THE BATTLE OF DOVE SPRING PASS

[Lobo solitario]

Mark watched as the desert sky faded from black and become a dark shade of blue. Then morphed into lighter and lighter blue and less and less stars became visible. He knew it was his last sunrise and relished it like no other.

The night before he had sat on the council as they discussed their next move. The council consisted of all fighting members, warriors if you will, of the clan. They knew the enemy was on them and not far behind. They needed to delay them long enough to break the link, long enough for them to lose the trail, so to speak.

Mark suggested that to save the women and children, and thus the clan, they needed to make a delaying stand at a strong point along the line of retreat.

Mark had minimal military training, AIT, but had not been an infantry soldier or a Marine. However he had a lifetime of experience and, many friends who had been grunts that had given him tips. There were some advantages to being a member of the Vietnam generation. Mark was the kind of guy who tended to make a note of and remember things that might later save his life.

It was reluctantly decided that they needed to pick a unit to make a stand. They decided the members should be those who could be effective, yet expendable. It turned out that those who knew how to move shoot and communicate, but were too old to function at a peak that would keep up with the younger men, when on offence, would be the best candidates. Basically it meant that those who had military experience but were too old to move fast were to be sacrificed. Mark did not disagree. The years had robed him of his ability to move swiftly.

Around the firelight in the saddle a call for volunteers was made. A reluctance was immediately obvious. Mark stood and said; “I'll volunteer, my son and daughter are at risk, my grandchildren are at risk. I will gladly die fore either. I pity any man who has never found anything worth dying for.”

Volunteers were abundant after that. Some were rejected, including Rob, Mark’s son, as being too vital to the common defense to sacrifice. About thirty were accepted. Mark was one of them.

The clan started moving before daybreak. The rear guard unit stayed behind. The saddle was a good spot for a rear guard delaying action. The clan’s lack of abundant radio communications precluded their ability to leave resources that would most likely be captured by the enemy. The unit would be limited to voice and hand signals in the coming battle.

Mark had several guns, collected over a lifetime. So did Rob. Mark, after much deliberation, decided to leave his M1 Garand, M1-A, Browning Hi Power and 1911 for Rob and the clan. He chose his Mod 1903-A3 & his S&W Model 64 .357 magnum to make the stand. He was comfortable with them. He knew they would do what he asked of them. And this was going to be a stand off, not a running gun battle. Rapid fire would not play a significant part. At least until the very end, and that would only make a few minutes difference.


The unit was only loosely organized. They all knew what they had to do and just did it. Mostly the younger men, if you could call them that, as none were younger than their mid fifties, took up positions in the rocky ridges flanking either side of the saddle. Mark found himself a spot lower on the right flank of the saddle, not quite up into the rocks. It did have a small rock outcropping with a sage bush and a clump of rabbit brush behind it providing both concealment and some cover. Most importantly, in front it dropped away steeply so his muzzle blast would not give away his position.

He settled in, laid out his canteen and some jerky and dried fruit, and nestled his -03 into the hummock created by the sand the rabbit brush had captured from the desert winds.

As the sky faded to a lighter shade of blue flashlights and then fires started to appear near the ranch headquarters six miles away in the bottom of the valley. It was not the HQ for the entire Opal Ranch, heavens no! The Opal Ranch covered hundreds of square miles at several locations. This was just the HQ for the valley and the home of the old wrangler that watched over that particular corner of the empire. It was situated on the edge of about 900 acres, give or take, of naturally sub-irrigated pasture. It had a well and an outhouse and green grass to camp on instead of dust, dirt, and sand. The soldiers had not been invited to stay the night, but they had politely asked, and you did not tell the blue hats “no” just then.

Eventually they formed up and started up the road toward the pass. There were two hummers in the van and six duce & a half trucks transporting troops and supplies. They had shades of desert tan hastily spray painted over United Nations white.

The valley was flanked on the east by a long rocky ridge that protruded from the desert landscape like the fossilized spine of a 12 mile long dinosaur. Near its center was an especially prominent pinnacle called Eagle Peak. The west side was defined by a higher, by thrice, and longer barrier called Pawnee Mountain. Pawnee Mountain was actually timbered and had a few live streams that, while they disappeared underground before they reached the valley floor, were the source of water that irrigated the pasture around Opal headquarters.

Just above the rocks north of Eagle Peak the horizon was so bright that one knew the sun was on the very verge of making its appearance. It was near full daylight.

About 4 and 1/2 miles up the road from the previous night’s encampment the column came to a triple fork. The lead hummer stopped. Mark adjusted the focus of his monocular and saw a map being deployed upon its hood. Several individuals, obviously officers and noncoms were studying it. Mark’s ears were assaulted with a tremendous explosion!

[rvm45]

Sounds good so far.

.....RVM45

[nancy1340]

Maybe the old rancher hid a present in one of the Hummers. Huh?

Very good start. Thanks

This is Chapter 1, isn't it? ;-)

[Lobo solitario]

THE BATTLE OF DOVE SPRING PASS II



Jack had positioned himself in the rocks 75 or 80 yards to the right of Mark, with the little group’s only “heavy weapon”, his Barrette .50 BMG. He had been watching the activities in the valley just as Mark and the rest of the 33 defenders of the pass had been. He had noticed the deference with which the other members of that little cluster around the map had been treating one of their fellows. The man was also the only one wearing a blue beret. Idiot! It was a mile and a half, but jack had made such shots on paper and he may not get another chance at this presumed high value target. The sun had not yet started the morning down slope breeze moving. The huge objective lens on Jack’s scope was absorbing enough light to turn the shadowy morning to high noon.

Take a few deep breaths so you are well oxygenated. Take one more. Let it half out. Start the squeeze. Too much wobble! Let off. Try again. Half out. Reticule steadier this time. Squeeeeze…… The slamming recoil that you never quite get used to. The deafening physical slap of the report that no amount of ear protection can really mitigate for it is transmitted to the ear drums directly through the skull. Over a mile away, pieces of lung, liver, and various other innards of the man are splattered over several of his companions and the map. His blue beret lands 3 feet off the road in the rabbit brush.

Marks eyes glanced quickly toward the noise. No dust! Good, Jack had prepared his position well. Flitting back to the monocular he saw the man collapsing, his companions reaching to help. Six and one half seconds later he heard that sound that every beginning hunter learns and never forgets. That sound like a sack of wet pulp being hit full force with a baseball bat.

Jack then put two rounds into the radiator area of each hum-V, and the first duce and a half. The remaining truck radiators were obscured by the cargo areas of those in front of them.

The .50 BMG machine gun mounted on the second hummer opened up with counter fire. But, they had no idea where Jack was. Ma Duce is a devastating weapon, but it’s not worth spit for spray and pray at a mile and a half. Jack had deployed ground clothes, and even whetted them down, to hide his location.


…………………………………………………………………….


A point could be made that the killing of the French lieutenant was a mistake. The late lieutenant was; from the south of France, arrogant, dumb as a post, and convinced he was the world’s gift to warfare. He could, or imagined he could, trace his linage to one Neapolitan Bonaparte, whom he considered a modestly talented tactician compared to himself. The UN unit was well rid of him.

The rest of the unit was, in contrast, made up largely of men from the west of the country, mainly the Normandy area. They were tough, practical, unassuming lads, and competent. And competent were their NCO’s, the lieutenant had been a stumbling block.

Approximately four seconds after the sear broke on the big Barrett, command devolved to Master Sergeant Baudin. Sergeant Baudin was a good, if disgruntled and discouraged, field leader. He commanded good soldiers, but soldiers whose moral was gravely wanting.

…………………………………………………………..

In August of 1961 a baby boy was born to a mixed race couple, it matters not now where he was born. His father was a black African with a seething hatred of all things European, western, or white. His mother had been instilled with a deep loathing of all things American, western and white; including herself. No one should be asked to develop in such an environment; but he was. He was rejected by his father, but failed to bond with his self loathing mother. He spent his formative years in a Muslim madrassah. In collage he was exposed to and shaped by Marxist professors. By his father, he was taught to hate white colonialists and to consider The US a white colonialist country.

He was a very smooth talking, very handsome, very dangerous, sociopath. This man now occupied a house on Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington DC.

………………………………………………………………

The entire world had been living on its credit cards for decades. More and more debt was being created every day. More money being created with fewer goods to offset the fiat currency. After all, human beings deserve to live, and they deserve to live decent fulfilling lives, right? Their life or quality of life should not be tied to their productivity, should it? Well, that philosophy makes politicos popular, unfortunately the long term reality is that it feeds or shelters no one.

Socialist Europe was sinking. Each day it was slipping deeper into the sucking mud of economic oblivion. Saving such a grand experiment in socialism was very important to the man on Pennsylvania Avenue. The US was quietly making huge contributions to the solvency of Spain, Grease, Ireland, the whole EU, through the IMF, the World Bank, and other venues. After sources of congressionally approved funds ran out, he started to quietly redirect funds from other sources.

After all, he had done things that were blatantly illegal before. His DOJ had sent thousands of weapons directly to Mexican drug lords, to foster support for gun control, and gotten away with it.



He could not divert funds from the entitlements he so loved, could he? So, where to get more money? How about the defense budget? With his community organizers in positions of power everywhere in government, filling all the top positions in literally every department, bureau, and branch of the executive, what was to stop him. His minions where everywhere. No one to blow the whistle, no matter how unlawful his actions!

Through misappropriation of its funding the US military was drastically and dangerously degraded. Units were recalled from around the world, and not without a certain level of concurrence from many Americans. Officers and enlisted alike could see what was happening. The US military was being devoured from within. The one force in the world that stood in the way of a one world dictatorial order was being dismantled, the only way it could be dismantled.

Admirals and generals at the highest levels, as well as enlisted soldiers and sailors at the lowest did what they could to follow their oaths to the constitution buy doing what Americans have always done when faced with adversity. They made do, they improvised, they sat priorities, they even used their own resources when need be. Americas defensive perimeters receded within themselves, the defendable ring grew smaller.

The resources being sucked from the husk of the American economy and military were not all going off shore. Much was being poured into ‘volunteer’ organizations. One could not graduate collage without putting in ones time as a ‘volunteer’. One could not get a government job, or one with a government vendor or contractor, without ‘volunteer’ work on ones résumé. Most of these organizations, in fact all that were officially sanctioned, were nothing more than the private instruments and private armies of the man on Pennsylvania Avenue.

It was not as if all this were not noticeable, it was noticed. But, if journalists or dissenting politicians made a fuss they were quietly made to understand that such was not in their best interest. Usually a warning, or in inquiry into the health of their children would do, if not, they even more quietly disappeared. In fairness it must be pointed out that in military circles some very high ranking stooges of the man on Pennsylvania Avenue disappeared also.

All the regulation, the restriction, the misappropriation would soon destroy the greatest engine of freedom ever to be visited upon the face of Earth. The United States economy. No matter, that had been the aim of the man on Pennsylvania Avenue all along. That had been the purpose of all the executive orders, both published and unpublished, and he was savoring it. So were the puppet masters who were holding his tether.

“…..mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed.”(Declaration of Independence)

The time came when evils were no longer sufferable.

[Lobo solitario]

Feb 22, 2012 21:37:04 GMT -6 nancy1340 said:

Maybe the old rancher hid a present in one of the Hummers. Huh?

Very good start. Thanks

This is Chapter 1, isn't it? ;-)

The old rancher I have in mind very well might just do a thing like that!

Yes, Chapter one, I'll probably screw a lot up. My first try!

[ammo]

Really enjoying the start of this one.

[nancy1340]

Thanks for chapter 2. Now onward and upward........LOL

[Lobo solitario]

THE BATTLE OF DOVE SPRING PASS

CH III



The balance had tilted. The diligent, resourceful, independent Americans, who made up the true engine of freedom and justice, in their majority, rebelled. They could no longer watch their children go without, while parasites of both government and private stripe ate out their substance. And these were not the standard rent-a-mob professional protestors. These were people who knew how to get a job done. Even when there was seemingly nothing left to do it with.


The man on Pennsylvania Avenue called on the National Guard to put down the dissidents, without success. Many of the rebels were the Guard. He then called on the military, the military flatly refused sighting posse commutates. Then he called for UN “peace keeping forces” to quell the dissidents, and promised nations willing to send troops that the US would foot the bill.

There was no shortage of takers. After all, most all the world’s nations were scrambling to fund their own military establishments. Why not let the US help with the funding and get a foot in the door of what most still considered the most prosperous nation on the planet at the same time? Especially when that nation seemed ready to come apart at the seams, offering up opportunities for the less than scrupulous?

To their credit the British, Australians, and Canadians all flatly refused. Of course in the case of the Brits one had to wonder if it was a case of once burned twice shy. Of the willing nations the French, Dutch, and some small detachments from Italy and some of the Scandinavian countries were invited as being the least likely to cause a backlash among the American people.

……………………………………………………………..

These were the circumstances that had brought Sergeant Baudin to be crouching behind a crippled Hum-v, on a sandy road, in the middle of a high desert valley in the American south west, clutching a map with bits and smears of his late commanding officer all over it, himself, and his fellow non-coms.

“Garmeaux!”; Bellowed Baudin over the slow staccato hammering bursts from the .50 BMG in the ring turret of the hummer he was sheltering behind.

The hammering stopped and Garmeaux yelled; “Sarg?”

“Do you have a specific target?”

Garmeaux replied; “Nnnno, Sergeant.”

“Then stop that racket and save your ammo, it does not grow on these infernal Joshua Trees!”

“Yes Sergeant.” Garmeaux came back rather sheepishly.

Baudin had shouted only one order as the lieutenant was going down; “Three sixty!”

His subordinate non-coms, experienced men all, had anticipated the order, would in fact have issued the same themselves, had the task fallen to them, needed no farther detail. They were already shouting at the men to dismount and deploy in a 360 degree defensive perimeter. They knew the general direction from which the sniper fire had come. The delay between the bullet strikes and the sound of the shots told them the distance was long. It seemed as if only one man was firing at very long range. Had it been a classic ambush the proper response would have been to get as many men and vehicles as possible back out of the kill zone as quickly as possible. It just didn’t smell like a classic L ambush. If it were they should have been taking heavy fire from several directions from the get-go.

The non-coms, indeed every man, knew his area of responsibility under the given orders. Each squad knew its place in the line and each man his place in the squad. These were professional soldiers. The mortar squad (the unit had four tubes), was ordered to deploy so as to bring their fire to bear on the area of the saddle in the ridge before them. Baudin, and most of his soldiers for that matter, reasoned that what they were facing was not an ambush, but a blocking force. A party determined to hold the little saddle with the road running through it, a little desert track that could not be bypassed by traversing any less than 40 extra miles of worse and slower roads, it was marked on his map as “Dove Spring Pass”; such a peaceful sounding place.

Just as it could be argued that the killing of the lieutenant had been a mistake, it could be reasoned that even taking a shot at that range had been a mistake. Baudin knew that if the little blocking force had heavier weapons that could be brought to bear it would have happened already. It seemed like the only thing they had that could reach his position was what he rightly assumed was a very heavy caliber sniper rifle, probably a .50-BMG and also probably a Barrett. That was a tactical mistake. The blue hats could stand their ground and wait with little danger to themselves. Moving shots were a very low percentage endeavor at that range. There was plenty of concealment among the desert flora. The sniper could bang away at the vehicles if he liked but could only really do any meaningful damage to the ones already disabled. They could wait until dark. The French had night vision, they owned the night. Baudin seriously doubted this rag tag band of survivors had any night vision equipment. He doubted even more that if they did they would leave it to be captured, for he had already guessed that the men he was up against were on a suicide mission, or the closest thing to one most civilized society would accept. Time was indeed on their side. Or was it?

[nancy1340]

Now we're cookin' !

Thanks for the new chapter.

[Lobo solitario]

Feb 25, 2012 22:34:40 GMT -6 nancy1340 said:

Thanks for chapter 2. Now onward and upward........LOL

Onward and upward could be a mistake for everyone, we will soon find out.

[Lobo solitario]

THE BATTLE OF DOVE SPRING PASS

CH IV


All Baudin would have to do is wait until dark. Oh, he should toss a few mortar bombs at the saddle to soften it up a bit, the lads would be pissed if he asked them to assault the place without it, and he would never forgive himself if he didn’t do it and was wrong. But, he fully believed that if he waited for a night assault it would just be a waste of mortar shells. A night assault would be the perfect solution for everyone.

The top kick sergeant was convinced that the defenders of Dove Spring Pass were determined to hold or die; until. Until the slow moving caravan of refugees gained enough of a lead to beat their faster moving pursuers to the valley of the Trap River. Once there the band would be welcomed by several communities of like minded loyalists. Loyalists that were willing to fight. Loyalist that boasted numbers, spirit, and a verve that Baudin was not about to try and deal with. Even if they were poorly armed and equipped, compared to his soldiers. The one hope of this being anything but a suicide mission for the defenders of the pass, was to hold long enough to give their people that lead. They could then withdraw and fade into the sage.

To Baudin that would have been just fine. He could play his tactical hand correctly, wait for dark, and lead his men in an assault on empty foxholes. He had no animosity toward these honest, hard working, patriotic folk. Everyone could do their job. No more blood would be shed, and everyone could go home with their dignity and honor intact; except. It wasn’t about honor. It was about hunger.

Sometimes what is tactically desirable is not strategically feasible. When that happens people usually die. One of the reasons the column of refugees was so slow was that they were dragging along a great load of food, truckloads and wagon loads and trailer loads. See, the man on Pennsylvania Avenue had promised more than he could deliver; imagine that happening to a Marxist; who knew? He had promised the blue hats the support of the American military; didn’t happen. He had promised them air support, but it seemed like every time they dared to ask for US air support the co-ordinates got horribly mixed up. Cluster bombs can ruin your whole day in a friendly fire mishap. It was also promised that they would be supported and supplied by the US. Well, there did seem to be plenty of fuel and ammunition. Food was another matter. There were plenty of food preparation and domestic workers provided, but they seemed to have the most dreadful problems with keeping the black widows, scorpions and rattle snakes out of the bedding! And the incidence of e. coli and salmonella was just astounding!

The government could not seem to keep themselves or anyone else fed. There had been strict “hording” laws in place sense way before the UN came on the scene, and they had been a contributor to the pot finally boiling over. In desperation the administration had finally resorted to confiscating whole crops from farmers who were out of favor, instead of just the surplus commodities of private ‘hoarders’. The quickest way to become out of favor was to have a smaller crop than the counselor of the ‘youth’ that you happened to be sponsoring, as part of the AG opportunities for youth volunteer program, happened to estimate you would have. Now inner city youth with inner city councilors having an opportunity to learn about agriculture was fine, but to have them predict the corn crop in Iowa? The next best way to fall out of favor was to refuse to let an AOY kid or counselor near your farm. Section upon section (for those not familiar a section is a square mile) of ripe wheat, barley, rye, and other crops, just happened to catch fire. No matter what the administration tried it was like pushing rope.

No one would enforce food confiscation or many of the other executive orders except the blue hats. They were especially good at food. You see, units got to keep a certain portion of what they confiscated. The way it worked was that the blue hats stole the food, kept a certain portion and passed it along to the minions of the administration. The administration then divvied up the rest, giving priority to political supporters. What was left after that was distributed to the people in the areas of the country under administration control. These were mostly urban areas and their associated suburbs. Most of the food producing rural areas were not “pacified”, and it didn’t look like they were going to be any time soon. Of course there was graft and thievery at every level from the blue hats on up and back down, that’s how Marxism works. In defense of the blue hats and some others who were skimming, they ‘officially’ got the same ration as the inner city folk and it was not enough for a soldier to stay healthy. Hell, it wasn’t enough for an inner city lay-about to stay healthy.

Baudin’s men had barely enough rations to get them back to base and there was almost nothing left in the larder at the base. They were on half rations already. If they didn’t catch that column they were sure to be going hungry. The man to whom the late lieutenant fancied himself related once said that an army travels on its stomach. The sharp edge is dulled by hunger. The physical conditioning a soldier needs to function, indeed survive, depends on nutrition. Many a battle, many a war, has been lost to hunger. The unit was like a predator that has missed too many opportunities, missing the last kill makes it harder to make the next one, and then the downward spiral starts.

They should have been withdrawn months ago. Hell, they never should have come in the first place. Did those in authority back home know how badly such a large portion of the French army was being degraded? They were being worn down not just in physical readiness, but in spirit, in dignity, in honor! Maybe the rank and file did not all see it, but it was his business to see it. He was responsible for the fighting edge of these men for their sense of duty, there fighting sprite, their love of France, their self respect, their honor. He could see it dwindling with every one of these despicable missions. If he could see it surly the higher echelons in country should be able to see it. It was their responsibility every bit as much and more than it was his.

At the moment Baudin was an extremely bitter man, and angry. Angry at what these officers, supposedly leaders of men, and politicians had done to his men; had done to him. He was a soldier, for heaven’s sake, a soldier like his father before him, and his grandfather, who had marched in to liberate Paris with De Gaul and the free French. That was supposed to mean something. Some soldier, they had turned him into a looter, and he hated it, hated every bit of it. But he loved his men more. That was the weakness they use against him, to get him to do these things, these men who would follow him anywhere on sheer faith, faith that he knew what he was doing and would bring them home safe to their families, if any human being could do it sarg could.

WHOP!!; that sickening sack of pulp sound again!

[nancy1340]

Very good story but please don't to that Roman Numeral crap. After the first 15 chapters it takes most people a while to figure out where we are. Chapter 1, Chapter 17, etc. work just fine. I don't know one single person that uses Latin in everyday conversations either.

Thanks for the new chapter.

[Lobo solitario]

I did not expect this story to get long enough for that to be a problem. But it could get out of hand. I’ll switch.

Thanks for the input!

Milke

[Lobo solitario]

THE BATTLE OF DOVE SPRING PASS
CH 5


Garmeaux had been traversing his turret back and forth a small increment at a time. He was resting on the receiver of his gun to steady the high powered binoculars he was using to peruse the ridgeline. If sarg wanted a specific target then by damn he’d give him a specific target.

Baudin bellowed; “Medic!”, and dove for the HUM-V with the Browning machine gun on top. Garmeaux was in a heap on the floor covered in blood. He had a graze mark on his right for arm and a big hole right at the inward end of his left collar bone. The hole in his back was much larger and the bullet had obviously taken out a large chunk of spine. The binoculars were still in his left hand. It had been less than 10 minutes sense the first shot was fired.

Garmeaux’s assistant gunner was asking; "Should I man the fifty sarg?”

“No that’s just a shooting gallery right now and no real need for it to be manned at the moment. But stand by in here in case we need it.”

Next Baudin stood up behind the gun and got his eye square with the firing aperture in the turret and sighted a line straight at the ridge, froze a picture in his mind and got the hell out of line with it again. Then he and the medic straightened Garmeaux’s body into a more dignified position, and covered his face. Baudin asked Petit the assistant gunner on the browning who he would like to have as his assistant. “Robert Sarg”

Baudin then turned to the medic and said; “Moreau, go to Robert and tell him to report here as Simon’s assistant gunner. Stay moving, and quickly, whenever you are exposed and move to another spot as soon as you get behind cover. This guy can seem to hit anything standing still. Pass that around.”

Moreau; “Yes Sarg”

Baudin then exited the hummer on a dead run toward the mortar pits. Two thirds of the way there he hit the ground behind a sizable stand of rabbit brush and belly crawled the rest of the way behind the concealment of the brush. He crawled up to the sergeant in command of the mortar squad.

Baudin; “Anton.”

Anton; “yes?”

Baudin; “Got a target for you.”

Anton; “which is?”


Baudin raised his binoculars as a signal for his friend Anton to do the same.

Baudin; “Look up at that saddle, to the left of the road. About six hundred meters from the road, do you see a large, slender, vertical rock, it’s just a little above that big patch of yellow flowering brush?”

Anton nodded: “Yes”

Baudin; “Well, somewhere from a few meters to the west of that rock to perhaps two hundred meters to its east and between the top of the ridgeline and two hundred meters this way you will find our sniper. The man who killed the lieutenant and Corporal Garmeaux. Range in on that area and when I give the order make his life as exciting as you can until I give the order to shift fire, then I want you to maintain a steady barrage from the top of that ridgeline two hundred meters this way and six hundred meters east and west of the road until farther orders or your ammo gives out. Do you have all your ammo off the transports?”

Anton; “No, only about half.”

Baudin; “I will detail a few of the lads to unload the rest of it as soon as you start keeping that sniper’s head down. I have to tell you Anton, that we absolutely must punch through this little blockade in little more than an hour, less if possible, or some people are going to be getting very hungry, and you and I are among them.”

“We’ll do our best Jacque.” Replied the mortar man, with a grim set to his jaw.

Baudin made for the rear of the last transport. While on the way he got on the radio and called for a meeting of all his squad leaders, accept the mortar squad, to assemble at the rear of the last transport. There was no delay in their arrival. It was time to lay out the why, what, and how of the coming assault.

“First,” Announced Baudin; “We will need some volunteers for a very important but dangerous mission. Giles; I know you have a couple of gear heads in your squad……..”

………………………………………………………………

Mark watched through his monocular as the enemy reacted to Jack’s first shot. Looked like they were throwing op a pretty standard perimeter defense. Logical enough, for the moment, and exactly what the volunteers wanted. If they could get the blue hats to sit out there in the sun for maybe, six more hours, no further blood need be shed. Win / win, all around.

It had been just over ten minutes sense jack had fired his first shot when a faint but distinctive KA-CHUNK was heard from down by the stalled column. From all along the saddle, veterans of south east Asia, the middle east, Granada, and nameless little wars that never made the news, cried almost as one; ‘In comiiiiiiiiing.” The first round exploded 80 yards beyond the top of the ridge, the second a bit to the east of the first, both over shots. The third landed a few yards to the east of the slender vertical rock that Baudin had used as a reference when talking to Anton. That one was just 25 yards to the west of Jack’s position with the big .50.

Jack had picked a spot where there was a cave of sorts, a large slab of rock strata had fallen from the nearly vertically up thrust strata of sedimentary rock, caused by the action of the Pacific plate working against the north American plate. It had come to rest, however many millions of years ago, in an almost horizontal position, supported by other rocks under it. Sand, dust, and soil had been blown in by the wind and had been collecting ever sense. What was now left was an opening, a slit if you will, in the mountain side; around six feet tall at its opening and tapering back to nothing, 30 feet wide, extending back into the mountain some 15 feed at its deepest.

Jack and his spotter, Hank Roberts, had set up at the opening of this slot. After the near burst of the mortar they retreated a couple more yards back into the cave. It would take a perfect hit to take Jack and Hank out of the fight.

The fourth round of that first fusillade landed in the road at the top of the saddle. It brought smiles to the defenders able to see it. After all, was that not their basic aim, to block the road! The next four mortar bombs were more tightly clustered and all were on the front side of the ridge where the defenders were dug in. Adjustments were being made. It was becoming apparent that the blue hats had worked out at least the general area where the long range sniper fire was coming from and were countering with their mortars.

After that second round of mortar hits it became obvious that the blue hats were satisfied with the general impact area as they started pouring it on hard and fast. The rocks along the ridge were studded with cracks and holes sheltered from anything but a direct hit. Combat veterans among the defenders had picked one of these to fight from or at least very near where they intended to fight from. Mark had not had the foresight. Fortunately he was on the eastern edge of where the blue hats were concentrating their fire.

Mark watched as, about three minutes after the barrage started in earnest, three blue hats quickly made their way to the front of the first duce and a half, the third vehicle in the convoy. They quickly had the hood up and were busy at the front of the engine compartment for several minutes. They then moved to the HUM-V with the fifty mounted on it and started the same routine. Finally they addressed briefly the lead HUM-V.

While this was happening troops were filtering back through the brush to the transports. This could be a good thing if they were pulling out, giving it up for a bad job. But mark didn’t see the mortar crew pulling out, didn’t think that was a good sign. Then they began to move.

The next best tactic to waiting for night would be to split and take each of the two outer branches of the triple fork. The maps clearly showed they both led to abandoned mines, one on each side of the pass and the old roads to them would take Baudin and his men to perfect jump off points to flank the little blocking force on each side. Forcing them to withdraw or be rolled up like a blanket. But it would take time. Too much time.

There is an old rule of thumb in military planning that is supported by military history. It says that it takes an advantage of four to one for an attacking force to dislodge a defending force in prepared positions. Baudin had around two to one. But he had another old truism on his on his side. The one that says that militia are at best half as good as regular soldiers. Baudin was counting on that. However, it has also been shown that the closer the line is to the militia man’s home and family, the better soldier he becomes.

Mark watched as the first HUM-V started to move then turned left down the west fork and stopped. The driver jumped out and ran back to board the second hummer. The whole column then began moving up the center fork directly toward the volunteers.

The mortars were still falling hot and heavy on the right end of the line. Mark adjusted the sights of the 03A3 to 800 yards. The trucks kept moving toward the pass. The hummer with the .50 was in the lead and firing along the line east of the road where the mortars were not falling. Jack and Hank were hauling the Barrett and spotting scope back out of the cave where it could be used to best effect. As the column came within 800 yards Mark began firing into the trucks. Into the canvas covered rear cargo areas where he knew the soldiers were. Jack shot at the driver of the hummer leading the column. A miss but close.

Baudin ordered the column to a halt and his troops to deploy in a scrimmage line to both sides of the road. He also ordered the mortar men to start spreading their fire evenly along the perceived line of the Americans. He knew the 5.56 mm caliber FAMAS ‘bugles’ his men carried were not much good until they got within 300 meters of the enemy, and he also knew that the militia men he was facing had hunting rifles, and main battle rifles, that far out classed that round in range and terminal ballistics, but he was counting on his mortars to keep the enemies heads down until they were in close.

…………………………………………………….

“Trent” Trenton had spent his life looking after the little valley between Pawnee Mountain and Eagle Peak. His father before him had done the same, and he fully expected one of his sons to take over one day. The Trentons ran with the land, like mineral rights. Owners came and went but it seemed the Trentons always stayed. A peculiar thing, but then this was a peculiar valley, for reasons not at all obvious, reasons best left to another story.

Like the blue hats, and the patriots in the saddle Trent had been up before daylight. As the blue hats were pulling out of Opal headquarters two of Trent’s sons were pulling in and everyone sat down to bacon and eggs with biscuits, all fixed on or in a wood stove by the boy’s mother.

[nancy1340]

Feb 28, 2012 1:17:55 GMT -6 Lobo solitario said:

I did not expect this story to get long enough for that to be a problem. But it could get out of hand. I’ll switch.

Thanks for the input!

Milke

Awwww Your a sweety! Thanks.

And thanks for the new chapter. It's much appreciated.

[Lobo solitario]

THE BATTLE OF DOVE SPRING PASS
CH 6


The boys asked about the military convoy passing through their remote valley. Trent told them the truth, he didn’t rightly know for sure what they were up to but suspected it had to do with a loaded down caravan of refugees that had passed through a little ahead of them.

Trent didn’t like it. Didn’t like it at all. Damn blue hats should just leave folks be and go back where they came from! The boys, Buck and Blanket, agreed.

The Trentons were saddling up their horses for a sweep through pollywog side canyon to round up a few head of Herefords, and move them down to the fenced sub-irrigated pasture to be ready for loading into trucks, when they heard the first report of Jack’s big Barrett. Then there were a few more. They looked at one another questioningly. The Trentons took great pride in staying on top of all that happened in the little valley. If there was shootin’ goin’ on they needed to know the whys and wherefores of the thing.

Trent pulled a beat up looking leather binocular case out of a saddle bag, opened it, extracted his binocs and told the others; “You boys jus’ hang here a bit fer me OK?” He then sauntered over to the home place water tower and climbed the wood ladder to the platform around the tank. He rested his elbows on the railing and put his pale blue eyes to the 10X50 Nikons. Looking north he could see the UN convoy stopped in the road approaching the pass that marked the northern boundary of the valley. The .50 caliber machine gun on the top of one of the HUM-V’s was laying bursts along the ridge near the saddle. There was some activity about 50 yards to the west of the road. It looked to the Viet Nam veteran as if a group of men were laying mortars!

Trenton climbed down and told the other men, his two boys and Curly, a hired hand that they had worked with forever, what he had seen. A council of sorts ensued.

As men will do they stood in a semi-circle. Men never stand square shouldered face to face except when sparks are about to fly. It is part of a protocol that is never learned but is ingrained instinctively from the time they are big enough to follow their fathers around. Another part of that protocol was about to come into play. Curly Dawson was a contemporary of Trent Trenton. The men were of the same age and of similar experience. Both had spent their lives in tough, hard, dangerous, outdoor work. If one looked at the flow chart in the Opal office, one would see the names of both Buck and Blanket Trenton well above that of Curly Dawson. But this was not an office, this was the high desert. These were not names on paper; these were men, brave, hard, and true. They were about to make a decision that could send any or all of them to their graves, and impinged with equal gravity on others they didn’t even know. So when Trent stopped pensively moving the pebble around the ground with the pointed toe of his riding boot, looked up and asked; “Well, Curly, wudaya think.” No one felt slighted.

Curly pushed a charcoal gray Stetson to the back of his head; “well, I think that bunch that passed through here yesday afternoon wus as good a people as god’er set on earth. Them outfits wus heavy with wut best I could tell uz food, grain’n staples un such. An it wernt stole; them folks had calluses on they hans, even the women folk. They worked for wut they got. Now that bunch a Frenchies that stayed here las night? They was polite nuf aright. But you boys knows how things is, they wus prolly after them folk ta plunder wut they had. Fer they self an fer that bastard we got in the white house.” Nods all around. “I think the folks in at care-van knowed they couldn’t outrun them Frogs sos ay left some people at the pass ta slow’em down a mite. Prolly ol’ geezers like me un yer dad.” A glance at the boys. “At ain got too many ice cream seasons left in um no-how. Prolem is, we know bout it. An knowin bout it we caint jus stan here in front a god and nature and do nothin. In things like this even not pickin a side is pickin a side, it all gonna get writ down in the book an we all gonna have to answer someday.”

Buy this time the mortars could be heard laying it on.

After very brief discussion it was obvious that everyone agreed with Curly. The question was only how best to help. Trent allowed that he thought that they could get in behind the mortar crews fairly easily, but it did look like they had a perimeter defense set, maybe a squad out about 50 yards. Not nearly far enough for that kind of country.

A great misconception about the American southwest is that the plains and desserts are flat. They are not. The land has much figure to it, swales and washes abound. Great herds of game and great bodies of men and horses can materialize from seemingly nowhere. Over centuries many have learned this the hard way. The lesson was to be taught once again.

Another misconception is that cowboys carry lever action Winchester carbines, and many do. However, many now carry scope sighted bolt guns that shoot high performance cartridges. With the four stockmen that day there were one M-95 Winchester lever gun in 30-40 Krieg, one .30-06, one .22-250, and one Browning automatic sporting rifle in 7mm Remington Magnum. Trent being the main handloader for the bunch had extra cartages for all their rifles on hand in the house. He stepped into his loading room and returned with enough ammo to insure each man had at least 150 rounds. As they mounted their horses Trent explained that he thought they could ride within range of the mortar emplacements without being detected if they followed the wash that issued forth from a draw called “Water Canyon” on the east flank of Pawnee Mountain.

………………………………………………………

The patriots in the saddle were taking casualties from the mortars and they did not have men to spare. If a man hid in the rocks from the mortars he was not effective on the line. If he assumed a position that made him effective against the battle line of foreign troops inching ever forward toward the saddle he was apt to be hit by mortar or rock fragments. There is a reason artillery is called the queen of battle. The cruel reality is that most men wounded or killed in battle cannot even take solace in the fact that they were important enough for an opponent to aim and fire at, but are done in by some unthinking abomination that falls from the sky addressed ‘to whom it may concern’.

Too many shouts of; “I’m hit!” were issuing forth from the line in the saddle. Shouted not in hopes of succor, as there was no structure in place for such. But, as a warning to those on the left and the right that they may not be able to count on support from that quarter much longer.

Suddenly it was Mark’s turn. A mortar round landed some twenty feet behind and above his position, his ears rang with the force of the explosion, his left forearm felt as if it had been hit with a nine pound hammer, an ugly red crater appeared midway between his elbow and wrist. Something jagged, be it rock or steal had been driven through his left forearm between his radius and ulna bones. The good news was it had broken neither, the bad was the one eighth inch diameter stream of bright red arterial blood that shot out in a three foot long arc every time his heart beat, bathing his Springfield in sticky red gore! Mark detachedly thought to himself; “Gonna take a surgeon to fix that.” His arm was numb, but answered his brain’s commands, except for the last three fingers of his left hand. They responded to nothing.

[idahobob]

Good 'un!

Keep it up!

Bob
III

[Lobo solitario]

THE BATTLE OF DOVE SPRING PASS
CH 7


Mark fished some 4X4 bandages out of his pack, put a couple on the exit wound on the outside of his arm and several on the inside where the bleeding was profuse. He got them taped in place roughly where he wanted them and then started making hard tight wraps completely around his arm in an effort to create enough pressure to stop the bleeding, or at least slow it down a lot. When he finished doing all he thought he could under the circumstances the bandage was tight, but saturated none the less, and blood was running in a steady rivulet down his forearm and off his elbow.

Back to the pressing business at hand. Mark estimated that all the blue hats on the scrimmage line were now in under seven hundred yards. There were noticeably fewer, but not enough fewer. He picked a blue hat that had just moved at a crouching sprint from one clump of sage concealment to another, barely big enough to hide a man. He centered the sage clump in the aperture of the battle sight on his Springfield held the front post in the center, clamped the for end with the thumb and one good finger of his left hand and started his squeeze. The rifle bucked against his shoulder and nothing happened down range, there was nothing to indicate hit or miss. Except that sickening thwack of wet pulp, no dust flew from a bullet strike on the desert floor behind the clump of sage; a probable.

As Mark searched the distance for his next target he realized that he was talking to himself; no, praying; praying aloud! He was praying for the deliverance of his granddaughters, of all his family, and all that were in the little refugee caravan. He was praying and he was remembering. Remembering how it had come to this. How he had pressed for years that the family should be more prepared. He was never ridiculed, and often agreed with, but everyday life gets in the way. Finally he had decided he needed to do what he could on his own. So, when he retired he moved to the desert, a little valley where it was possible to drill a well. And he did, three of them. He made it his full time business to learn the arts of making it on your own, so to speak. Everything from open pollinated crops to pigs and chickens. And he enjoyed the heck out of it. He only moved one mountain range and a couple hours drive because he could not bear to be any farther from his grandchildren.

The “retreat” flourished. Over the years others in the family and some friends of the family bought adjacent or nearby properties. The grandchildren, nieces and nephews, would come out on weekends to ride their horses or ATV’s. The little valley was just about self sufficient and even sold or gave away a little produce. More folks ‘retired’ and moved out to the retreat more or less permanently. As the world economy got worse some more moved out and started businesses or took jobs that could be attended to ‘on line’. Others sent children and spouses out of the pestholes the cities were becoming.

Then one day mark was at the group of mailboxes that were clustered where the private road into the little valley connected to the county road. Deputy Hawkins eased up in his cruiser, parked and got out; “Mornin Mark” says Jeff Hawkins.

“Mornin Jeff”, says Mark.

Jeff; “Mark, there’s a roomer goin’ round in official circles that there are a bunch of those anti-government radical survivalist hoarder types holed up in a valley around here somewhere. You wouldn’t know anything about them would ya Mark?

Mark; “No, I can’t say as I know anything about anybody like that, Jeff.”

Jeff; “Well, it’s just a routine investigation, just doin’ my job. If you hear anything let me know will ya?

Mark; “Sure thing.”

Jeff; “And mark, if it’s after Friday, don’t bother, cause them blue hats are supposed to come down on those rascals like a twelve pound hammer bout 3AM on Friday. You have a good day now.

Mark; “You too, Jeff, say hi to the missus.”

The clan had pulled out after dark on Tuesday. The blue hats had been pursuing and gaining on them ever sense Friday morning. The clan was making for the great rural heartland of California, an area that was not pacified, and not likely to be anytime soon, an area that could feed most of the nation if left unhindered, a place to build from

And now here he was, one of a dwindling number of volunteers praying that their blood would be sufficient to make it happen for the generations to come. Praying for help from a divine hand. Praying for time. And praying for those infernal mortars to stop falling!

As mark identified his next target and sorted the man from the brush he could tell he was tiring. Maybe it was just shock from the wound. He settled the sights of the venerable ’06 on a ghost sheltering behind a Joshua tree, the squeeze, the buck, a geyser of dust behind the target, a miss. But the man sprinted and dove flat out and disappeared into the ground. Must be a little wash there to take cover in. At least they were slowing the enemy down. After all, that was what it was all about. Mark felt like the mortar fire was slowing also. They would have it all their way for a while if it weren’t for those blasted mortars. Those silly looking little 5.56mm bull pup carbines the blue hats were carrying would not be much good until they got about three hundred yards closer. Mark was using iron sights, but most of the guys had fairly good glass on their rifles, he hoped they were trying to make shots above the shoulders and below the waist, he was sure the blue hats would be using body armor. Depending on what they had his black tip ’06 might punch through anyway. It seemed to be working.

………………………………………………

Trent brought the little clutch of cow hands to a halt with a raised hand. They were in a small but dense clump of Joshua trees. They preceded to dismount and drop-tie their mounts. Trent motioned for silence and for the little group to gather round him. They could hear the KA-CHUNK of the mortar tubes louder than the explosions as the rounds hit home.

Trent explained; “if we work our way ta the top o’ that sand ridge to the east I think we’ll come out bout two hunnert yards behind em blue hat mortars. Creep up air real careful’n quiet like you wus huntin anti-lope. Stay low. Prolly have ta belly crawl the las 50 yards. First priority is the mortar crews, but that changes for anybody shootin at us. I think some o’ these smokepoles got enough horsepower with these solid copper bullets to punch through at Kevlar, but ya might want ta try fer head shots and below the waist anyhow.”

Curly and the boys were nodding along as if there was agreement on everything so they hung their hats on the brush and started up the sand ridge between Water Canyon drainage and the Marino Canyon wash.

They arrived at the crest about ten yards apart crawling on elbows and knees. Luck was with them and they were only about one hundred sixty yards from their intended targets. The mortarmen and perimeter security force were totally unaware of their presence. Everyone waited to be sure his fellows were situated the way they wanted to be. Buck was first to open up, followed quite closely by the rest. In fifteen seconds half the men in the mortar crews were down. The other half were seeking cover and the men assigned to perimeter defense were ineffectively returning fire in the general direction of the stockmen.

………………………………………………………….


Anton quickly rallied remaining members of his mortar team to get a couple of tubes back into action. But the mortar emplacements were so hopelessly exposed to fire from the men deployed along the sand ridge that their numbers had been halved again in seconds. It was obvious to Anton that they would need to secure their area of operation before they could be of any value to the overall effort to take the pass.

He could tell that the force opposing them was not large and it was fairly localized. The proper tactic would be to keep them engaged in place and then send flankers to take them by surprise from the rear. That would tax his personnel resources but it was doable. He radioed a situation report and his plans to deal with it to Baudin. Baudin had been about to radio to inquire about the let up in the bombardment, but this answered his questions. He promised to send a squad back to help bolster Anton’s security force. Anton did not wait, he issued orders to begin the flanking move. The mortarmen would fight as infantry for the moment, but none would be sent with the flankers.

Baudin issued orders that the line of infantry assaulting the pass should find the best possible cover and hold up for a short time, until the artillery could be brought back into play in a meaningful manner. This was all taking time; time the blue hats could ill afford.

…………………………………………………


The stockmen on the sand ridge knew they were in trouble, once the full attention of the blue hats turned to them. They were outnumbered more than three to one. They had no backup, and the UN troops had a firepower advantage at these ranges. They also had a communications advantage.

Trent was on the stockmen’s left flank and Curly was on their right. Bothe men were combat veterans and both started carefully working their way toward the younger men in the center of the line. Curly reached Blanket first and the two men continued working left until they ran into Buck and Trent.

The mortars had been abandoned for some time. They could see that the blue hats to their front were not even attempting to advance on them. But they could also see signs that groups of enemy soldiers were working their way to the right and left. Bushes, that should not have, moved. Birds and other small desert creatures moved out of the way of the advancing flankers. To men who had spent their lives in this country it was obvious what was going on.

Buck observed; “Looks like we need ta make ourselves scarce, soon."

“But as soon’s we get them frogs is goin ta start poundin ‘em folks with ‘em mortars again.” Offered Blanket.

“Well, we can at least try ta do sumthin bout that." Answered Trent.

[Lobo solitario]

THE BATTLE OF DOVE SPRING PASS

CH 8

Trent layed out his idea. He and Blanket had the rifles with the most punch, a pre-64 model 70 in 30-06 and a Remington 700 in 7mm Rem. Magnum. While Buck and Curly watched the flanks and kept the main line engaged, he and Blanket would see just how stout those mortar tubes really were. They would put at least three rounds into each of the tubes, trying to hit as close to the same spot as possible. Then they would all pull out, make for their mounts and head up the wash away from the headquarters and toward Water canyon. If they got separated they were to meet at Measles Spring. Buck and Curly were not to fire on the flankers unless absolutely necessary, letting them think they were still undetected was the best way to slow them down.

Trent emptied his rifle and extracted six US military surplus armor piercing cartridges from a pocket. Blanket did the same and produced six cartridges, handloaded by his dad with 7mm military AP bullets. These men and others carried such ammo not to pierce armor but to take predators that were also valuable as fur bearers. The non-expanding military rounds did not ruin pelts. But they were, none the less, armor piercing ammo.

Blanket and his dad loaded up the 7-Mag. and the 30-06 with AP rounds, bagged in and started on the mortar tubes. They concentrated their fire on the lower third of the tubes, below the support rings. It took just over two minutes to score the agreed upon three hits per tube. Everyone then began a creeping, elbow-crawling backward, withdrawal. They eventually gained enough distance to rise into a crouching run. Two would sprint a short distance to the rear while the others covered them. In this fashion they leap froged back to the stand of Joshuas and their horses, mounted up and headed northwest up the wash, toward Measles Spring.


Anton was reporting to Baudin the fact that his mortar tubes were junk when the promised reinforcements arrived. They had not been fired on in over five minutes, and there was really no reason to hold the position any longer, so Baudin instructed Anton to abandon it and report to the battle front at the pass with all possible speed.

………………………………………………….


The men in the saddle had no way of knowing why the mortars had stopped falling. But, they were thankful their prayers had been answered. Mark watched as one of the duce-and-a-half transports hurried south along the road that transected the valley and then quickly bounded back north again and parked behind a stand of Joshua trees about a thousand yards out. Mark was starting to feel the blood loss, he was tired. His eyelids were heavy as he watched through his glass as two blue hats hung a white cloth with a red cross in the middle between two of the Joshuas the truck had parked behind. Hummm……….. Could they be trusted? He would give them the benefit of the doubt unless there was some evidence of fire from that position. Damn! His left arm was starting to throb.

………………………………………………………..

Baudin, knew this was all taking way too long. He needed to punch through and needed to do it now! The point has been later made by those who dissect these things, days, years, sometimes centuries later, from the safety and comfort of their desks or their easy chairs, that Sergeant Baudin was caught up in the moment and did not properly weigh cost v benefit ratios of his possible actions. More on that later.

Baudin decided not to try to roll up one or both flanks. He did not have the time. He decided to punch through the center, or rather the center left. He ordered a concentrated assault on the center of the line right where the road crossed the saddle. He ordered his best squad, with himself in command, to the west end of the line to extend it out farther to the west. The purpose was specifically to neutralize Jack and the Barrett. Once the Barrett was neutralized the transports would move up to the saddle. Most of the troops were to embark to continue the chase. A few would remain to suppress fire from any remaining militia on their flanks and then perform a fighting withdrawal back to, and provide security for, the aid station. It was assumed that the militia would pursue either the main force or the withdrawing force, probably the former.

……………………………………………….

Mark's arms and legs were like lead. But things were looking up. Jack was still dueling with the .50 Caliber gunner on the HUM-V and they had taken no casualties sense the barrage had stopped, at least not anywhere close to Mark. In the last few minutes there seemed to have been a quickening of the pace, a heightening of regency, among the blue hats on the battle line and perhaps some rearranging of troops on the west end, the end more or less to Mark’s front. This was producing more targets, the more the hurry, the more mistakes.

The enemy was no longer taking best advantage of the natural seems and folds of the terrain but advancing in a more direct manor. They were getting concealment from the brush they were moving through, but very little cover. That made the elevation question much easier to answer. Couple that with the fact that they were getting closer by the step, and the fact that the closer to the muzzle one is, the flatter a rifle shoots, it was starting to get disturbingly easy for good marksmen to score hits. Jack was thinking that this thing just might be doable, if he could stay awake.

Mark was nodding. He would jack a case out of the Springfield, lay his head on the comb of the stock for a moment, or, maybe more, he really couldn’t tell. Jack a loaded round into the chamber, another nod-off. Get a sight picture, squeeze, rifle bucks, nod. Mark couldn’t say how long it was between nods or how long he had been functioning, or malfunctioning, this way, when he lifted his head and about 30 yards away there was a man with his side toward Mark. The man was wearing BDUs with subdued master sergeant’s stripes on the shoulder. Mark took a sight picture on the patch and started his squeeze, he must have dozed off again just as the rifle fired.

[nancy1340]

Good to see anther chapter. Thanks

[Lobo solitario]

Thanks for reading. And for the feedback. More tomorrow.

[teedee]

good job!!! I will watch for more.

[Lobo solitario]

THE BATTLE OF DOVE SPRING PASS
CH 9


Baudin felt a huge blow to his left knee. Tissue, bone, and skin leaped out before him and spewed over sand, dirt, stone, and vegetation. His left leg folded beneath him as he pitched left and forward onto the hillside. The bullet had nearly missed, had he not been stepping forward with his left leg at the time it probably would have. He drew up into a near fetal position on his right side but with his left leg extended. He examined the wound as best he could, his knee cap was gone, there were dirt and debris, likely everything from insect pupa to rodent feces in there; “That’s going to be a septic mess to deal with if I live long enough.” His mind mused. He did a self evaluation and made a quick decision

“Girard, Baudin” crackled the radio clipped to the load bearing gear of a soldier 300 meters to his right. “Girard” Came the reply.

“Bruno, I’m hit, it’s fairly bad. I don’t know how long I will be lucid. I am transferring overall command to you.”

Girard; “I understand”

Baudin; “and Bruno.”

Girard: “Yes?”

Baudin; “You are of course at your own discretion, but, I just don’t see us being able to dislodge enough of these insurgents to clear the pass and get through with enough force to capture their caravan at this point.”

Girard; “I understand and concur. I am going to do what I can to disengage with the least amount of casualties.”

Baudin; “Thank you Bruno”

Girard; “Take care of yourself Victor.”

Girard had had his reservations from the start. He now assessed the situation with an eye to disengaging with the least amount of casualties. Nothing looked promising. The Americans still had the high ground. Baudin was right, they could probably fight rock to rock and crevice to crevice and eventually dislodge them, but it would be too late to do any good even if enough of his men survived to go on. All that would accomplish was farther death and injury. If they tried a fighting withdrawal; depending on how the Americans reacted, there would either be a lot more casualties, or a whole lot more. Girard also knew he had many seriously wounded men littered across the battlefield. The best chance for the wounded was to be transported to the aid station as quickly as possible, although the militia had not fired on any properly designated and identified medical personnel, it could be accomplished much more quickly and efficiently if they could halt hostilities some way.

He issued orders to shelter in place, and not initiate any engagement unless necessary to the defense of their own personnel. Many great and momentous military decisions are made. Even in small actions involving few people. Are the lives of ten or twenty important, or does it take one hundred, or one thousand? Ask the friends and families of those who died. Then ask the friends and families of those saved by the sacrifice. And then ask god; because no one else knows. But all military decisions have one thing in common, they will all be second guessed, guaranteed. They will be rethought by the ones who make them, and the ones beside them, some will be examined by those removed from the actual circumstances by many miles, many years, and many volumes of information. Girard would be lying to himself if he said these things were not in the back of his mind as he tied the kerchief around the end of a nearby Yucca stalk.

…………………………………………………………..

Bob Reader’s model 70 lay on its soft case to one side of his hide fighting position. The enemy was closing and he and switched to his Mini-14 a few minutes ago. Many of the militia had brought a 5.56mm semi-autos for backup and close work, a few Rugers and several ARs and clones there was even a 9mm ‘camp carbine’, and two kit built STEN guns had crawled out of the woodwork from somewhere. Militias being expected to supply their own arms and equipment, genuine militia actions are generally pretty much ‘come-as-you-are’. Bob had to marvel at the blue hats. For a bunch that should not really have a dog in this fight, they were pressing hard. Bob knew nothing of their desperate supply situation. They were darn near in handgun range at some places! As Bob looked at his watch, and pondered that their defense of the pass was only one thin line, he hoped to hold just a little longer, he didn’t know a lot of Frenchmen were also wondering if they really had a dog in this fight.

Bob’s Ruger had iron sights. If you need a scope you have time. If you need to shoot now; you need iron. So, when he saw movement about 100 yards out he threw his sights on it and started to squeeze, fortunately Mark’s older brother still had eyes good enough to pick out white in the wilderness. His first thought was a medic’s arm band, but soon discerned it to be a white cloth on the end of a stick; interesting, seemed at least one adversary had had enough.

………………………………………………………

Private Felix Guillory had taken English in school because he thought it would be an easy grade, he had only been partly correct. Sergeant Girard had also taken English is school. The difference was that while sergeant Girard’s English was old, limited, and cumbersome due to disuse and the fact that it never was that good in the first place, private Gullory’s mother was American and he had been brought up somewhat bilingual and had managed to keep a reasonable degree of conversational English that had actually been polished a bit sense their deployment. The humorous thing was that his mom was from Loozy-Anna as she called it, and he tended to sound Cajun at times.

But if Girard was going to be negotiating matters of life and death at least he was going to understand what he was agreeing to. So he told Guillory;

“Felix, reach down and see if you can find your balls, because you and I are going to have to stand up like men and talk to these people”

[nancy1340]

"Reach down and ......." Funny.

Thanks, very good chapter.

[Lobo solitario]

THE BATTLE OF DOVE SPRING PASS
CH 10


Felix gave his sergeant a wide eyed look, swallowed hard, and nodded. They could hear the supersonic snap of rifle bullets passing over head. Girard grabbed the butt of the Yucca stalk, flipped it up and began waving back and forth. The pop and prattle of rifle fire began to subside, at least to their immediate front. Slowly the violence subsided out along the line and toward the ends. Girard was near the center of the line just east of the road. He and Felix stood. They felt as if naked in a blackberry patch, like a thousand rifles were pointed just at them. Actually it was fourteen, but it only takes one.

Bob, every bit as jittery as Girard and Felix yelled; “Ya wanta surrender?”

Girard got the gist of the question and addressed Felix without moving his eyes from Bob’s direction; “Tell him we want to talk with someone in charge.”

Felix did as asked and Bob answered; “I’ll have to do for now”

A short exchange between Girard and Felix, in which, to his credit Felix managed not to look surprised at his sergeant’s instructions; “We wish to offer you the opportunity to surrender with honor, we obviously have the ability to destroy you if need be, but there is no point, let us stop the killing now.”

Bob laughed out loud for effect, the longer he could keep this negotiation going the better; “I don’t think so! We both know that even if you could, and I’m not thinking you can, it would take you days to dig us out of these rocks! By my watch you’ve got minutes, or your mission is down the dumper! But I’m all for ending this thing, so why don’t you just face facts and surrender to us?”

Felix had a bit of trouble digesting the ‘down the dumper’ part and had to ask for clarification. He got it. At which point Girard demanded he be assured that he was speaking to someone in authority. Felix relayed the demand.

Bob thought that was just fine. This guy could demand all he wanted. And bob would throw him a bone now and then. As long as nobody was getting shot, and the caravan was creeping ever closer to loyalist America, that was fine with him. His instincts told him this fellow had already given up on breaking through in time, because it was indeed short and just the machinations of the logistics involved in getting his troops remounted after taking the surrender would probably close the door. But, for them, he knew there was no time limit. They had no communication; they knew not weather the refugees had run into problems that had delayed them. They had no ‘hold until’ goal they could achieve, for them it was hold or die. It would be real nice to find a way to hold.

So Bob decided it would not hurt to give himself a little promotion; “Very well. You are talking to Robert Reader, Senior, Master, Chief Machinist’s Mate, United States Navy, retired; and Captain and present commander of Company “C”, of the California Militia.

What the hell, his quintuple great grandfather had actually been Captain and in command of company “C” of the California Militia, during the Bear Flag Revolt. He had always liked the ring of it. Yes, his family went that far back in California, and he was not about to let any UN blue hats take it away from him without a fight. And the Sr. Master Chief part was true.

Bob stood up for the first time; “Why don’t you two come over here and pull up a rock and have a seat so we can stop screeching at each other like blue jays.”

Again, Felix had trouble with the; “screeching like blue jays, and pull up a rock.” Parts. And it dawned on Bob that slang and colloquialisms were not going to be helpful and he resolved to be more direct and literal.

Girard, who was getting a little more comfortable with the language, asked; “I would want to keep my pistol as we talk?

Bob; “That’s fine, If you traveled five thousand miles to play fast draw with random Americans, Frenchmen are not as smart as I think they are.” After a short input from Felix, Girard produced a genuine chuckle and the two started forward.

When they reached the rocks Bob held out a hand to indicate they could take a seat. He then took one on a rock across from them; “Alright I have a proposal.”

Girard; “So sudden, you do not even know if I have the authority to follow through?”

Bob; “I can see the sergeant strips on your shoulder, but you seem to have the authority to make your side quit shooting, That’s good enough for me, as long as you say you can do it. And we don’t have time to dance here, we both have men on this god forsaken mountain bleeding and dying while we talk, so I’m going to lay it on the line as I see it.”

“I don’t know what the hell possessed you to come all this way to mess in our business, and I have a feeling you don’t either. You and I are just regular soldiers, except I am fighting for my friends and relatives; your relatives are across the ocean. What ever motivated you to peruse my family, you didn’t pull it off, and you know it. The only thing you can do now, even if you get by us, is get yourself into more trouble fighting the Militias of loyalist America. You know that also. Sergeant, do you understand what parole is in the context of prisoners of war?”

That required a bit of consultation between Girard and Felix and some clarification from Bob.

Girard finally asked; “Am I to understand that you wish to surrender with parole?”

Bob; “Hell no! “What I propose is that you surrender to the California Militia, we will then grant you parole on your own recognizance. With the condition that you leave the United States of America and never again take up arms against Americans. If you chose to take up arms against Americans or perform any military activities in the US the penalty will be death. We understand that the ability of Company “C” to ever be able to enforce any penalties against you is not very likely, but we will take your word as soldiers.”

“You will also, immediately, in consort with our own forces, begin the evacuation of the wounded and injured of both forces to your medical aid facilities. Triage will be performed without favor or regard for which force a soldier belongs.”

“I hope you understand that I am trying not to be too rude and derisive here because you are soldiers and have been put into the position you are in because of politicians and power brokers in your country, my county, and places all around the world. But, make no mistake.”

Driving his thumb into his chest; “I’m pissed.”

“It’s my grandchildren you are chasing” The thumb again.

“You drove us from our homes. You hound us like predators. I’m pissed and my men are pissed. There is a whole generation of my family’s male progeny on this ridge. We have lost childhood friends and brothers on this damn ridge. And we are damn sure not ready to hand it to you. My men will follow what I agree to, but I have to tell you that most of us would just as soon keep fighting. It is only for the wounded of both sides that this offer is even being made. If you want to throw that offer away over who won or lost you will have three minutes after you and the private are back under cover before we start shooting again. You made it a long way but we have you pinned down now so then you can try to figure out how to get your people back across a thousand yards of desert alive, with three hundred yard rifles and no artillery”

Bob had surprised himself. It’s not that he did not believe what he said, except for the window dressing about how good their position was and how bad the UN position was. But he did not think he would be able to express it.

Girard had gotten the gist if things but consulted with Felix to make sure of the salient points. His eyes glazed over a bit in a thousand yard stare. He was a soldier of France, he was proud. How many times had he heard the jokes and slurs; “France makes the only tanks in the world with backup lights.” And many more. How many times had he sworn he would die before he would surrender? And now he had to face the fact that decisions like that were in the hands of people who held not their own lives in their hand, but those of others. And he was one of them. How he wished he could bring Baudin out of the fog of morphine and blood loss, or bring back the lieutenant, anybody to take this off his shoulders. But there was no one. His position, rank, and date of rank left no doubt, the job was his, the shame was his, either way. Would he be the man who failed to uphold the honor of France, or the man who got his command all but wiped out? Oh, he could say he was handed an unwinnable situation, and he had. But would that comfort the widows? Would it help him sleep?

Bob: “Sergeant?”

Girard shifted his gaze and focused on Bob; “What will it be sergeant? People are bleeding."