropped their guard, expecting a new threat to emerge at any moment.
“Stay sharp!” Peter shouted.
One minute passed, then two. It remained quiet. Peter was wary. A bead of perspiration threatened to roll into his eye, and he wiped the bac
k of his arm across his forehead. His eyes were darting back and forth, probing for any sign of the enemy within the wadi or on the slopes at the side. No movement. He released a deep breath, finally allowing himself to relax.
Peter had been kneeling, and now he felt his legs cramping. He fell into a sitting position, his back against the fallen tree, and looked down the line at Gary, Todd, and Ethan—rifles leaning against the horizontal tree trunk. Gary rolled onto his side and faced Peter.
“Well, that was interesting. What was the point?”
Peter shook his head. “I don’t know. I thought a counter attacking force would number many more. How many did you count?”
“I got twelve; two were wounded and crawled away.”
“I got eleven,” said Todd and, reflecting a morbid sense of humor and one-upmanship, he added, “none were crawling away though.”
“Add six or seven for me, I think,” Ethan added, his voice soft and lacking the bravado exhibited by Todd and Gary.
Peter added it up in his head, accounting for the number of Janjaweed militia he had taken down. The attacking force numbered only 44 or so, less than the size of the group that had been holding the American hostages for ransom.
Peter finally gave up trying to figure it out and decided he should be thankful that the force was small. He turned to face the grove of trees.
“Hamaad, anyone hurt?”
Hamaad stepped out from behind a tree. Slowly the other eight men did as well. He looked over his ragged group and then answered, “No casualties.” The six men wounded earlier by the fragmentation grenade were being attended by a man who had been designated as their medic. He actually had little medical training, but more than his colleagues.
Wendy, Joe, Brad, and Sam were also huddled next to the wounded. They remained deep in the grove where they had the most protection.
Peter stretched his legs, trying to get the circulation flowing again. Ethan didn’t make any move to get up and join his friends in the acacia grove. As the intensity of the fight waned, Peter witnessed the emotional shock beginning to set into his son.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
Ethan looked at his father, eyes glazed, face devoid of emotion. To Peter, he looked more like a mannequin rather than a man. He didn’t know what to make of his son’s reaction. He had expected Ethan to be frightened, terrified maybe, even revolted by the immediate need to kill or be killed. Instead, he didn’t see any emotion at all, and that truly worried Peter.
“I’m sorry that you had to go through that. I wish none of this had happened to you.”
Ethan didn’t say anything, he just looked at his father.
“I’ve always told you and your sister that the world is not fair. It can be—and often is—a very cruel and violent place. Most people back home only see the violence in news reports. They’ll never have to experience what happened here.”
Ethan nodded, barely perceptible at first, and then more so. He looked down at his hands, examining them as if he had never seen them before, thinking of what he had done. They were trembling. He spoke very softly without looking up. “I never imagined that I would have to kill another person.”
Peter reached out, grasping his son’s shoulder. “Listen to me. You did what had to be done. Without your help, we couldn’t have held the line… we may have all been killed.”
Ethan looked up at his father. Tears were running down his cheeks, making brown wavy lines where they mingled with the dust caked on his face. Peter pulled his son close as Ethan wept.
Chapter 18
Darfur
June 12
“Hey Chief!” Todd shouted. “This doesn’t look good!” Both Todd and Gary had remained alert, watching for any new threat from the remote reach of the wadi.
No sooner had Todd called out when Peter heard the faint mechanical rumble. He could see a distant dust cloud far down the wadi, and it was growing closer with every passing minute.
“Hamaad! I thought they just had horses and small arms!” Hamaad dashed up to Peter’s position to look at the approaching threat.
“That is mostly true. But sometimes they have trucks and tanks from the Sudanese army.”
“Oh, that’s just great,” Gary said. “And I was beginning to think we might live to see tomorrow.”
Todd and Gary had pulled in close to huddle with Peter and Hamaad. “That must’ve been just an advance recon team we fought,” suggested Todd.
“I hate it when I’m right,” Peter said with a scowl on his face. “Their force was too small.” They were all exhausted and running out of ideas as well as ammunition.
“Hamaad, is there anything around the camp we can use to take out those vehicles? RPGs… maybe a mortar?”
“We haven’t had time to search the camp yet; we’ll look now.” Hamaad called two of his men to help and set off to quickly search the tents and equipment stores.
Peter continued issuing orders without wasting a second. “Ethan, tell your friends to help load the wounded into the three trucks as quickly as possible. Hopefully they can slip away before the Janjaweed get close enough to waste this camp. Hurry!”
As Ethan jogged off, Peter continued, “Okay, this isn’t looking good. At least General Custer had the advantage of high ground… we don’t even have that.”
“Hey! We didn’t come all this way to rescue Ethan and save those kids, just to have our butts kicked by a bunch of third world hoodlums!” Gary exclaimed. Peter wasn’t sure if the cocky attitude was real or an attempt to mask the fear they all must be feeling.
“I’m open to any suggestions guys,” Peter stared hard at his two friends.
Todd held Peter’s stare while he shoved cartridges into his rifle’s magazine. Then, to punctuate his answer, Todd pushed the bolt closed and locked. Peter nodded, understanding completely.
He took a deep breath and exhaled. “All right,” he said softly. “We make a stand here. Take out as many of the bastards as we can before our ammo runs out. Watch each other’s back.”
“Like we always do,” Gary replied and he smoothly drew the Colt Python .357 magnum revolver from his belt and inspected the cylinder, ensuring that each chamber was loaded. Todd and Peter also checked their handguns one last time.
Hamaad rushed to Peter with a big smile. “We found a mortar and five shells!” he proclaimed proudly.
“Fantastic! Get it set up by the fallen tree, over there where it begins to branch out. Maybe we can slow them down a little.”
Two of the SLM rebels ran forward—one carrying the base plate and the other the mortar tube—and did as directed, aiming the mortar directly down the wadi toward the center of the oncoming force. Two other soldiers hustled forward with three wood crates housing the high explosive shells. The enemy was too far out to estimate the size of the force, or the precise assets—trucks, tanks, horses—and they were still coming fast.
Peter looked to the left of the acacia grove and saw that the six wounded rebels had been helped into the Toyotas; two per truck, lying lengthwise in the bed. It would be a rough trip but it was the best they could do.
Sam, Brad, and Joe agreed to drive the wounded soldiers further up the wadi to the north, away from the fighting. While he watched, Wendy slid into the passenger seat beside Sam. Ethan was standing at the driver’s window talking with Joe.
“Get those trucks out’a here!” Peter yelled, hoping they could get far enough away to avoid the forthcoming onslaught and carnage.
Returning his gaze to the oncoming Janjaweed force and then checking again on the mortar team, Peter prayed that they knew how to aim and fire the weapon, because he didn’t.
“General Santa Anna approaches…” Peter mumbled.
“Promise me one thing,” Gary muttered without breaking his concentration on the approaching dust cloud, “if we live through this you’ll stop with the negative metaphors! First it was Custer, now the Alamo… next you’ll be comparing us to the Spartan’s final stand against the entire Pe
rsian army!”
Peter glanced sideways at Gary, somewhat amused by his ranting. “Actually, I was just waiting for them to get a whole lot closer before using that one.” Both men smiled grimly.
Back to business, Peter raised his binoculars and strained to make out any details in the approaching column. He could just discern the distinctive outline of numerous mounted soldiers, and in the center of the mass he thought he counted two… no, make that three… drab-green heavy trucks. There looked to be something mounted on the trucks, perhaps machine guns, but he couldn’t be sure. At least he wasn’t seeing any tanks or other armored vehicles.
“Looks like the cavalry is coming. Too bad they’re not on our side.”
Todd had also been spying through his binoculars. “They’re still out there a ways, maybe 2,000 yards. Two far for rifle fire with these guns.” Peter confirmed that the leading edge of the column was beyond the 1,300-yard limit of his rangefinder binoculars.
“But not too far for mortars. Hamaad! Have your men target the leading edge of that column. Distance 2,000 yards. Fire only one round for distance.”
Hamaad gave the order and his mortar team adjusted the aim and azimuth of the mortar tube and then dropped one round down the muzzle, immediately leaning away as the round launched from the tube. A few seconds later, the high explosive round impacted the earth right at the forward edge of the attacking formation. The explosion sprayed shrapnel with devastating effect and Peter, watching through his binoculars, could see a score of men and horses go down.
“That’s it!” Peter yelled. “Pull your distance back 30 yards and fire all remaining shells—now!”
The mortar team didn’t wait for Hamaad to relay the order, and within ten seconds the last of the mortar rounds was flying down range in a high ballistic arc. The explosions tore through the Janjaweed cavalry. Men and horses scattered in all directions as the formation crumbled.
Still scanning, Peter could now recognize an even more deadly threat. The trucks, all three of them, showed no sign of slowing and had taken over to lead the charge forward. Now, without the cavalry kicking up dust, Peter and Todd both saw that the trucks each bore quad-anti-aircraft guns.
