WesWorld

An exclusive report to the New York Observer by Thomas Lincoln, freelance reporter:

10 June 1925 - The Morning.

It’s a torrid day off the northwestern shore of Borneo. The lush island is a dancing, shimmering green streak on the horizon as the four ships of India’s Squadron Twelve steam northeast at twelve knots.

I myself have only been aboard for three days, having come aboard when the squadron put into Singapore for refueling and, in the case of the battleship Dara Shikoh , coaling. As a freelance newspaperman, it’s not easy to get in on the action when it happens, yet it’s career suicide not to try. I’d spent a while trying to get to Chittagong, but when things seemed to calm down there, I started looking elsewhere. The emergence of SALSA got my attention, alright.

I’m the only newsman aboard the Indian squadron, as it turns out. After the glamour of exercises with the Royal South African Navy, it seems the local reporters have disembarked rather than watch this old vessel lob iron at a jungle-shrouded coastline. Perhaps the local audience is getting finicky - after all, they’ve already got As Salif, the Andaman Sea, and Chittagong if they want to read about Indian military exploits.

It remains to be seen whether the American public is interested in reading about some Asians shooting at other Asians. It’s a long way away, and doesn’t appear to threaten our oil supplies from the Netherlands East Indies. We think of the Pacific and we think of missionaries, colonial outposts, Britain’s Persian Trading Company, the mutiny on the Bounty, and Australian rules football. But that’s not the true face of Asia anymore.

Fact is, Asia’s starting to flex its own muscles and deal with its problems on its own. Japan was first, building up a large navy in the last decade and fighting the Germans at Tsingtao. Then came India, a continental power whose foreign policy can be paraphrased as, “kick out the Europeans”. And now, the Philippines are getting in on the action.

They’re a young nation; an Iberian colony until 1898, then under our administration until they voted for independence in a referendum in 1901. As is often the case, the first few years of independence have been a wild ride: their first president died aboard a battleship when one of its main guns went off, they’ve had piracy issues, lost ships because they were designed poorly, etc.

Now they’re at war with a Mexican food.

At least, that’s what it seems like if you just skim the headlines. However, the trouble started a little over a year ago, when the Philippines began to publically support India’s bid to secure a mandate in a place called As Salif. Some of the Philippines’ Muslim population objected to this, which is ironic considering that India’s Muslims actually supported the idea. Homemade bombs were tossed at police and government offices, and so forth. It seemed like just another nuisance until the “Sons of Allah for the Liberation of the Sulu Archipelago” - a fringe group with an unfortunate acronym - blew up a Filipino cruiser and took out a couple other ships just as the Philippines, Japan, and India signed their SATSUMA treaty.

After a few months of relative quiet, the Sultan of Sulu - a chunk of the Philippines - told the world that he had nothing to do with SALSA, an odd thing to say since nobody had suggested otherwise. Almost immediately, the violence picked up, and the Sultan offered to negotiate on the government’s behalf, if they’d just get the British to hand over a portion of Malaysia to him. The government wasn’t interested in Sabah, as it’s called, and the Sultan sulked for a week before declaring himself ruler of the “Sovereign Sultanate of Sulu.” SALSA came onboard as its military, which kinda makes you wonder if this wasn’t the case right from the start.

So now the Philippines has a civil war of sorts to deal with, and they’ve called in the big guns - specifically those of India’s first dreadnought - to help put an end to it.

......

Dara Shikoh is one of the oldest dreadnoughts in frontline service and, it must be noted, also one of the busiest. Last August, she sortied in anticipation of fighting the Danes, then went to Manila for the SATSUMA signings, came back to run India’s blockade efforts around Chittagong in the fall, was fleet flagship during last month’s SAINT exercises, and is now heading back to the Philippines once more.

Captain Sankara Saraswathi has been in command of Dara Shikoh since 1923. A tall, lean man, he has an aura of command about him, even though he looks ready to fall asleep at any time. “This is normal”, he assures me.

I ask him to describe what’s about to take place. “We’re going to be tasked with bombardment of SALSA positions on Mindinao, both as stand-alone operations and in support of Filipino raids.”

Is this a battleship’s job, I inquire. “Certainly. A battleship exists to project power, on the sea and along coastlines. Bombardment missions are a part of that role. We’re well suited to that task.”

Of course, being an eighteen year old dreadnought, Dara Shikoh does need some help to get the job done. For security purposes, and close-in gunnery support, she’s escorted by the destroyers G-120 and G-121 . And then there’s our other companion, the seaplane tender/survey ship Palk Bay , an ungainly white vessel that reminds me of a collier sailing backwards.

“Palk Bay has some facilities we’d like to test out”, Captain Saraswathi notes. “First off, we’re going to use her scouts for gunnery observation - a capability I’d have right here if we’d had enough free time over the past year to get a catapult installed. So that will help our gunnery officers plot fire and destroy targets with fewer rounds expended.

“Palk Bay’s also been pioneering some work on aerial photography during its survey work in the Chagos Archipelago, and happens to have a dark room aboard. We’re going to see if we can get some photographs of our targets before we shoot, and again afterward to assess the shoot.

“Her scouts can also undertake ground attack missions to engage targets outside our own reach. And of course, she’s also carrying a couple of small flying boats, which will be useful ferrying men between ships, or perhaps for other missions.”

11 June 1925

Like most Indian sailors his age, Gunner Parthiv Ganguly has seen combat. His forearms are scarred from burns, and he’s missing a part of his left ear. “Port Blair”, is his simple explanation for this.

Ganguly is the senior enlisted man in Dara Shikoh’s Turret Bruno, and he’s tasked with giving this landlubber a tour of the installation. First question: isn’t Bruno an Italian name?

“German”, he replies, and when this fails to remove the puzzlement on my face, he elaborates. “The Germans set us up as a navy back in the eighties and nineties, so we used their gun designations and never bothered to change. So this is Bruno, that one ahead of us is Anton, and aft you find Caesar and Dora.”

Is this a big gun, by battleship standards, I ask. “Not no more”, he replies. “This is a South African 28L/45, which fires a twenty-eight centimetre shell. The shell itself weighs an even three hundred kilograms. That’s only half the weight of what Akbar ’s 35/24 will throw, and there are bigger guns out there.”

How far can it shoot? “About twenty kilometres at maximum elevation.”

Gunner Ganguly shows me around the gunhouse itself, naming dozens of parts and introducing over twenty different people to me. I can’t keep track of them all, so my notes merely state: “Complex. Big crew. One hundred and twenty shells per gun, can fire three per minute.”

I do the math: eight guns firing one hundred twenty shells, at 300 kg each, is...nine hundred and sixty shells, weighing a total of two hundred and eighty-eight tonnes. That sounds very destructive.

“Be sure to ask SALSA about that”, Gunner Ganguly replies.

......

I’m choking down painfully spicy curried lamb when a Filipino floatplane buzzes by, circles, and alights on the waves before us. One of the destroyers coasts to a stop, and the floatplane taxis over to it. A line is tossed down to the aircraft and a man climbs aboard as Dara Shikoh leaves the smaller warship behind.

Soon enough, the destroyer lets forth a belch of smoke and starts to catch up with us. Soon she’s alongside, and lines are tossed over so that the same man - a Filipino liaison officer - can be winched over.

Lieutenant Commander Alfonzo Guerrero ends up sharing a small wardroom with me in what is normally the battleship’s flag accommodations. “Pleased to meet you”, he says, smiling broadly. “You don’t have any American whiskey with you, by chance?”

I tell him I’ve spent the last year and some in India and Southeast Asia, and his smile fades away. I quickly ask him about his trip.

“I came over from the Palawan ”, he says. “I’m here to help Captain Saraswathi with any communications and coordination between this squadron and the MdF.”

Why did he board the destroyer, then? “I assume that Captain Saraswathi thought it more economical to have a destroyer stop for me than a battleship. I did not ask.”

That’s reasonable enough, I suppose. Guerrero gets a tour of the ship early in the evening and comes back sounding impressed. “She’s old, you know”, he says, and I nod my head - I’ve noticed that a lot of the non-essential signage is still in Afrikaans, for example. “The crew is young, but they seem competent, bright. Ready to do their duty.”

His perspective on the current conflict is about what I’d expect: “SALSA are criminals, and must be persecuted. You can’t allow people to throw bombs at innocent bystanders or slaughter officials in their sleep. Rule of law must prevail.”

What about the Suluites’ aspirations to be independent? “Who says there are such goals?”, Guerrero retorts. “Only the sultan and SALSA have said so. The people of Sulu are too afraid of these thugs to speak up and voice their support of the Republic. If they do...kkkkkk ”, and he draws a thumb across his throat.

It turns out that Lt-Cdr. Guerrero is a very outgoing man, and tells me a great deal about himself as the night grows long. His mother’s side of the family is native to the island of Luzon, while his paternal grandparents are Iberian immigrants from a town called Salamanca. He himself was born in Manila, and witnessed the battle between American and Iberian squadrons in 1898. “Of course, I was only five years old at the time”, he points out. “But I think it led me to where I am today.”

We swap stories about travels and family until just after midnight, which is a good thing, as it means we’re both still awake when alarms start to ring at 0025. “Fire alarm”, Guerrero states in a matter of fact tone. I look at him blankly - I’ve forgotten whatever I was told about fires aboard the ship. “We’ll secure this section and head to the Bridge”, Guerrero says. “They may have something for us to do, and if not, at least nobody has to worry about us.”

The flag accommodations are safe and free of fire when we shut the last hatch behind us. Guerrero seems to have memorized the layout of the ship, for we reach the Bridge quickly. We receive permission to enter, and find Captain Saraswathi listening to reports with a stoic expression. What initially sounds like the captain advising his crew of the situation proves to be the captain running the crew through a drill. When it concludes at 0058, I waste no time returning to my bunk.

12 June 1925

Come morning we fall in with a small convoy of Filipino warships. Lt-Cdr. Guerrero points out the cruiser Panay , destroyers R-4 and R-7 , and the gunboat G100 . Three other ships are present - a chartered passenger liner and two requisitioned ferries. “There is a reinforced battalion of marines aboard those three”, he points out. The Filipinos don’t have state-of-the-art amphibious warfare equipment, but they do have a fair bit of experience in amphibious raids and landings - a beneficial side-effect of living in a nation with frequent domestic turbulence. “You know, the Indian naval infantry officers are going ashore with them”, Guerrero adds. “They want to learn how we do it.”

By mid-day we’re northwest of Basilan Island, heading for the northwestern coast of Mindinao. Palk Bay fires off two airplanes just after lunch, both of which fly ahead toward our destination. We come to a stop at 1600, with Mindinao just over the horizon. I’m lucky enough to wrangle an invitation to a briefing which takes place in Dara Shikoh’s Flag Bridge at 1700. We’re joined by the various ship captains, the senior officer of Palk Bay’s air group, and several Filipino marine officers; the room is crowded by this time.

The briefing is conducted in Iberian and Hindi, with me following the former. Panay ’s captain has been frocked to acting commodore for this operation, which means he’s in charge. If Captain Saraswathi is concerned about being subordinate to a light cruiser captain, he does a good job of hiding it.

The long and short of the matter is, there’s a large concentration of SALSA irregulars holed up in some jungle between the towns of Sibuco and Panganuran. It’s the most significant group of combatants FINK - Filipino Naval Intelligence - has been able to locate on this part of the island. They have a well fortified position on a ridge line, about two kilometres inland. The marines intend to make an opposed landing and take the ridge line. If they manage to engage SALSA, great; if not, there are Army units sweeping in from the east and south that may get the honor.

An opposed landing is going to be tough, as Palk Bay’s aviators have spotted several possible strong points along the shore. However, a straight-forward direct assault does make the operation easier to undertake from the logistical and planning perspective. The Marines are also hoping that SALSA might be inclined to stay and put up a fight if the Marines come in under their defences. “The smartest thing these clowns can do is fade into the jungle”, the marine colonel notes. “Coming in where they’re strongest may tempt them to play the game our way for a while.” Colonel Sebastian del Toro has the look of a man who relaxes by chewing on steel girders; if he gets his way, I think SALSA’s in for a lot of grief.

The Filipino squadron will be anchoring close in, providing cover fire as the marines land with Panay ’s six inch guns and whatever the smaller warships have to offer. Dara Shikoh will be standing off about sixteen kilometers from the shore. I’m puzzled at this, but am informed that at this distance, she’ll have plunging fire. “Up close the shells will have a shallow trajectory”, an Indian destroyer captain mutters in my ear. “She’d be unable to hit the reverse slope of any topography she shoots at. Considering that half the island would qualify as reverse slopes, that’d be a problem.”

Accompanied by the Indian naval infantry officers, the Filipinos return to their ships. Over the course of the night, the Filipino squadron will work its way closer to shore. At sunrise, armed with whatever data FINK and Palk Bay can provide to them, the Filipino marines will make their attack.

Part Two of Thomas Lincoln's exclusive report to the Observer will follow in the weekend edition...

Very good stuff! Very, very good. You´re a blessed writer given the short time you had to put it all down.

To be honest, this one´s better than your Urumi-story on the Fiction Board. Probably you should post this one over there too...

Keep it coming!

Blasphemy!

Just kidding. The Urumi story, which is not set in Wesworld, is taking longer to develop because it has to stand alone. Some folks are probably getting impatient waiting for the whangs and clangs.

Since y'all are familiar with Wesworld, that isn't a problem here. I can get right to it. However, if I post this to the Fiction Board, there may be a great deal of people going, "SAINT? SATSUMA? SALSA? WTF?"

Quoted

Originally posted by The Rock Doctor
Since y'all are familiar with Wesworld, that isn't a problem here. I can get right to it. However, if I post this to the Fiction Board, there may be a great deal of people going, "SAINT? SATSUMA? SALSA? WTF?"

Probably not a bad way to draw attention.... :o)

But you´re right, things don´t need to be explained here. Still, I think jim for example would have great fun reading it. It´s not too serious, with some kind of twinkle in the eye. Exactly as it should be....

Alright then - but if people get confused, I'm blaming you!

Quoted

You´re a blessed writer given the short time you had to put it all down

We civil servants are trained to make stuff up on short notice.

It's great!!

Quoted

However, if I post this to the Fiction Board, there may be a great deal of people going, "SAINT? SATSUMA? SALSA? WTF?"

That's their problem (and their loss).

Quoted

Now they’re at war with a Mexican food.

So...it'd be reasonable to say, "You laughed, you cried"?

Very, very nice work Doctor, looking forward to see the next part.

Thanks. Part two's coming along, maybe it'll crop up tomorrow. Can't see this being more than three or four parts, really...

Part Two of Thomas Lincoln's exclusive to the Observer

13 June 1925

A knock on the door awakes Lt-Cdr. Guerrero and I at 0400. “Captain’s respects and please be in the flag bridge for a briefing at 0445", an able seaman tells us.

I stumble along behind Guerrero as he once again navigates the maze that is Dara Shikoh’s interior. In the flag bridge when we arrive are the captain, the gunnery captains, and the gun director officers. A small contingent from Palk Bay arrive a couple of minutes later, and start laying large, square black and white photographs on the large teak table. Each is labelled with a unique set of numbers, and I realize that what I’m seeing is a panorama of the landing area, captured in a twelve by twenty grid of images.

“These photographs were take yesterday afternoon by our scouts”, one of the Palk Bay men starts. “We finished developing them less than an hour ago. We have three sets for use on our scouts, and two others are on their way by boat to the Filipinos. Each photograph is designated numbers that indicate how far east and north the photo is from what we call our origin, Image Zero-Zero, down here on the coast.”

So far so good, I think. “Each photo is similarly divided into a grid of ten units. Allowing for some overlap of images, we have a mosaic covering an area about three kilometres north to south and five kilometres west to east, and, moreover, can designate any forty metre square using the image numbers”, the man continues. He sounds like a college professor, not an officer. Come to think of it, he looks likes one, too. Perhaps he’s one of Palk Bay’s survey team.

“You can clearly see where there is jungle and where there is clear land or outcropping rock. Several trails are also evident, such here on two-three. You can also see a number of circled areas on many photographs - these are a mixture of possible trenches, fortifications, camps, or unidentified areas of man-made disturbances. Finally, we’ve noted several topographic features, primarily these ridges, which also bear designations corresponding to those found on the Filipino topographic maps we’ve received.”

“Our scouts will be carrying a crew of four. Pilot, spotter, plotter, and wireless operator. While aloft, the spotter will look for areas of hostile activity and alert the plotter. The plotter will establish which part of which image the target corresponds to, and advise the wireless man. This information will then be passed to you gents, who use the coordinates to work out a range and distance for your shot. The plotter will then call back suggested corrections and advise you when to cease firing”, the professor concludes.

“That’ll make for a slow rate of fire”, Captain Saraswathi observes.

“Correct. However, it’s important to measure the fire because anything falling short could hit the Filipinos.”

“Yes, of course”, Saraswathi bristles.

“Now”, the professor says, “The trick here is that we don’t know whether what’s in these photographs is still there on the ground right now. For now, we’ll have to assume it is, but the scouts will be endeavouring to update the target list as quickly as possible. Therefore there’s no particular order for targets to be, uh, shot at. The scout will call the first target they see to you.”

It’s agreed that the priority for fire will be any means of escape for SALSA - trails, vehicles, and so forth - with heavy weapons a secondary priority. The Filipino government is willing to fight a battle of attrition.

I manage to snare Captain Saraswathi for the brief time it takes to travel between Flag Bridge and Bridge. “This will be interesting”, he says. “We haven’t had much experience in indirect fire support missions. For the marines’ sake, I hope we don’t foul up too much.”

......

At 0635, the scout calls in its first target to Dara Shikoh . As the director crew work out a bearing and elevation, Captain Saraswathi calls out, “Weapons free. Gun captains, fire when you bear.”

“Turret Anton. Bearing and elevation received and matched. Firing.” A jet of flame and smoke erupts from the left barrel of turret Anton. The blast is painfully loud and I jump involuntarily.

We wait for about forty seconds before the wireless set squawks, “Ah, that was long. Drop five hundred metres, over.”

“Drop five hundred metres”, an enlisted man repeats into a brass tube.

“Dropping five hundred metres”, yet another voice echoes back.

“Firing.” Anton roars again.

“Still long,” the wireless crackles. “Drop two hundred metres, over.” The orders are relayed again and Anton shoots a third time. “On target. One salvo, over.”

The voice in the tube - the Gunnery Officer - says, “Broadside, firing.” A series of thunderclaps hammer my ears in the span of a second or two as all eight guns fire.

“Very good”, the wireless proclaims. “You can paint some lorries on the conning tower later.” After a short pause, the scout adds, “Okay, we have a possible light howitzer, image three-five...uh...square two-eight.”

The data is relayed to Director Two, this time. We don’t hear what range and bearing they give to Turret Caesar, but there’s no mistaking when Caesar acts on that information. BOOM!

“Uh”, reports the wireless. “That was short, very short. Might have hit some friendlies. Check your target: image three-five, square two eight, over.”

Director Two doesn’t offer any explanation. We only hear Turret Caesar’s, “Firing.”

“Up three hundred”, the scout replies, and when that next shell arrives, the comment back is, “Up one hundred and shoot. Yeah, you guys better run.”

......

At this range, a fraction of a degree can make a difference of hundreds of metres at the other end of the shell’s trajectory. It’s no wonder that most of the shooting consists of several ranging shots and then a half or full salvo.

After a half hour of what is a loud but somewhat unexciting bombardment, I accept an offer to go to the forward searchlight platform, an open area two levels up from the Bridge. There I’m able to borrow a pair of binoculars and see plumes of smoke rising up from the distant, densely vegetated shores to the east. I can see the Panay firing, and see the smaller puffs of smoke and flying debris marking her targets. One of the destroyers is very close to shore, perhaps adding its light weapons to some facet of the battle.

I have no idea what the target is, but at 0714, Anton and Bruno fire off a half salvo, followed eleven seconds later by another half salvo from Caesar and Dora, then Anton and Bruno again another twelve seconds after that, and so on. Each gun shoots six rounds in barely two minutes with only the slightest change in elevation between shots. Without the thick armor of the Bridge between me and the blasts, it feels like somebody’s punching me each time.

“Must have been something important”, one of the sailors comments.

“Must have”, I reply. “Say...does the ship move backwards when you fire a full broadside?”

“Hardly!”, the sailor exclaims. His mates laugh as my cheeks go red. “Don’t get all embarrassed, now. It’s a perfectly normal civvie question”, the sailor admonishes me.

I thank him, and soon return to the Bridge, tail tucked between my legs. I approach Lt-Cdr. Guerrero and ask him what’s happening.

“Company A is off the beach and moving inland, Company D is about to do the same. That big shoot was called in on a concentration of SALSA troopers - probably disrupted a counter-attack there.”

“What are your casualties like?”, I inquire.

“Heavier than expected in Company B”, he replies grimly. “SALSA’s dug in well on a spur of rock and they’re doing their damnedest to hang on to it.”

“Aren’t your ships shooting at them?”

“Where possible, yes”, Guerrero replies. “But if they’re dug in well, not much less than a direct hit will kill them. Stun, perhaps, but not kill.”

By 0900, the entire battalion is off the beachhead and pressing inland. SALSA is apparently trying to break contact, which prompts Colonel del Toro to send a request for a bombardment to SALSA’s rear, as a sort of deterrent to flight. Dara Shikoh fires at a steady pace - two guns every ten seconds, aimed at the ends of a north-south valley - for about five minutes.

“It’d be pure luck to hit their men”, Guerrero tells me as we look over a map during this pounding. “But by sealing off the two ends of the valley SALSA is fleeing into, they’ve either got to run the gauntlet of fire at either end, or cross the valley and climb up the slope of the next ridge. That’ll take time and energy they can’t afford to spare.”

......

Just before 1030, we start to steam in toward shore. The guns fall silent as the ship comes around. I ask the battleship’s second officer for an update.

“The Fillies seem to have them on the run - not a lot of shooting at the moment. We’re taking the opportunity to move in close so we can hit SALSA as they move inland”, he tells me.

What’s the latest on casualties? “A few dozen that I know of. Some are going to be evacuated to us once we take up our new position.”

My first thought is that a few dozen doesn’t sound too bad. I then realize it’s probably not a complete figure. For that matter, the operation isn’t complete, either.

This time we come to a stop perhaps three kilometres offshore. Soon we’re firing again, although now it’s the battleship’s casemate-mounted fifteen centimetre guns along the port side. The main guns remain idle.

I learn that the secondaries are plunking away at a trench complex atop Ridge 116, the one which had the camp on it. Apparently the SALSA forces up there haven’t heard that they’re on the run. They’re trying to pour rifle and machine gun fire at Company A, who, for their part, are taking advantage of Dara Shikoh’s barrage to re-position themselves. Still: “Why not use the main guns on them?

“We don’t need to. The secondaries are within range, so it makes more sense to use them.”

“But they’re a lot smaller”, I point out.

“Yes”, the XO replies with saintly patience. “But they’re shooting much more rapidly. They’re putting just as much iron on target, and it’s a more continuous barrage. Better for keeping heads down.”

“Are you out of ammunition for the big guns?”, I ask.

“We’re down to about forty rounds apiece. Useful rounds, that is. We still have some AP rounds in the mags but nothing to use them on. The Fillies don’t need the twenty-eights right now, so we’ll just sit tight and wait for the word.”

“What happens when you run out of shells?”

“We’ll have more soon enough. There’s a tender on its way from Madras with another load aboard...excuse me - I’m going to supervise the boys when this boatload of wounded ties up.” He points at a launch puttering out towards us. I can see around a dozen stretchers resting on the boat’s deck, with two men scurrying between them and another three apparently operating the boat itself.

An idea comes to mind and I follow the second officer amidships, where a gangway has been lowered on the starboard side. I count fourteen wounded and stay out of the way as they’re unloaded and taken below decks. My guess is that they’re the most badly hurt, judging from the amount of blood and bandages I see on them. Many are quiet, but three or four are moaning, and one is screaming for his mother. He’s missing most of his right leg.

With the last man below, the launch prepares to cast off. I call down to the it, “Hey - can I catch a ride to shore?”

“Are you serious?”, the boatswain replies.

“Absolutely”, I reply.

The man looks at his four colleagues, two of whom shrug. “Come on down.”

I scurry down the gangway, stopping with one foot poised to step onto the launch when the boatswain holds up a hand. “The ride isn’t free”, he says. “Those poor bastards paid in blood - what’ve you got?” I reach into a pocket and produce a twenty dollar bill. “That’ll do”, he replies, snatching it away from me. “Sit down there, and if anybody asks, you told me you had authorization.”

“Sure”, I say.

The boat putters past Dara Shikoh’s bow and carries on for a couple hundred metres before swinging in toward shore. I guess the pilot has a healthy respect for blast effects.

The trip takes about twenty minutes, with the crack of the dreadnought’s secondary guns behind me and the distant pops and rattles of small arms fire ahead of me. Smoke continues to rise from several locations in the bush beyond the beach. The beach itself is largely deserted, apart from about twenty men standing watch, and another eight to ten tending to the remaining casualties. There are around fifty of them, a few of whom look as bad as the ones already on Dara Shikoh , most less so.

As the launch grounds itself on sand, I hop over the side and into the warm Pacific water. “Hey”, the boatswain calls to me, “Keep an eye out for the evac. It’s a long swim back to the States.”

The Conclusion to Thomas Lincoln's report follows in Tuesday's edition.

Excellent!

Thanks for writing this; I could never do nearly as good...

Excellent work!

The shooting reads more like peace time exercises but then - there isn´t much resistance, is there?

Keep on the good work,

HoOmAn

I'd imagine that for a ship standing off from the shore, well away from the action, it would indeed just be like peace-time shoot.

Quoted

Thanks for writing this; I could never do nearly as good...

No problem; besides, I've used the story to plant a couple of seeds for later Indian developments, so it's not like I get nothing out of it.

Great stuff, Rock Doctor. You're first person accounts are excellent.

One nit to pick:
"At sunrise, armed with whatever data FINK and Palk Bay can provide to them, the Filipino marines will make their attack."

'Data' seems too modern a term for the time. Not that he couldn't have used it, but I doubt it would have had much play outside of the scientific community. I'd say a more approprate noun might be 'information' or even 'intelligence.'

Finally, the broadside question is CLASSIC!

Keep up the good work,

Big Rich

Glad you're enjoying it, 1BR!

Thanks for pointing out "data". Somebody on the Naval Fiction Board pointed out that "Weapons Fire" was similarly out of place. Obviously I'll have to watch that.

The conclusion piece should be up by Monday, which'll allow me to get back to "Urumi".

This is the conclusion to Thomas Lincoln's exclusive report to the Observer.

The Filipinos haven’t had time to collect their fallen comrades. Several bodies lie in the sand, two are in the water, bumping into the shore and then sliding back in concert with the waves. I watch this with sick fascination until voice interrupts my reverie. “Hey! Who the hell are you?”

It’s a marine lieutenant, striding towards me, rifle in hand. Funny me, I just assumed that officers would carry pistols in to action. “I’m a newspaperman”, I reply. “I’m writing about your landing.”

“You got some authorization?”, the lieutenant demands.

“I wasn’t given anything”, I tell him.

“You got authorization but weren’t given anything?”, the officer repeats. He curses. “We still got some hostiles lurking about. They see you, they’ll think you’re British and shoot you where you stand. If you’re lucky.”

“I’ll be careful”, I say.

The lieutenant rolls his eyeballs. “You armed? No, you’re a newspaperman, you’re not armed. Come with me.” He marches across the sand to one of the corpses, bends over, and removes a pistol from the body’s right hand. He checks the chamber, pops out the magazine, shoves it back in, and thumbs the safety.

“This is Pedro’s”, he says to me. “SALSA got him before he could use it. You see one of them, shoot ‘em for Pedro.”

I take the gun and reply. “h, yeah. Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me. Best thing I could do for you is tie you up and throw you back in the damned boat.” There’s no good answer to that, so I warily head across the sand to the trees.

I’m not sure what I expected to find in the jungle - perhaps eerie quiet and a sense of isolation. What I do find is a pungent aroma of rotting vegetation and that distinct smell that comes with freshly cut wood. And there’s no quiet - insects are swarming me within seconds, and I can hear the distant gunfire. A drone overhead causes me to look up and see one of Palk Bay’s scouts heading inland.

I’m not really sure what I’m looking for. I don’t have a camera, so it’s not a definitive photograph. I don’t really want to interview SALSA. I don’t really want to experience what the marines have been experiencing all day. I don’t have a death wish.

The primitive part of my brain is telling me, “Go back to the beach and wait for the launch”, but it’s being overpowered by “The story is better if you see the carnage directly.” Come to think of it, that’s probably true. What I saw on Dara Shikoh could have been a target shoot for all the human drama it held. I need to see the true cost of this action for myself so I can relay this on to you, the reader.

Distracted by this line of thinking, I stumble into a small crater, surrounded by shattered and scorched trees. Bits of twisted metal and blackened fabric lie around the rim of the hole, and something’s hanging from a tree. I can’t figure out what it is without getting closer. I realize after several seconds that it’s a human torso, with one arm still attached.

When I stop retching, I continue inland.

......

The devastation is erratic. Patches of the jungle are intact and seem untouched. Others are blasted, smouldering craters or bullet-pocked killing zones.

I see more SALSA casualties as I go, both dead and wounded. The latter are all seriously hurt - I assume that any walking wounded have fled or died trying. A few of the injured cry or call out to me, and part of me yearns to help them, to relieve whatever pain they’re in.

The marine lieutenant’s words replay themselves in my brain, and I keep walking, telling myself that the marines will collect and treat the wounded when the area is secured. I feel less guilty each time this happens.

I start to wonder just how big the SALSA force actually was. I’ve counted eighteen bodies and about a dozen injured in this little area. I had thought there might be a hundred or so - perhaps it was much higher?

A rifle shot nearby startles me. I freeze for a moment, then have the sense to dive for the muddy ground. I fumble with the pistol’s safety, release it, and wait.

Nothing happens. So, was it a rifle shot after all? Or perhaps a tree branch breaking? Or my imagination? That might be preferable, I suppose.

I lie in the mud, listening and watching for signs of human activity as the bugs bite at me and fly into my nose, eyes, and ears. After the longest five minutes of my life, I begin crawling, and continue to do so until I think I’m a couple hundred metres away from where I heard the shot.

A loud boom from offshore signals the return of Dara Shikoh’s main battery to the action. Several single shots are followed by three salvoes or half-salvoes, evidence that there are still important targets out there somewhere. I don’t think I hear the shells land. It’s hard to tell with the distant gunfire and explosions I’ve been hearing off and on since I came ashore.

I pick up a path and consider the wisdom of following it. Certainly it’ll be quicker, but for that very reason it’s also more dangerous - there’s a good chance somebody in a hurry will be on it. Unless they’re smart enough to stay off the trail for that reason. Bah! I can stand here debating a with myself and nothing will be proven.

I follow the path.

It meanders east, intersecting a few other paths as it goes. I move as carefully as I know how, watching for anything that looks like a trap. I try to ignore the fact that I have no idea what kinds of traps SALSA might use.

There’s a ridge before me, visible between the treetops. Even from here I can see areas of destruction. Perhaps it’s the SALSA camp at Ridge 116? No - I’m pretty sure that was further away than this. I’m confident I remember another ridge in front of it on the map, and apart from a little hill a couple hundred metres back, it’s been flat so far.

The path broadens a bit as it starts to cut up along the sloping ground. I don’t noticed the destruction much, apart from a crater that happens to intersect the path, because I’m looking down at my feet. My breath gets heavier and I find myself tiring. But the top of the ridge doesn’t seem to be far away. I grit my teeth and push on.

The ground levels out and I stop, hands on my knees, taking it great gulps of air. When I look up, I almost fall over. I am on Ridge 116 - and I know this because the top of the ridge has been pulverized by naval artillery. Hardly a tree remains standing, and the ground is rife with craters large and small. “My God”, I exclaim quietly.

I walk southward, threading my way between craters. Bits of recognizable debris - canvas, metal, human - dot the ground. Where something looks large enough to be a body, I avert my gaze until I pass it.

This proves to be a poor and nearly fatal decision.

I’m avoiding looking at two bodies on the edge of a crater on my left, instead examining an abandoned bicycle, when suddenly I hear a noise in the direction of the crater. My head whips round, to see a shabbily dressed man about twenty feet away, charging at me. I spin round to face him and start back-stepping as I level the borrowed handgun at him. “Whoa, whoa, whoa!”, I exclaim in English. He skids to a stop ten feet from me, hands raised to shoulder height, eying me with obvious hate.

“Don’t move”, I say in Iberian with as much authority as I can muster.

He doesn’t answer. Just keeps watching me, or to be more specific, the gun in my hands. Now what do I do?

First things first - where’d he come from? A glance at the crater and I see just one body. This fellow was playing possum. “Running at me could have gotten you shot”, I tell my erstwhile prisoner. When he doesn’t respond, I add, “Okay, who are you? SALSA?”

“Yes, I am fighting for the liberation of Sulu”, he says bitterly. “Fighting to free them from likes of you!”

“Me? No, I’m a newspaperman from America”, I reply. “I just want to tell people about what’s happening here.”

“What’s happening here? A war is what’s happening here. Patriots against a tyrannical, corrupt government”, the man says, spitting on the ground. “Is that what you’re telling your people? Or are you relaying the lies of the government?”

“I’m trying to tell them the truth”, I say.

“Whose truth?”, the man demands. “The government’s? I suppose you came in with their troops, reported on their so-called heroism, deplored our supposed crimes?”

“I came in on the Indian battleship”, I confirm.

“Indian? Pah!”, he exclaims derisively, spitting again. “That’s what I think of them, with their self-righteous talk of liberating Asia and their subtle attempts to subjugate it instead!”

“Subjugate?”, I repeat. “No, I think you’re wrong about that.”

“Then you’re a naive fool”, he says.

I’m not sure what to say to that.

“So are you going to let me go or shoot me?”, he demands.

I’m not sure about that either. Damn! What am I supposed to do with this guy? I certainly can’t just kill him.

“I’m a newspaperman”, I eventually tell him. “I watch the story and report on it - not take part in it. Let’s just part ways peacefully.”

“You are serious?”, he asks, skeptically.

“I’m serious. Go on”, I say, waving the gun off at the west.

“I will”, he says, and he turns and begins to walk away. Feeling faint relief, I put the gun down and resume my own walking.

He’s quieter this time and I don’t hear him coming until far too late. He tackles me as I’m turning and I land on right side, jarring my arm. The gun slips out of my hand and bounces out of reach.

I try to roll over and get the gun, but he grasps my left shoulder with his left hand and drives his other fist into my jaw. My teeth scrape together from the blow as he uses his leverage to flatten me on my back, then pins my left arm with his knees.

I take a wild swing with my free arm and hit him just above the ear. I try it again and he grasps my wrist with his left hand. We struggle for a moment, his elevation working to his advantage. I try to bring a knee up, but can’t put enough force into it. He slugs my nose, something cracks, and blood starts to flow.

“This is not a game!”, he growls, hitting me again.

“There are no spectators!”, and grazes my cheek as I try to avoid the third blow.

“You are an ally, or you are an enemy!”, as the fourth punch rattles my jaw and has me seeing stars.

“You don’t show your enemy mercy!”, he exclaims, and I manage to jerk my right arm free. My desperation can’t make up for the pain and inferior position, though, so my swing at him is too feeble to accomplish much. He lands a series of rapid punches; I bite my tongue, feel teeth knocked loose, and curse myself for getting into this situation.

He shouts, “You don’t let your enemy live to-“, and suddenly a hand grabs his hair,. It yanks his head back, and another hand brings a knife across his exposed throat. Blood sprays on to my face and into my eyes. I can’t see his final seconds of life, but I can hear...sounds I still hear in my head, but can’t describe.

His body falls to the ground beside me, and after several seconds, something cool is thrust into my hand. “Pour that over your face”, a gruff voice commands, and I fumble with the container before splashing my face with lukewarm water.

As my vision clears up, I find three Filipino marines standing over me. Another is searching the body, while two more crouch with their rifles at the ready.

“My God!”, I stammer. One of the marines, a grizzled looking sergeant reaches out, and I hand the canteen back to him. “Ah....he was...he was going on about it not being a game, no spectators, ally or enemy...he was crazy!”, I exclaim.

“No”, the sergeant says sadly, “He was right.”

.......

The trip back to the beach is quick and direct. One of the marines is either holding me up or holding on to me in case I feel like wandering off. Probably both. His strong grip doesn’t release me until we’re on the sand.

The lieutenant - the one who loaned me the pistol - says scornfully, “I see how much faith you put in my words. Idiot.” To the sergeant, he asks, “Did you pick up a pistol with this one?”

The sergeant hands it over wordlessly. “Did you try to shoot him?”, the lieutenant asks me.

“No”, I mutter.

“I am not surprised.”, he says. “It would have mis-fired anyway. Obviously you dropped it in some mud and couldn’t be bothered to clean it.” Oh. Right. It must have gotten that way when I ducked from that shot I thought I’d heard.

“A little common sense, some cojones , and you wouldn’t be bleeding all over yourself right now”, the lieutenant says. “You are most fortunate that Sergeant Vasquez was close by.”

“Yeah”, I reply.

......

As night falls, the marines are estimating about forty-five of their own killed, plus a few others in a bad way, versus something like three hundred SALSA fighters. What remains of this SALSA force - Lt-Cdr. Guerrero figures about four hundred more - are fleeing in all directions, minus most of their equipment and supplies.

I’m astonished that the force is this big, but Guerrero says the intelligence is good. I’m also astonished that the marines landed at what were essentially even odds. “Surprise, aggression, and heavy back-up make a big difference” is Guerrero’s explanation.

No word yet on where we’re off to next. It’s expected that we’ll be here until tomorrow as the marines police the area and destroy any useful equipment left behind by SALSA. There’s word that the Filipino pre-dreadnought Fernando is on its way to shell another SALSA position, but we’re not going that way. More likely we’ll linger around this part of Mindinao, in case the Army needs a hand with anything.

So I’m back in the flag accommodations on Dara Shikoh , writing up this story and wishing I had a bottle of gin to dull the pain. I’ve lost three teeth, have a broken nose, and livid bruises. So says a marine - the ship’s doctors are still operating on his injured comrades and don’t have time to deal with a newspaperman who let himself get beaten up by a prisoner.

I’ve now been scolded by Captain Saraswathi, Lt-Cdr. Guerrero, two petty officers, the boatswain on the launch, and a priest I’m learned is the ship’s cleric, all of whom have told me that I’m lucky to be alive. I can’t disagree with that assessment. I realize now that this is not some sort of friend gentleman’s war with parole and codes of conduct; SALSA and the Philippines are in a visceral, no-holds-barred, anything-goes brawl to the end. As long as I remain here, covering this story, I’d better remember it. Otherwise the next time my name appears in print will be in the Obituaries.

Thomas Lincoln is a freelance reporter from Portland, Oregon.

Wow!

Impressive!!!

It captures some grim realities very well.