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Post by landisfarne on May 24, 2007 15:37:48 GMT -5
History Lessons 8 November 1942 Oran, AlgeriaThe United States Rifle, Calibre .30, M1 – more commonly known as the M1 Garand, or simply the M1 – was the predominant weapon of the infantry of the United States army beginning in 1936, when it replaced the Springfield M1903 rifle, until it was replaced in 1957 by the M14. It served honorably through the Second World War, the Korean War and to a limited degree the Vietnam War. A bolt-action semi-automatic rifle with a significant shot-to-shot response time over the manual rifles favored by German and Japanese forces in World War II, it proved the primary stimulus for both Allied and Axis forces to produce ever-faster-firing semi- and fully-automatic weapons. General George S. Patton called the M1 “the greatest implement of battle ever devised.” The M1 was a natural development of the bolt-action rifle, first developed in the 19th century, a style of weapon with a range far out-stripping that of its predecessors. David didn’t have any of this in mind as he pulled the doughboy helment – another development of an earlier time – down over his eyes to shield them from the sun. The Brodie helmet was first introduced by the French in 1915 after it became apparent that their forces were suffering a terribly high attrition due to head wounds. And, like everything French, “Fucking useless piece of shit,” he muttered, pushing the cap back and blinking away the sweat. “What?” That from Sergeant Gorman. “Troubles Hardrad?” “Rifle’s jammed,” he said, spinning around and dropping to the ground, glaring at the cartridge he’d just loaded. “Keep an eye out.” Gorman nodded, turning back to stare over the wall they were using as cover. The French had remained largely peaceable since the 1st Ranger Battalion had captured Arzew to the east of Oran, Algeria the previous day, all but silencing the guns. The French navy hadn’t gone nearly so peacefully into that good night; Operation Reservist had been foiled when the French fleet in port had opened fire on the British vessels Walney and Hartland. The Walney had actually managed to get to the jetty and disgorge part of the 113th – among others – before its boiler exploded. Most of those who had made it onto the jetty had been captured. Forty men had escaped into Oran proper and made their way east. The last communiqué from Command had suggested that the landing beaches to the west were delayed due to confusion and the arrival of minesweepers. With the loss of the main landing effort, that left the Rangers at Arzew. “You okay Clarke?” David pulled out the offending cartridge and blew on it, hoping to free the sand trapped there. The Englishman grimaced silently, but nodded. Like David and Gorman, the Englishman wore a tin-pot helmet, though his bore the insignia of the Royal Navy rather than the United States army. David scanned the man critically. Clarke had taken a bullet and fallen off the Walney into the harbor, which had probably saved his life. If they could get him to a god damned medic. “Hang in there Clarke.” He patted the sailor on his shoulder, and received a nod in return. The American took one last look at the other man’s handgun, a Webley Revolver, before scooting toward the edge of the wall. The handgun was useless at long range, but it was enough to take out anyone that tried to sneak up behind them. Peering around the corner, he caught sight of Johnson across the street. Like he and Gorman, Johnson was holed up behind a low dung-colored wall with two others. Johnson saw him looking and flashed a grin, waving his injured hand, then returned his own attention to their current predicament. David followed his gaze. The Vichy French had blocked the street ahead with an aging French tank. “Renault R35,” Sergeant Gorman said softly. “Light infantry tank.” A light infantry tank was still more than enough to stop the ten Americans – nine Americans and a Brit – from crossing into the outskirts of the city, where they could regroup with the Rangers. “And fifteen Algerians, it looks like.” Gorman was career army, unlike the rest of the unit and, knew more than the rest of the unit combined, which had both benefits and drawbacks. In this case, it seemed to be a benefit. “Any suggestions, Sarge?” David pulled off his doughboy and wiped his dripping forehead. “We could wait ‘til night.” Gorman nodded slowly, considering the question. “Probably our best bet.” He paused. “R35?” That was Clarke, who had taken a sudden interest in the conversation. “You sure?” The sergeant nodded. “I think so.” The wounded sailor dragged himself toward the corner behind which David was hiding. He allowed the man to sit at the corner, watching him carefully. A smile spread across the Englishman’s face. “No radio,” he said. “So?” Both Americans exchanged glances with one another, Gorman grinning. “What does that matter?” he asked. “The commander will still hear us firing.” Clarke nodded, “True. But they can’t coordinate with other units. If we take out their radios we can make sure they don’t get anything here in time to stop us. Assuming,” he added, face falling, “there’s nothing too close.” “We could just climb the wall.” The Romans – or someone – had built a wall centuries ago around this part of the city, which kept them trapped. The French only had to guard a handful of gates to ensure the Americans were trapped. Even two days without food and water here, in the desert, and they would be doomed. They had to escape the wall. After that they would be safe. Moreso, anyway. David peered around the corner again, considering the problem before them. One light tank, fifteen Algerian soldiers, and who-knew-how-many other enemies in the area. Scanning the area, he passed over the enemy position once, twice – and on the third pass he saw a flash of light like a flashlight or a- “Sarge, check it out. Eleven. You see that flash?” Gorman looked over the wall, squinting against the sunlight. “What’s that?” His ducked back down, frowning. “Looked like…” His voice faded, face screwing deeper into a scowl. “A mirror?” David nodded. “None of our people could have gotten out. Could they?” David shrugged. “Doubtful. Clarke?” “No way.” His breathing was shallow, face pale despite the leathery sun-tan he’d had even that morning. He’s getting worse. David was about to respond when a stone came skidding across the road from Johnson’s direction. All three men turned to look, though only he and Clarke could see the soldier’s face across the street. Peering over his shoulder was a dark-skinned man with pearly white teeth grinning at them. David frowned. “Who’s that?” “Algerian?” Clarke spoke the obvious. “Most of ‘em hate the Frogs.” “I can understand that,” Gorman said blandly. He leaned to the side, hoping to catch a glimpse of the newcomer. Before he could finish doing so the man skittered across the road following the rock, vanishing behind the safety of their wall before the enemy could see him. “Hullo,” the newcomer said almost immediately, his voice a harsh whisper. “Welcome to Oran.” He grinned again, white teeth shining against his dark features. All three nodded, Gorman adding his own greeting. “You on our side?” “Only one side here Yank,” he said, winking, grin never fading. “Abdelaziz Wayleh.” The dark-skinned man offered a large hand, first to Gorman then David, and finally Clarke, who waved it away with a light smile. “Learned English at Oxford,” he explained as he twisted around, spider-like, until he was facing Johnson’s wall again. He offered the soldier a thumbs up, then pulled back. “Johnson said you could use some help getting outta this, eh?” Gorman nodded. “And a medic, if you know one.” He offered a nod at the wounded sailor. “English, eh?” Abdelaziz studied the wounded man for a brief moment before nodding. “I think so. He’s Irish though. A missionary.” “Irish?” Clarke winced at the news, but made no further response. Gorman, for his part, nodded. “Are those your people on the other side of the check-point?” “Those are my people at the check-point,” the Algerian said, grin broadening. “The tank commander is French, though.” “We can take ‘em.” Gorman’s face had taken on a dark cast at the news. “Twenty-five-“ “Thirty,” the black man interjected. “We have another five on the other side.” “Thirty against one tank? Sounds like no problem.” Gorman smiled fiercely, hefting his M1 as though he would rush the check point that very moment. The Algerian stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “Not so easy, Yank.” He lifted himself slightly so he could see over the wall. David matched the motion, though he saw no further sign of the ‘mirror’ they had spotted earlier. “My people aren’t willing to risk their lives for nothing.” Gorman’s brow furrowed, and even Clarke seemed less than pleased with the news. David wondered what his initial reaction had been, though if his face had revealed his annoyance at the natives he knew it was already placid again. “They want the tank.” “What the hell are they going to do with the tank?” Gorman demanded, voice rising. “And how the hell are we going to capture the tank. All the Frog has to do is lock himself inside and-“ “That’s what we want,” Abdelaziz insisted. “The tank, or you’re on your own. We’re not even convinced you can beat the French yet, let along the Germans.” If possible Gorman seemed even angrier at that, but David put his hand up to forestall his sergeant from making matters worse. “I have an idea,” he said. Sources: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/M1_Garand_rifleen.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brodie_helmeten.wikipedia.org/wiki/Operation_Torchen.wikipedia.org/wiki/Operation_Reservisten.wikipedia.org/wiki/Webley_revolveren.wikipedia.org/wiki/R_35
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Post by landisfarne on Jul 10, 2007 13:55:13 GMT -5
History Lessons 8 November 1942 Oran, AlgeriaDavid strode toward the tank, its barrel aimed directly at his chest. He refused to show his fear, despite the overwhelming desire to flee. He wore a thawb, a garb favored by men in many Islamic countries. Ankle-length, it nevertheless allowed him to avoid difficulty walking, for which he was greatful; he had no particular desire to accidentally kill himself by tripping on the shorted bayonet he, Sergeant Gorman and Abdelaziz had managed to put together. It was a stupid plan, he realized now. There was no chance of success. Even if the Frenchman fell for it, there was almost no chance of him getting close enough to stab the enemy. He would never pass for an Arab, which was why he and Abdelaziz has decided that he would try to pass as an Italian spy. The Vichy-French and the Italians disliked each other, but at least the Frenchman wouldn’t fire on sight. Abdelaziz poked him in the back with the Webley they had borrowed from Clarke. The English sailor hadn’t been very happy with having to give up his pistol, but ultimately it was either that or try to battle the entire Vichy force that would come crashing down on them if they fired so much as a single shot. “This isn’t going to work,” he muttered to the man behind him. “Bloody right it won’t,” the Arab said, jabbing him again. “But it’s a bit late to come to that conclusion, isn’t it?” Before David could answer the top hatch of the R-35 flipped open with a clang. First an arm emerged, then a hat and finally the head and torso of the French tankerman. He called out something in French, which Abdelaziz translated quickly: “Stop.” David followed the instructions. They were still a good twenty feet from the front of the tank, and there was no way he could take the Frog out of the game without firing. Shit, he thought, a frown tightening his handsome features. It was a neutral frown that said nothing about his state of mind, aside from his obvious unhappiness. He listened as the Arab beyond him called out a response then. He didn’t understand more than a handful of words, but it was enough to know that Abdelaziz was, as planned, accusing him of being an American. “ Vi ho detto che fossi Italiano!” The Frenchman’s head didn’t move, but a slight frown brought down the corner of his mouth. “You say you are Italian? Why are you here?” His voice was strong, wary. David half-turned his head, as though hoping for an explanation from his captor. The Frenchman sighed theatrically. “ Dite che siete un Italiano? Perchè siete qui?” That had been the hardest part of the plan: developing an excuse that was believable enough to get him into camp, but not so believable that he would be shot on the spot as a spy. There was no way he could pass for an Italian for long in good light, but in the poorly lit street it was no problem. With his near-native fluency in Italian he could play the part for as long as he liked – as long as the enemy didn’t search him too thoroughly, and all four men in hiding had agreed it was unlikely he would deign to leave his tank; he would leave the searching to his men, all loyal friends of Abdelaziz. “ Sono qui come consigliere dal Marshal Bastico.” Field Marshal Ettore Bastico had only recently been promoted to the rank of Field Marshal, and it wasn’t difficult to imagine the Italians, viewing their self-important view such as it was, to send ‘advisors’ in to assist the Vichy forces in Algeria. There were already Italian troops in Tunisia, though intelligence suggested they were under the command of Field Marshal Erwin Rommel rather than the Italian governor of Libya. The conflict between the Italians and the French was well-known, but it was equally well-known that the Vichy government was terrified of angering the Germans, and a sure way of angering the Jerries was to anger Mussolini – and killing an ‘advisor’ from Bastico was sure to do that. Hopefully. The Frenchman hesitated for a long moment, two, then motioned for the two men to come nearer. As a precaution he loosened the button that kept his revolver safely at his side. Damn. David hadn’t expected the man to be carrying a weapon. It shouldn’t have been a surprise, but they hadn’t taken that into consideration. Abdelaziz tapped his back with the pistol, encouraging him forward. He moved slowly, cautiously, as though unsure what this meant; it gave him time to think through the situation. There was no way he could jump onto the tank and wrestle the man’s gun from him before the Frog got off a shot. He had to get him off the tank. How?Once he was three feet from the front of the tank the commander once again motioned for him to stop. He eyed David critically, unwilling to believe him. The American felt fairly secure in the knowledge that the poor lighting would keep him from being discovered, but he didn’t want to play roulette too long. “ Non ho sentito niente circa alcuni consiglieri.” The Frenchman looked at him with obvious distrust, though thankfully had yet to remove his weapon. Now that they were closer he could see that the tankerman was older than he, probably a good ten years though the lines on his face spoke of the war he had already survived and wanted to continue to survive. Poor bastard, David thought to himself. Then, “ Nondimeno, sono qui.” Yeah, here I am all right. Abdelaziz took a step around him to the right, the Webley stilled aimed at him at chest level. “ Au cas ou je le tirer?” David didn’t know enough French to understand what he asked, but judging by the tankerman’s reaction he was seriously considering it. Finally the officer grunted, “ Non..” He fired off a rapid burst of French that the American doubted he would have been able to understand even had he been able to make out half of what he was saying. When the Frenchman was finished he added, “ Compris?” Abdelaziz nodded his head in understanding then began to turn toward his captive. Before he could fully turn, however, he spun back around, as though to ask a question; his arm raising at the last moment, whipping the butt of the pistol into the Frenchman’s stomach, doubling him over. A second blow followed on the heels of the first, knocking the tankerman to the ground and into unconsciousness. Abdelaziz dropped to the ground as they heard feet racing toward them though, in a sort of re-affirmation of Abdelaziz's claims, none of the newcomers were calling out. Rather, one of them was climbing onto the R35, while the others were rushing toward them. “He’s out,” Abdelaziz hissed, more for their benefit, David suspected, than his own. Turning to him the man explained, “He wanted me to keep you under arrest until he could get orders; I didn’t think you’d want to wait.” David grinned. “Thanks,” he said. Turning, he gave a low whistle, which was the all-clear sign. His comrades appeared from both sides of the street, their weapons at the ready. Gorman had a hold of Clarke and was helping him move, and somehow managing not to let either David’s M-1 or his own spill onto the ground. One of the other American solders, Crann, hurried across to help the sergeant, relieving him of the two rifles so he could assist the Englishman more easily. When they arrived, Abdelaziz turned from his rapid-fire conversation with one of his own people to the small group of survivors. Taking stock of their situation, he looked around, motioning for a young boy that had appeared as though from thin air. He spoke to the youth rapidly in a pidgin of French and the local language then sent him scurrying off. “I have sent Mohammed to find the missionary.” He eyed the sailor. “Your friend looks bad.” Clarke smiled weakly but said nothing. He did look as though he already stood, one foot in the grave. David grimaced. Helping Clarke to a spot in the tank’s shadow, Gorman returned to the others with a motion to the darkness of the east. “I was hoping to get Clarke to Arzew by tomorrow morning, but I think we better hole up near here for the night.” He turned to their ally of convenience. “Is there a safe place?” The other turned to scan the group of Americans. “There are eight of you?” Gorman nodded. David looked around suddenly; one of them was, indeed, missing. Roberts. He had been wounded escaping the disaster on the docks. Apparently he hadn’t made it. Another grimace. “O’Callaghan will need someplace to operate,” the Algerian judged, glancing back at their wounded comrade. “There is a place,” he said after a moment’s thought. “Three blocks east, one north. Can you make it?” “Are there any enemies between here and there?” Gorman appraised the direction noted, while Abdelaziz shrugged. “There weren’t any yesterday,” he offered. “But a few things have changed since then.” The reminder was pointed, and David had to suppress a grin at the sarcasm in his voice. The sergeant nodded, ignoring the sarcasm. “Let’s go,” he said, motioning with a nod of his head toward the soldiers under his command. “Hardrad, you help Clarke.” David nodded, hurrying over to the wounded sailor. The two had become friends of a sort during the whole ordeal, and he paused before lifting the Englishman to his feet. “How’re you feeling?” “Like I been beat with a mallet.” Clarke’s voice was a near-whisper. He was sweating, and his eyes seemed unable to remain on him steadily. “Can’t believe they’re gonna give me to an Clover. Think he’s gonna heal me er get me drunk?” He smiled slightly, eyes wrinkling. “On secon’ thought, let’s get me there, ay?” Putting one hand on David’s shoulder he tried to hoist himself up, but the effort was too much and he collapsed once more against the side of the tank. “Maybe I should just wait ‘ere.” He grinned, but the look seemed more pained than it had earlier. “Come on.” The soldier helped lift Clarke, manhandling him over his shoulder. Turning slowly, he allowed his eyes to follow the line of soldiers already sneaking down the street. In the lead was Johnson, followed by Gorman, Crann, Michaels and Tully. Ape had remained behind, his bald head shining in the last rays of sunlight. The black man was small and wiry, but able to lift a surprising amount thanks to backbreaking labor on the tobacco plantations in South Carolina. He wasn’t a member of the 113th, but with the death or scattering of the rest of his unit, he’d decided to stick with David’s. Now, carrying, not only his own rifle but David’s as well as the reclaimed Webley, he looked like a true warrior ready to take on the entire Vichy army by himself. “I gossa rear,” he said, his lack of education showing through. The New Yorker nodded his thanks silently and moved to follow Tully. Sources: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dishdashawww.comandosupremo.com/Bastico.htmlwww.rsdb.org/
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Post by landisfarne on Jul 19, 2007 17:06:10 GMT -5
History Lessons 8 November 1942 Oran, AlgeriaThe sun was down by the time they reached the location to which Abdelaziz had given them directions. It was a low building built into the rock upon which the city sat, designed to use the earth itself as insulation against the heat and, David thought, it did a fair job. Clarke had lost consciousness at some point during the four-block trek, and the American gently rolled him onto the only table in the small room. “Abandoned house,” Abdelaziz informed them, following Ape down into the room. He lit a lamp, allowing light to seep into the street beyond. They weren’t worried; most of the homes they had passed along the way held similar lights. In the distance they could all hear the occasional staccato gunfire from the west; so far as they knew, they were the only ones to make it out successfully. All the others were probably dead by now, or captured. Silence reigned for a long moment as they all lost themselves in their own reveries. Only when Clarke finally stirred, moaning softly, did they return to the present. David tore off the sailor’s shirt to look at the wound, but to his uneducated eyes he couldn’t imagine how the man had survived thus far. Looks worse than it is, he tried to reassure himself. It didn’t work. “Won’t they know somethin’s up when they find everyone gone?” Michaels asked the question that had been on David’s mind since they’d knocked the Frenchman unconscious. “And if your people move the tank,” he added, looking at their ally-of-convenience. “ My people,” he said, frowning at the GI, then turning to Sergeant Gorman, “will remain at their posts. We’re not blooming idiots.” With a moment’s further thought he added, “And we don’t have anywhere to store the tank at the mo; best place to hide it’s in plain sight, wouldn’t you agree?” He grinned. “What about the medic?” Gorman moved to stand beside the wounded Englishman. “How long ‘til he gets here?” “Yeah, yeah,” a deep voice rumbled, with matching footsteps coming down the stairs heavily. “I’m here. I’m here.” The thick Irish brogue with which the man spoke made clear the missionary’s homeland if not his calling. He wore an ’abaya, a traditional sleeveless over-garment. Underneath, however, where most local men would wear further clothing he appeared to be nude. “This better be important,” he fumed, “I’m not as young as I used to be.” Behind him on the steps came the younger Algerian, who stepped to the side and spoke with Abdelaziz quietly for a few moments. O’Callaghan moved to the table, eyes widening when he saw their wounded comrade. “Christ all-fawking-mighty,” he said, “you idiots trying to kill this man?” Before anyone could answer he had pulled out a dagger and proceeded to slice cleanly through the fabric David had been unable to remove. Much had become glued to the man’s side with dried blood, and the medic winced in sympathetic pain as he cut loose both cloth and flesh. Kicking off his babouj – flat slippers worn by both sexes throughout the Berber-dominated portions of North Africa – the man turned to Abdelaziz. “Water,” he ordered. Then, to the soldiers, “He can’t be moved, so get that idea right out of your fecking ‘eads.” He returned his attention to his patient, mumbling something under his breath. David wasn’t sure whether he was still talking to them, to Clarke, or to himself. He turned suddenly to the boy who had awakened him, “Garlic,” he said, “and needles. Thread. And get me something to burn.” All of the soldiers were a bit surprised by the man’s sudden command of the situation. Tully moved out from the path of the two Algerians while Ape asked, “Wha’chu need garlic fo’ doc?” A moment later Abdelaziz reappeared with a bucket of water. O’Callaghan didn’t answer immediately, instead turning to the water-bearing man with a scowl, then sighed and nodded his thanks. Only then did he turn his attention to the American. “Infection,” he said. “We used it back in the War – the other war, I mean. Worthless as feck, but it’s all I’ve got. Now shu’dup.” Gorman nodded his head for silence all around, crossing quietly to where David sat so he could get a better view of the proceedings. Johnson pulled himself away from the little group that pressed in toward O’Callaghan so that he could serve as the first lookout. The others pressed their shoulders together and seemed to hold their collective breath. Only when the missionary offered a threatening look did they back away, and then only slightly. By the time the younger Arab had returned with the requested items, O’Callaghan had already torn free Clarke’s pants and wadded up a piece of his blood-soaked shirt, which he was using to clean the wound as best he could with the dirty water. “Thanks,” he said, nodding at a spot on the table next to him. Clarke chose that moment to moan. The doctor frowned, pressing again where he had been cleaning. The moan was more pained this time, sounding almost catlike in its agony. He threw down the blood-soaked rag, causing blood to splatter onto the wall across from him. “ Oh fawking ‘ell!” The doctor glared at the soldiers around him, eyes searching for a victim. When he spotted Gorman he stormed over, eyes filled with fire. “This sod has a bloody fawking bullet in his side. He’s probably gonna die of fawking lead poisoning. What the fawk you think I am, some god damned Jesus-fawking-Christ, gonna raise Lazarus from the fawking dead?” He spun around to face his patient again, fuming. He began muttering curses to himself as he pressed gently at the sailor’s side, prodding, poking and testing the area hopefully. The look on his face wasn’t positive. “I take it he’s dying?” David couldn’t help finally asking the question. The Irishman spun on him. “God damn right he’s fawking dying.” Glaring at the New Yorker he waved a blood-covered finger. “Should have let the Frenchies capture him. At least he’d ‘ave some hope.” He turned back to the unconscious body before him, glaring down at it. David thought he looked a lot like someone trying to raise the dead through will alone. Finally he said, “Anyone got a knife?” Half a dozen hands freed their melee weapons, offering them to the missionary. He seemed mildly surprised by the outpouring of what little they could offer their comrade. “An’ who says Americans are worthless’s spit,” he murmured, tearing Crann’s knife from his hand. Looking the blade over, he sighed again. “ J’ai besoin de ce feu, Azim.” Behind them the boy called back a response in his own native language, to which O’Callaghan responded with a nod. “ Bon,” he said. “ Bon.” Turning to the Americans, “Anyone got a fag?” he asked. Then, seeing the blank looks they gave him, clarified: “A cigarette?” Sergeant Gorman pulled a pack from his vest after a quick search and handed them to the doctor, who took two before returning the pack. Gorman offered the rest of the unit what remained, then tossed the empty box onto the table beside David. For his part, David watched the missionary, dark eyes nearly unblinking as he stared at the gore covering the man’s hands and the front of his body. Once O’Callaghan had placed one of the cigarettes between his teeth he crossed the room to where the boy, Azim, had managed to get a small fire started. It had already filled the room with a light layer of smoke. Someone coughed; otherwise the room was silent as death. “We need to get that bullet out,” O’Callaghan said as he cleansed the blade of the borrowed knife in with flames from the fire. Only when it began to glow did he remove it and return to his patient. “Lord,” he said, closing his eyes, “do yer thing.” Several of the soldiers mimicked his prayers, but he had already leaned over to begin cutting into Clarke’s flesh. David watched, ignoring the quiet prayers of his comrade: Clarke would live or die by the hands of a missionary, not his God. The others turned away as the cut deepened and widened. David watched, staring at the blood seeping from the wound. It covered O’Callaghan’s hands, filled the room with a coppery smell that managed to overcome even the scent of the burning wood Azim had gathered. The more he cut, the harder the doctor pushed. The harder he pushed the more the wounded sailor gasped. He sounded as though he was drawing his last, ragged breaths. Each time David felt sure he had died; each time the Englishman surprised him with a whimper or a cough or a gasp of agony. David felt fascinated by the blood pouring from the man’s side; horrified, yet unable to look away. Both he and O’Callaghan started when, with a heavy thock, the bullet fell onto the table. Blood-slicked, it rolled around a moment then fell into the dust at their feet. Immediately the latter pushed a clean rag into his side trying to staunch the flow of blood. He looked around and, catching David’s eye, nodded for him to come to the table. The younger man pushed past Gorman, who looked ill as he watched the proceedings. “Take,” the missionary ordered, giving him room to push against blood-soaked fabric. Despite the missionary’s efforts Clarke’s lifeblood was pouring out rapidly onto the table. It made the formerly dusty floor into a red-tinged mud. “I’ll try to sew it,” he explained. Turning to the sergeant he said, “Nor dry your bloody arse. All of you,” he added, taking in the other soldiers. “This man needs a real hospital, and you’re sittin’ ‘ere floostering about a bit of blood.” As if to supplement the doctor’s point, Clarke woke suddenly, eyes wide. He stared at David in shock, then rolled onto his uninjured side and vomited onto the table at his side, covering it in a bloody mess. “Shite.” The Irishman and David were forced to manhandle him back onto the table. David dropped the rag, allowing still more of the man’s blood to pour from the wound. A moment later a third set of hands appeared, bloodying themselves as they struggled to keep the rag in place. Clarke thrashed weakly, eyes unfocused. “Lemme up you bloody gits,” he tried to yell; it came out little more than a feeble whisper. It was almost too slurred to undertand at all. “English!” O’Callaghan spat the word with disgust. “I’m fecking melted and you wake me for a Tommy?” He leaned onto the sailor’s legs with all his weight. “Just like you Yanks,” he added, throwing his head back in a motion designed to summon another of the soldiers. “Take ‘is legs.” It was not a request. “Gotta sew him shut,” he said again as he moved away from the now-still Englishman. “Keep ‘im down; this is gonna hurt.” Sources: www.shirleys-wellness-cafe.com/antibiotics.htmhome.earthlink.net/~lilinah/Costuming/glossary-clothing-country.htmlwww.hogwild.net/Rants/british-slang.htmwww.irishslang.co.za/print.htmwww.britains-smallwars.com/Anecdotes/TommyAtkins.htm
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Post by landisfarne on Jan 31, 2008 19:10:06 GMT -5
History Lessons 9 November 1942 Oran, Algeria
Before beginning the job of sewing Clarke’s wound shut the missionary forced a rag into his mouth. The man was unconscious again, fortunately, but it was obvious all the Americans were uncomfortable with this effort. “Stifle the screams,” O’Callaghan pointed out when Gorman asked him about the necessity of it, but they all remained disquieted by the treatment.
To further cover any sounds Clarke might make the missionary ordered Abdelaziz to turn on some music. The ancient record player was covered in dust, and the record scratched, but, David thought to himself, it would definitely cover Clarke’s screams. It sounded like a man wailing in agony, though he could hear that it held some sort of rhythm.
The unconscious body of the English sailor fairly leapt up suddenly, bringing his attention back to the task at hand. O’Callaghan had started closing the wound, and each time he pierced the skin with the bone needle the body, seemingly of its own accord, would contort, forcing the four soldiers holding him to push down.
It felt like it took forever to close the wound, but when it was finally finished O’Callaghan slowly moved back, motioning for the Americans to follow suit. When Clarke’s body didn’t immediately begin jerking around wildly he nodded to himself. David watched his comrade-in-arms, unconscious but breathing lightly. “We’ll remove the gag shortly,” the Irishman said softly, padding over to the table, lifting the bowl of bloodstained water, then putting it down again with a disgusted look. “Anyone got a drink?”
As before, Gorman fished out a canteen. Handing it to the missionary he asked, “What’s the word? He gonna live?”
David doubted it. He stared at the body, already looking like a corpse. Clarke had lost too much blood. Maybe it would be for the best. “Dunno,” the other answered after taking a long drink of the proffered water. “Like I said, ‘e can’t be moved. It’d be the death a’ him.” David turned, looking at the pair. Johnson, on the stairs behind them was staring outside, while Abdelaziz and the younger boy, Mohammed, were kicking sand onto the pooled blood in an effort to dry it. For their part, both speakers were staring emptily at the table upon which the body lay. “Y’ll ‘ave to leave ‘im here.”
Gorman nodded slowly. His eyes traced their way lazily to meet David’s. They stared at one another for a long moment, then the sergeant finally nodded as though coming to a decision. “Everyone get some rest,” he ordered. “I’ll get watch now; Tully in two hours; Michaels in four, Crann in six.” No one made a move to complain. In fact, everyone was silent as they spread to the corners of the disused home to remain with their own thoughts.
David crossed toward the stairs, sitting with his back against the wall to their left, near where Gorman seated himself. He couldn’t close his eyes; could barely take them off Clarke, who seemed lost somewhere between life and death on the table across the room. Blood dripped from the table, causing little mushroom clouds of dust to rise from where they landed. He could hear every sound the man made. He imagined Clarke’s chest rising and falling, then never rising again, but each time it seemed to have moved for the last time the Englishman managed to pull in another shallow, wheezing breath.
O’Callaghan turned the wailing music down, allowing the Americans to rest more peacefully, though he kept it high enough that he could investigate the wounded man more thoroughly without the Americans constantly in the way. Gorman split his attention between the outside world and the missionary’s work; David had eyes only for the latter.
The Irishman leaned down near his patient, ear to Clarke’s mouth. He murmured something to himself upon rising again, and walked around the table to check the man’s pulse. Abdelaziz left shortly thereafter, leaving Mohammed to assist the missionary whenever he needed it. O’Callaghan didn’t appear to need much. Indeed, the young Moslem fell asleep before Gorman’s shift was over.
Unable to sleep anyway, David stood when the sergeant moved to wake Tully. The pair had a moment of silent communication. Gorman nodded and moved to take David’s spot. Once he was settled in for his watch, David allowed his eyes to wander over the night. There wasn’t much there. It felt cold and lonely. He felt tired. Physically, yes, but more; he felt bone weary. He hadn’t been at war – not really – for more than a day, and already he wanted it to be over.
He missed Caroline.
They’d been engaged for four years already, and at the rate things were shaping up it would be another – Who knows how long? He already hadn’t seen her in months, and it ached like nothing he had ever felt.
He wondered if, even now, she was staring up at the stars and thinking about him. His own moved up from ground level until he spotted Orion’s belt. He mentally traced the figure of the god and took a deep, shuddering breath.
“He’ll be fine.” O’Callaghan’s voice was soft, and very near him. David jerked his rifle around, but realized in time that it was just the Irishman. His eyes were serious, and he was staring into the night as though he saw ghosts haunting it. Maybe he did. “I saw worse during the War.” His dark eyes flickered to David’s face then back into the night once more.
“I was thinking about my fiancé,” David replied turning back to his duties. “We were to be wed last June.”
The doctor made a sound of understanding. “A girl, ah.” David felt, more than saw, his head moving up and down. “I’m a lifelong bachelor meself.” He put a hand on David’s arm. “You’ll be okay. You’re strong,” he explained, “I saw it in your eyes.” Both he and David looked back into the house at the sleeping form of the seaman. “He’ll not likely walk again.”
“At least he’ll live. That’s the important thing.” David took a deep breath, held it a moment then released it. He got light-headed from the sudden influx of oxygen, but the feeling quickly passed. “Why are you here, O’Callaghan?”
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Post by landisfarne on Feb 22, 2008 12:44:52 GMT -5
History Lessons 9 November 1942 Oran, AlgeriaThe Irishman did not answer immediately. His face was pained, his eyes haunted. When he did finally speak, his voice sounded hollow, and his eyes remained on the darkness as though witnessing, once more, the events of which he spoke. “I was a doctor before the Great War.” He paused. “No, not really. I had just graduated at the outbreak of the war. I hated the Tommys, but I volunteered for service in the Royal Dublin Fusiliers.” He turned to look at David. “Ever heard of ‘em?” The other man shook his head. “Dinae think you’d have.” He smiled a sad little smile, then returned to staring fixedly out at the night. “A medic in the second battalion. War… does horrible things to a man.” O’Callaghan took a deep, shuddering breath. “We were along with the Old Contemptibles – that’s what they called the regulars in the BEF – when they reached Mons. We were there when the Kaiser’s troops entered the city. I saw… a lot of friends die.” David saw the man’s jaw clench and unclench repeatedly. It was almost as though he was reliving those moments of the war. Silence wrapped around them, and was broken only when the veteran continued. “I helped with the wounded afterward, when we fled Mons. My detachment survived long enough to get to Le Cateau.” A slight smile played across his lips. The Irishman turned to David. “You wouldn’t believe the trouble we gave those German bastards. We had maybe half a dozen machine guns, but I’ve since heard they thought we had three, even four times that many. Still, we were hit hard.” O’Callaghan paused, shaking his head. “The war pretty much ground on. We all won medals and honors, and everything became sort of meaningless.” He sighed. “I was headed back to the front lines after a bit of time in the west of France when news came through that the Germans had launched a gas attack at Ypres – the second time they’d used chlorine in the war. We… still weren’t really aware of what it did. At Ypres-“ The Irishman choked back a cough. It seemed to take him a force of will to keep his eyes open, to deny them the horrors that he seemed to be seeing. David reached out to touch the man’s shoulder, tell him it was all right to stop, but before he could do so the missionary continued. “I arrived at St. Julien just before dawn on the twenty-fourth of April, 1915. The… Germans…” O’Callaghan took a deep, shuddering breath to steady himself. “We’d heard that if a man pissed in a rag and breathed through that, the chlorine wouldn’t be quite so bad. But… who could stand against a cloud of grey-green gas? We all knew what it had done at Gravenstafel two days before. It filled the trenches, son.” The man’s fists were white-knuckled. “A man breathed it in, and he died – just like that. No hope. I don’t know if the piss was successful or not. Our- our lines broke. The Canadians ran. We were… outside St. Julien. My hospital tent, we were forced to abandon it. We pulled back under heavy fire. Tried to…” His eyes were closed again, his breathing labored as though he could still feel the burning of the gas in his lungs. Though David doubted he had ever felt it – he was still alive, after all. He was glad that the Jerries seemed disinclined to use gas this time ‘round. Maybe they’d learned their lesson. Maybe- “Two days later we launched a counter-attack. They mowed us down. The Germans had machine gun emplacements set up outside St. Julien, and they threw gas canisters in our direction. We failed in our objective. We-“ The man squeezed his eyes shut so tightly his face looked like it was melting into itself. “May twenty-four,” he said when he finally had himself under control. “I remember it like it was yesterday. The bloody bastards released gas directly at us. I lost… so many… I tried.” He was shaking, both in voice and body. Tears were streaming down his face. David realized that Algeria had vanished; the war around them had vanished; he had vanished. “Faces,” he said. “So many… many faces. Collin,” he whispered, putting out a hand as though he could touch the man whose name he had spoken. “Ryan. Patrick and Arthur.” O’Callaghan’s eyes jerked back to the present, back to face David. “I held Colonel Loveband’s hand as he died. We… loved him. He was a good man. So many dead. So very, very many dead.” The missionary reached for a cigarette, couldn’t find one, and gave up before continuing his story. “We weren’t done yet. There were… only a few of us remaining. We couldn’t fight,” he said, looking at the American. “Not really. But we’d be god-damned if we were going to let the Germans get away with what they’d done. I was pulled back to the Canadian field hospital. I… I don’t know how many more died at Frezenberg and Bellewarde,” he shook his head. “I never saw anyone from the Second again, though. I…” The man swallowed hard, eyes red and swollen. “I may be the last. I was awarded Battle Honors.” The smile he offered David was so bitter he was taken aback. “Title,” he said, “medals and a cross.” The Irishman stood suddenly, looking down on the American soldier from where he stood. He looked old, suddenly, his face red and raw from the tears he had cried. “After the war I came here,” he said finally. “To avoid war.” He looked out at the deserted streets then back in to where the allied soldiers were resting and the Englishman lay unmoving and silent on the blood-soaked table. “God hears some prayers, my son,” he said, his thick Irish brogue suddenly coming through with an almost physical force. “Others He ignores for His own reasons.” O’Callaghan turned and stalked down the stairs, moved to the table where his patient lay – perhaps even dying. His shoulders were bunched as he held tightly onto the edge of the table. David couldn’t make out the words he spoke, but it was obvious they were important to him. When the American returned his attention to the world outside their temporary haven he felt older, wearier. It was as though the medic had pushed some of the – what? Guilt? Sorrow? – the emotions he had felt onto his shoulders. He leaned against the stairwell, gripping his rifle tightly. Faces, he remembered the Irishman saying clearly. So many faces.Sources: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Second_Battle_of_Ypresen.wikipedia.org/wiki/Royal_Dublin_Fusiliersen.wikipedia.org/wiki/British_War_Medalwww.royaldublinfusiliers.com/medals/ww1.htmlwww.military-medal.co.uk/the-distinguished-service-cross.htmlen.wikipedia.org/wiki/Order_of_Meriten.wikipedia.org/wiki/Officer_of_the_British_Empire
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Post by landisfarne on Aug 17, 2008 12:17:43 GMT -5
History Lessons 9 November 1942 Oran, AlgeriaThe light of day broke over the city with the crash of thunder. It awoke all the men in the small hut – all save David, whose tired eyes had been staring out at the night since hearing O’Callaghan’s story. They flickered to the northwest, where the roar of cannon fire had originated. O’Callaghan had fallen asleep during the night, head resting on the bloody table where his surgery had, apparently, succeeded in keeping the survivor of the Walney alive. Sergeant Gorman rushed to his side, peering up and out, rifle unslung and ready to fire. His eyes were wide open and his breathing coming in short, harsh gasps. “What the fuck was that?” “Cannon fire,” O’Callaghan said as he came up to the two. “Two hundred-three millimeter, I think,” he added after another round of fire resulted in a mass of smoke pouring skyward from deeper in the city. The other soldiers crowded around then, peering out into the early-morning light. “We might be able to use this,” David pointed out. Tired as he was, he nevertheless felt profoundly aware of everything going on around him. His senses felt wired to a higher pitch than ever before. “To get over the wall.” “Might,” Gorman agreed, eyeing the angry dark smoke billowing from the city center. “Can he travel?” The soldier looked over his shoulder at Clarke. The man’s bandages were bloody still, as was the table upon which he lay. The Irish missionary shook his head. “Not a chance. He’s lucky he survived the night.” The man turned back down the stairs, pushing his way through the American soldiers until he stood beside the table. He looked down at the wounded sailor. He put a hand on the man’s forehead. “I’ll do what I can, but I’m not sure I can even keep him alive until sunset.” Gorman seemed torn. “We can try to wait…” “And risk getting captured?” Johnson shook his head. “I don’t think that’s such a great idea, sarge.” David had to agree, but it was the doctor who spoke. “If you leave him here, the will likely take him to a hospital. They’re not bloody murderers,” he added when Gorman gave him a disbelieving look. “There are provisions for this sort of thing. He won’t be fighting any time again this war.” O’Callaghan’s voice sounded bitter again, just as it had earlier that morning. “If we’re lucky we can make it to Arzew this afternoon,” David added helpfully. “Maybe earlier if the Vichy are too busy dealing with the fleet.” Gorman, looking down at the Irishman until then, turned to David. He nodded. “Pack your things,” he told the soldiers. “We’re going to head out.” Sources: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Operation_Torchen.wikipedia.org/wiki/County_class_cruiser
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Post by landisfarne on Nov 6, 2009 20:37:17 GMT -5
History Lessons 9 November 1942 Oran, AlgeriaThe seven men made their way out from the hut build into the streets of the city. Once more Ape took up the lead, his black skin gleaming with sweat in the early morning light. His unit, the experimental 1084th Battalion, B Company, had been decimated when the Walney had gone down, and the rest had been captured by the French almost immediately. It didn’t bode well for the Buffalo Soldiers’ place in this war – their failure had been all but complete in their single engagement. The large Negro had been the lone survivor. Gorman didn’t care much about that; he may have disliked having to serve beside some Negro, but he was even less happy with turning down an extra weapon. Everyone knew that – even Ape – but no one was going to argue that it was best for everyone. For his part, David didn’t give much of a hoot and holler in hell about the man’s color. He may not have been capable of thinking as quickly as a white man, but he’d shown himself more than willing to put himself in harm’s way for the rest of them, David included. So far as he was concerned, Ape was a welcome addition to their group, at least temporarily. In front of the Negro were Johnson and Gorman, their rifles at the ready and eyes scanning the streets for any sign of movement. Each footfall seemed echoed by the thunder of the big guns from the naval vessels out in the Mediterranean. Crann and David were in front of them, several feet separating one from the other, and in the lead were Michaels and Tully. Tully had been a late addition to their unit, arriving two days before the 113th had set sail from New York. He was likeable as a man got with a sense of humor that never failed. Right then he was focused on the task set before him, however: making sure none of the enemy was lurking just around the corner. He stopped them only once before they reached the outer wall ringing Oran. It wasn’t a particularly high wall, nor really designed to keep a modern army out – but they weren’t trying to get in. They were trying to get out. And it was enough that seven soldiers weren’t likely going to escape notice even by climbing over the wall away from prying eyes. “Someone’ll notice,” Michaels pointed out once the group had reached a cul-de-sac where they were relatively safe from prying eyes. “Shame that camel jockey ain’t here. He might have got us past.” “Anyone know how the gates in this place work?” David looked around at the others. “If there aren’t any we might be able to rush through.” “Too much risk,” Gorman responded immediately. He shook his head. There was silence all around as each man thought of the possibilities. There weren’t very many, and those that made themselves known were all equally bad. “Ambush?” Ape seemed hesitant to speak. “Could be good.” He shrugged his broad shoulders. David was surprised by the suggestion. “He’s got a point. Ambush someone in here, take their uniforms…” he trailed off, his own shrug following on the heels of the black man’s. “If we’re gonna ambush,” Gorman countered, his head bobbing up and down slowly, “we should take out one of the gates. Might make it easier if we have to make it back in. If we spread out, we can make it look like there are a lot more of us.” The others nodded their agreement with this suggestion. Huddled around as they were, they could speak softly and plan, and they did so rapidly. Each man had a suggestion to make – except Ape who, having put his two cents in, seemed uninterested in offering more, listening instead. David glanced up at him occasionally, judging his reaction to having his plan usurped, but if there was any resentment behind the stoic mask he wore it was difficult to tell. Sources: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Buffalo_soldieren.wikipedia.org/wiki/African-Americans_in_the_United_States_military_before_desegregation#World_War_IIen.wikipedia.org/wiki/761st_Tank_Battalion_%28United_States%29#Pattonen.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ethnic_slur
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