RisenDead

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

Vilageidiotx said
o shit, battle is going to be over before I finish breakfast.

Don't be ridiculous, as far as I am concerned I only just got caught up to you and Gorgens posting. Now we can do some nitty gritty "people are dying, isn't it horrible", yadda yadda

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

Port Said, Egypt

The two Americans were the first to die. They had begun to charge off the ramp when an enemy machine gunner, sheltered by a mass of fallen driftwood, opened fire on the landing craft. The hull suddenly became a death trap as bullets ricocheted off the metal plates and slammed into the men jammed shoulder to shoulder. Some screamed, some cried out for god, most died. The two Americans, a pair of twins from the Philippines, three young childhood friends from Cuba, all of them collapsing under the spray of bullets, all of them between Delgado and the enemy gunner.

He waited only a fraction of a moment before taking a quick step, hoisting himself up the side of the landing craft and then rolling over towards the water below. He hit it with a crash, the weight of his equipment dragging him down until he hit the bottom on his back. He flailed free of his pack, desperate as the water closed in about him and his lungs began to burn, he hadn't taken a breath before he plunged into the tepid waves. He jerked and writhed, finally freeing himself from the pack and kicking out to get his feet underneath him. He lunged for the surface and to his surprise found himself in only five feet of water.

The landing craft was several yards away now drifting slowly towards the beach, blood oozing down her ramp. The wheelhouse was gone, the windows smashed, the driver slumped in his chair. No one emerged from the front of the landing craft though Delgado caught sight of Mohammad struggling to free himself his own pack some fifty feet away. Small geysers suddenly erupted all around the black man and it took Delgado a moment to realize that the enemy gunner was trying to kill them in the water.

He swore, dragged him weapon up from beneath the surf, aimed at the place where he had seen the muzzle flashes, and pulled the trigger. The moment he would never forget, the sudden clarity and joy as he emptied his thirty round clip in a slow methodical motion as he waded towards shore. The machine gun went silent but a dozen other enemy soldiers who had survived the naval bombardment opened fire on him now, their bullets peppering the water all around him and still he advanced.

One by one, clip by clip, he silenced the enemy soldiers, his eyes coldly roving the beach to pick out the huddled forms of his enemy. He showed no mercy, even when several stood with their hands in the air, clearly trying to surrender, he shot them down. Others, stunned by his seeming invincibility as he advanced into the teeth of their gunfire, began to panic and pull back. A second Spanish rifle opened fire as Mohammad, freed of his weight, joined the tall Argentine and together the two of them managed to clear the grasping waves and hit the beach at a run.

The attack was only five minutes old and already a dozen enemy soldiers lay dead in the sand, their bodies flung down by the lethal shots of the two soldiers who seemed impervious to everything thrown at them. One group of enemy soldiers, a later examination would reveal them to be Egyptians, made a stand in a small nest of driftwood and boulders but the two attackers fixed bayonets and with screams of "Muerte y Gloria!" they threw themselves over the barricades and the close quarters killing began.

It took thirty seconds, thirty seconds of screaming and slaughter, to clear the vipers nest. Delgado and Mohammad stopped killing only after the last of the enemy soldiers had stopped crying for his mother. Delgado pulled his bayonet from the mans chest, wiped it clean on the dead mans robes and then stood. Mohammad caught his eye and the two men nodded at each other, only slowly becoming aware of the cheering that was sweeping across the water towards them. The soldiers still approaching the beach in their landing craft, and those on the ships beyond, were screaming themselves hoarse in adoration of the two men.

Delgado looked about him, realizing for the first time that his landing craft was the first one to have reached the beach and the only one to have taken any serious enemy fire. The remainder of the men who had embarked with them were dead and only now, six minutes into the fighting, the second landing craft was only just touching the beach. Around them, their blood pooling at their feet, were at least two dozen enemy dead. Mohammad broke the silence first.

"We have done a great thing Comrade." He reached out and the two shook hands over the shattered corpses of their slain enemies and the cheers of the soldiers landing on the beach below doubled in intensity and boots pounded across the sand as they hurried towards the two of them.

"Keep moving!" A Spanish officer shouted. He caught Delgados eye as he yelled and for the first time since he had joined the Spanish army he saw something different in the officers eyes. For months it had been disgust, disdain, revulsion at the base "colonial troops" he had been forced to command but now something else was behind that gaze, respect.

Shots rang out further down the beach and Delgado turned to see more trucks hastening towards them from the city. It was to little to late. Behind him the bulk of the Brigada Internacional was landing, men streaming up the beach to take up firing positions. The causeway was narrow it worked like a funnel, pushing the Egyptian forces into the teeth of the 109th's gunfire. Trucks exploded, flipping into the air as grenades were hurled by strong young farm lads, men jerked backwards as if pulled by invisible strings as bullets fired by youth who had done it for sport back home found their mark. They might be a motel collection of colonials but the Brigada Internacional was learning how to fight.

It was not without loss of course. Many of the young men had no proper fear or respect for enemy bullets, forgetting that if you can see a man, he can see you, quite the opposite of a deer. Over a hundred would die taking the causeway as they pushed eastwards into the ruins of Port Said. By the time the first boots were in the streets nearly a sixth of the Brigada Internacional was dead or wounded. Of that, half were the Brigades Spanish senior NCO's and battlefield promotions came swiftly. For Mohammad and Delgado it meant promotion to platoon Sergeants as the story of their beach assault spread swiftly through the men and officers alike.

The causeway itself was taken within the hour, the sound of the Spanish cruisers firing beyond the skyline of the city only increasing the demands for urgency from the Spanish officers. Pushed past limits of endurance, the Brigada Internacional found itself in increasingly precarious positions as it fought to advance deeper into the streets of Port Said. More men fell, and those who did not quickly learned how to keep their heads down and engage in pitch gun battles. Hand to hand fighting became the norm as the young foreigners, realizing that they were bigger and stronger than their Egyptian and Ethiopian counterparts, closed in to make the fighting even more personal. Boys, who three months previously had been harvesting wheat, tending to injured animals, and shouldering farm labour, now used that same strength to punch, kick, bite, and in many cases, choke, the the life from other human beings.

Delgado, leading a random band of soldiers now, was in the midst of it all. He had not yet had time to reflect upon the lives he had taken that day but one thing was for certain, he was good at killing. With a rifle he was a crack shot, in hand to hand combat he was as lethal as any many alive. The long hours spent working the vineyards had given him massive upper body strength which he simply used to beat down his smaller opponents if they came within reach. Some of the moments would come back to haunt him in dreams for years to come but for the moment he was a god, an artist, and the battlefield was his canvas.

Two hours into the attack and the Airfield was completely under Spanish control even as the leading elements of the Brigada Internacional began to force the western edge of the city. Fighting was becoming desperate as Egyptian militiamen found themselves trapped between the advancing 109th and the Spanish Marines. They began to cluster into the city centre which made them an easier target for the big Spanish guns, guided onto target by spotter aircraft above, it was turning into a massacre.

The Spanish Commander finally called a halt as the Brigada Internacional cleared the last of the enemy soldiers from the eastern edge of the airfield and secured the buildings that overlooked the tarmac. A head count was taken and the numbers came in, of the six hundred men who had come ashore only two hours ago, almost half were dead or wounded. The 109th's battle was over for the moment.

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

Port Said, Egypt

Francisco de le Cal Delgado stared southwards, the rumble of the Spanish naval guns carrying easily down the length of the Suez Canal to the mass of Spanish transport ships waiting their turn to enter the Canal. His young face was eager and expectant, his ill fitting uniform slightly to small for his muscular frame, the buttons on his chest straining again the threadbare fabric. The shoulder flag was hastily sown on, the "109" not quite covering the older unit designation. Beneath it, small enough to cause barely a glance was a flag, half Spain, half Argentina. Over them both, curving with the edge of the uniforms shoulder were the words Brigada Internacional.

He clutched an FE-74 assualt rifle in his right hand, the only modern gift from his Spanish employers and he supposed he ought to be grateful for it. It was clean, reliable, and like the rest of the men in his platoon, it came with one hundred rounds of ammunition, six grenades, and a six inch bayonet. A helmet was hung at his waist, an Argentine style beret was perched rakishly on his black hair, it was the only item other than the flag that gave any indication as to his place of birth.

The men around him, over 600 crammed into a vessel meant for half the number, were similarly clothed, there the similarities ended. They were from all over the former Spanish Empire, South America, the United States, parts of southeast Asia and north Africa, a veritable mass drawn together by a common language and desire for adventure under the flag of their former colonial master. The majority, like Francisco, were from Argentina.

To a boy from the farms of Mendoza it was the strangest sight he had ever seen as he looked over his shipmates. The majority of the younger Latins, like himself, were pressed up against the railings cheering every Spanish wheel strike. Behind them, in a small cleared patch of neck space, a group of black Moroccan soldiers were kneeling in prayer and murmuring in Arabic, a language he did not understand. He had made friends with one of them on the voyage, another massive youth like himself who was as broad in the shoulders and an inch taller, he went by the name of Mohammad Hassan and little did Francisco know, but their fates would be intertwined for years to come. He caught Francisco's eye as he bowed for another prayer and winked briefly at his Argentine comrade.

"Ready to go ashore!" The shout rippled through the massed soldiers all of a sudden and Francisco looked down in surprise to see that the landing craft they had brought along had been lowered into the water. Sailors shouldered past the soldiers to drape long rope ladders down into the boats even as the battalions Spanish officers shouted at their men to grab their packs. It seemed that the battalion was being sent in to relieve the pressure on the Marines aboard the warships by driving the Ethiopian and Egyptian land forces away from the Canal.

Francisco pushed his way through the throngs of soldiers to his “bunk”, a patch of deck that he had claimed as his own the minute he set foot on the ship. Many of the other men had claimed bunks below but Francisco had never liked cramped spaces and it turned out he’d made a wide choice, the lower decks had quickly become awash in vomit, sea water, and diesel fumes from the aged tankers engine room.

He rolled up his small bedroll and strapped it to the top of his pack before hoisting it onto his back. Mohammad had been camped next to him and though they had initially avoided each other they quickly began to talk at night. Many of the white Spanish soldiers considered the non-whites sub-human and wouldn’t even give them the time of day, much less speak to them. Francisco, coming from the Mendoza wine region of Argentina, had met many non-whites on the big vineyards and worked alongside more than a few he considered his equal, and in some cases his superior in feats of strength and intelligence.

“Delgado, stop gopping and get in the fucking boat!” The platoon Sergeant, a burly Spaniard from somewhere in Galicia, was waving his troops down the ropes and into the boats. As Delgado went to pass him buy the Sergeant yanked the beret off his head and shoved into his belt. “Get your lid on.”

Delgado quickly grabbed the helmet from his waist and pulled it onto his head, clipping it below his chin and then swinging his leg over the edge of the vessel. It suddenly occurred to him, as he swayed high above the waves that it was a long away down… Never in his life had the thought occurred to him but he quite suddenly realized his was afraid of heights.

For a moment he hung in space, fixed rigid by the height of the drop. Then a hand was shoving at him and he took a deep breath, flipped his other leg over the edge and began to climb down the long rope, clutching at the rope so hard that every wave slammed him against the ship and tore at the skin on his hands.

It seemed to take forever but at last he felt his boots on steel and he was safe again amidst the press of bodies. Only two others came down after home, one of them was Mohammad. They nodded, each trying to mask his fear, as the lines were thrown down and the small landing craft pulled away from the transport.

Diesel engines rumbled and smoke poured from the exhaust of the landing craft as it turned towards the beach, the incoming tide lifting them and carrying them towards a long stretch of beach topped with a mostly empty roadway.

Three men in front of Delgado were a pair of American volunteers he had gotten to know. They were from a place called Florida, he had never been, and they talked with a strange twang to their Spanish. They had been mechanics before they volunteered and like Delgado had headed overseas with the idea of adventure and glory in mind.

Delgado, still staring to the front and trying to control his mounting fear, saw trucks racing across the roadway, men hanging off of every available angle. They slid to a halt and men jumped to the roadway, dropping to their knees and, Delgado realized with a start, that they were about to open fire.

At first he wasn’t even aware they’d fired until he was able to hear the buzz of passing bullets as they whizzed past the landing craft. Several struck the steel hull with a loud PING and men ducked, some laughed nervously.

The first man died quite suddenly, one of the bullets striking the wheelhouse and ricocheting into the packed troops huddled below. He gave a muted grunt and then collapsed into the water that was starting to slosh about the deck of the landing craft. His blood began to dilute the water at once and Delgado found himself kneeling, almost in shock, as the Sergeant screamed at him to get the mans ammunition and grenades.

He did so quickly, pulling the bandoliers from the dead man and slinging them over his shoulder and standing back up, trying desperately not to look down. He had seen plenty of blood before on the farm, even a couple of dead men, but never a man killed before by an enemy bullet.

“Prepare to beach!” The words jolted him out of his thoughts and a glance up revealed the beach to be much closer than he had thought it was. The enemy soldiers were much closer and he could swear they were aiming right at him.

Suddenly the truck nearest to them vanished in a massive geyser of tarmac, dirt and fire. He didn’t know what had happened but he cheered with the rest of the men, the sight taking his mind off the dead body at his feet.

“Thank god for the Navy!” The Sergeant shouted, smiling broadly at Delgado. The smile only seemed to grow and then suddenly blood burst from between the mans lips and he collapsed into the water, his blood mingling with that of the other man. Delgado couldn’t take it anymore, he vomited into the water, his breakfast covering the face of the Sergeant where it stared up at him from the deck.

“Ramp down!”

The cry came from one of the sailors and Delgado wiped his chin on his sleeve, had the presence of mind to take the Sergeants ammunition, and then the ramp dropped with a crash into the water.

The war was on.

Precipice of War - We Write Under The Sign Of The Goat

Name: The Republic of Argentina
Leader: President Juan Domingo Perón.

Argentina stayed largely in its own corner during the Great War. Her ties with Germany led her to shelter those who chose to fled the allies and their victorious armies but the presence of pro-allied Brazil just to the north kept her from getting heavily involved in any serious way. From time to time Argentine ports allowed access to Central Powers ships and submarines, even sheltering them from allied pursuit from time to time.

Following the end of the Great War Argentina found itself without any real allies and a strongly suspicious neighbour to the north. This was a time of unrest in the country as various groups began to struggle for power, both those who supported a more pro-allied approach and those who refused to leave their old allies in a lurch. Without a strong central government the country was wracked by numerous outbreaks of violence as successive governments struggled to try and bring order with little success.

The great depression damaged Argentina less than most given that the majority of its economy was focused inward, and more likely since it did not have much to lose to begin with. Numerous military juntas would seize power over the next 30 years, each simply replacing the other as the upper echelons of military officers fought for control, the fighting rarely managing to make it's way down to your average citizen, most of whom only wanted to be left alone.

The fear of Communism finally pushed a proper government into power, a military junta that actually enjoyed plenty of popular support. There would be a period of calm when the country saw little movement in government but arrests and kidnappings began to climb at an alarming rate. It did not take long for this to drive unrest within the average Argentine to question the wisdom of allowing an unchecked military junta.

1950 dawns and the unrest and anger that has been simmering beneath the surface finally comes to a boil and the country explodes into open revolt as peasants, led by rogue General Juan Domingo Perón, rise up all across the country. In an orgy of blood letting nearly half the Argentine ruling military elite is dragged into the streets and massacred while troops look on, rarely lifting a finger to prevent the slaughter. It is a strange revolt for this outside the country looking in as peasants rampage willing while soldiers look on. In the end over 3,000 officers are killed with only a handful of soldiers and peasants lost in the process.

General Juan Domingo Perón is elected president in a landslide vote not long afterwards and he immediately sets to work building the Argentine economy into one of the most powerful in the Americas. His agreement to join the SAC is not widely popular since most see it as a Brazilian power grab but it does allow Argentina to access new markets that have, until this time been closed off to her.

As 1980 dawns President Juan Domingo Perón. continues to increase the Argentine economic situation though rumours increasingly suggest that he has been padding his own pockets and those of his cabinet.