WesWorld

September 24, 1940 - Kandahar
Lieutenant Colonel Dan Bryan wondered if the fans actually helped with the heat or merely moved hot air from one place to another. His operations staff had appropriated an abandoned basement, but the temperature outside had reached a "mere 35C". Bryan could smell the sweat of all of his officers over the less offensive odor of old coffee, and he wished there was something he could do about the heat.

But there's something I can do something about. The leader of the Czech intelligence staff - Major Ladislav Trofimiuk - settled down in the rickety folding chair opposite the folding desk. Major Jovan Vuckovic, the Yugoslav officer, sipped water from his canteen and sat down beside him. Between the three of them, they represented the individual intelligence staffs of the League contingents.

"This morning we heard a radio transmission to north," Trofimiuk began without preamble. "Eighty-two seconds long, in Persian. Reception was poor but we were able to hear part of the conversation - and it was a two-way conversation this time, not just a check-in report."

"Any progress on breaking it?" Bryan asked.

"Perhaps in Persian it's fairly simplistic, but as we need to work in the translation... some progress, not as much as I'd like," Trofimiuk admitted. "However, our direction-finding gear was able to get a rough fix on both transmitters." He pulled out his regional maps and gestured. "Judging by the signal strength of the closer transmitter, we're fairly certain it's mobile - perhaps a backpack carried unit. That would fit with the rough location we're hearing it from - the mountains here, to our northwest. The other transmitter is likely static - clearly more powerful, which rules out a backpack-mounted transmitter. We believe it's somewhere north of Gereshk - perhaps as far north as Musa Qala."

Bryan nodded slowly. The Czechoslovakian intelligence staff brought with them a very sensitive radio receiver and direction-finder, and a team of Czech NCOs had been glued to it day and night, listening for enemy radio signals. Even finding the right frequency to listen to was tricky - but they'd had a stroke of luck in mid-September and found the right channel, or at least one of the right channels.

"Let's analyze this, then," Bryan said. "Do we jam them, continue eavesdropping, or make a move on them, if we can?"

Vuckovic stroked his chin and spoke. "Colonel, I'm more interested in this long-range transmitter Major Trofimiuk talks about. While we have the one known, mobile radio operator, how do we know there's not others staying silent and just listening in, receiving orders? Like the Major said, if we haven't broken the code, then..."

"Not entirely true, Major Vuckovic," Trofimiuk interjected. "We have translated the messages - but the Persian codewords aren't as easily decipherable. We can make educated guesses, of course, but with no further information..."

"Fair enough," Vuckovic said. "In any case, if there's a Persian radio operator working out of this region to the northwest of Kandahar, then he's probably coordinating tribal fighters."

"I'd say that's almost a certainty," Trofimiuk said.

"If we can't turn the agent - then we might be better off eliminating him. Both the mobile operator and the static center."

"I don't think we have enough information to pin down the larger radio transmitter yet, but I can give a general location for the mobile operator."

"If he's coordinating tribal fighters, then now is a good time to nab him." Bryan said. "The field commands are quite worried about rear-area security, and so any activity in this region likely portends raids on our supply lines." He took a deep breath. "Major Vuckovic, I know the 3rd Pandurs are being redeployed for just this sort of rear-area operations. I'm going to recommend to General MacDonald that we use them to nip this operator and any tribal fighters he might be coordinating. Would you please brief Captain Nedic on what we've got?"

"At once, Colonel."



Please make your out-of-character comments here regarding the story.

Sergeant Vladimir Talic reported to the company command post as soon as his men were safely within the perimeter of the camp. He knew that Captain Novak and Major Elbinger would want to know what his patrol had discovered.

“Sit down sergeant,” Novak ordered, “and wet your whistle,” he added, handing the tired NCO a canteen cup of water. Talic sipped carefully, and let his parched throat revive.

“Did those intelligence reports from Headquarters check out?” Elbinger asked.

“We staked out a position on the track here,” Talic began, pointing out a spot on the map. “About five kilometers west of Shirinak. We noticed a lot of foot traffic, suggesting several parties of rebels had used it to while moving from Ghorak to Shirinak.”

“Air reconnaissance hasn’t reported anything in that area,” Elbinger noted.

“Correct sir,” Talic continued. “We carried out surveillance for thirty-eight hours – and saw two parties of tribal fighters, both moving under cover of darkness – one the first night, and one the following night. Each party was about fifty in number.”

“They’re getting smart,” Novak smiled. “Between the Hurribombers and Henschels they realize that we own the day.”

“Sergeant, you’re suggesting that at least a hundred, if not more, fighters have massed at Shirinak.” Elbinger stated; he didn’t ask.

“Yes sir,” Talic continued. “We tracked the second party observed to a cave complex above the village. I estimate that maybe two hundred and fifty fighters had gathered, maybe more.”

“Hmm,” Elbinger murmured. “From Shirinak they could easily strike at our supply lines here, the highway near Pir Zadeh.” Elbinger pointed to a small pass through the hills. Given how strung out we are, even one shot-up convoy would put the field force in a bad way.”

Novak looked at the map. “To get there, they would have to pass through this defile, here.”

Elbinger checked the map and smiled.

“Yes, they would. Of course, they could be planning something else entirely, but I think you’re right. So we are going to play a hunch. Karlo, I want you to take two platoons and set an ambush in this defile. You may have to wait a while – as far as I know there isn’t a convoy due for a day-and-a-half. But if they decide to try and hit a convoy, I want them to learn that while the Irish Air Corps might own the day, we Pandurs own the night.”


The first and second platoons of Number Three Company marched all night to reach the defile where they expected to encounter the Afghans, arriving just before dawn on 29 September. Novak posted sentries and had his men lie up during the heat of the day, and personally reconnoitered the defile. It suited his purposes nicely – a track that followed the base of a fairly gentle slope, and bounded on the other side by a steeply rising slope. As the sun began to settle in the west he began to dispose his troops.

If the Afghans were as intelligent as their behavior suggested, they might move forward with flankers deployed, so the first thing Novak did was deploy a squad of the Second Platoon on the farther slope, with orders to observe the movement of the enemy and eliminate, if necessary, any Afghan scouts. Then he picked out firing positions for the First Platoon’s heavy weapons on the near slope where they had good fields of fire through the widest portion of the defile, defining a kill zone of perhaps three hundred meters. He refused the left flank of the First Platoon to guard against any flanking movement, and deployed another squad of the Second Platoon on the right flank of the First for the same purpose. That left him with one squad that he held back as a reserve. On the far side of the track he took note of the natural hollows in which an enemy might take shelter, and made certain that his sappers planted their mines there. Then, preparations made, the Pandurs waited.

It was an hour after midnight when Novak heard the first faint click of horses’ hooves striking rock. He listened intently and could hear the low voices of approaching Afghans echoing off the rock faces. Here and there was a clink of metal on metal, a scrape of leather on rock. Several hundred armed men, moonlight glinting off the barrels of rifles or points of swords, were slowly making their way through the defile – some on horseback, most on foot. As the column grew nearer Novak judged that they were not expecting anything – there was little noise discipline among them and a barrage of banter would be followed by a surge of laughter.

The head of the column entered Novak’s planned kill zone – and he carefully measured its progress. He hoped that it would not be too long – otherwise the head of the column would get too far beyond it before the Pandurs opened fire. Seconds ticked by. The first of the Afghan fighters had reached the end of the ambush… and still Novak could not see the end of the column. He had to choose.

He raised his arm and pumped it three times, signaling his mortar crews. The shallow “thwump” of mortar rounds echoed above the defile as three flares lit the night sky. The Afghans froze for a moment, transfixed as night became day – and then the Pandurs opened up with every weapon at their disposal.

The heavy-throated rumbling of the Browning automatics began the chorus, heavy bullets ripping through the packed mass of Afghans; the higher pitched ratta-tat-tat of the Pandur’s Zastava sub-machineguns followed, played like fire hoses. Rifle fire punctuated with distinctive short zips. The Afghans tried to return fire but too many of their number fell in the first fusillades; horses bolted, carrying their riders away until the horses too were cut down by automatic weapons fire. Here and there Afghans sought cover to escape the deadly fire – only to trip the mines the Pandurs had planted; their screams only adding to the hellish nightmare.

An outbreak of fire on the Pandur’s right flank suggested that the rear of the Afghan column had indeed tried to counterattack, only to discover that their move had been anticipated. In the eerie light of the flares Novak could see the squad posted on the far slope moving to attack the rear of the Afghan flanking force and the fire from that quarter died.

In five minutes it was all over but the dying. A few of the Afghans at the head of the column had managed to escape thanks to the celerity of their horses, and some, perhaps, had evaded the Pandurs at the rear of the column. Novak ordered his men to hold their position and detailed his reserve squad to check for prisoners; despite the volume of fire there were some Afghans still alive, and these were secured and given what medical treatment was available.

“Captain!” one of the Pandurs cried, “We’ve got something here.”

Carefully Novak made his way across the ambush zone towards the voice in the night. It was Sergeant Mehmed Oric; he shone a hooded light towards two bodies sprawled on the track.

“These look like old-style Persian uniforms sir,” Oric noted. “This one’s got a map case and side arm – looks like an officer; and this one,” he said, turning the body over…

A low moan came from the body.

“He’s still alive,” Novak said with surprise. “Medic!”

The figure began mumbling in a language Novak didn’t recognise. It certainly didn’t sound like Pashtun or Hazara. Novak looked at Oric.

“My friend,” Oric began to speak in classical Arabic, which the Pandurs found passed for a linqua franca in these parts. “What has happened?

“The radio… must save the radio… general depends…You must help me…”

“I will my friend; I will do what is possible; but it will be as Allah wills,” Oric replied.

“Must escape… infidels…”

A medic arrived to bind up the prisoner’s wounds and move him to relative safety. A trooper secured the radio – which had not been hit in the firefight – the prisoner had obviously shielded it with his own body. Novak searched the dead officer and discovered a cache of useful documents.

The Pandurs held their position through the night, in the event of Afghan counterattack – but none appeared. With dawn Novak surveyed a scene of carnage – bodies of men and horses now bloating in the rising heat. His men counted more than two hundred Afghan dead; Novak had his men secure the weapons of the dead and finish searching the bodies for any additional papers that Intelligence might find interesting. This band of Afghans was particularly well armed – a few of them carried Czech-made ZH29 rifles with Persian markings and they even recovered a ZB30 light machinegun. He then broke radio silence to advise Battalion HQ of the success of the mission and requesting casualty evacuation for his own wounded and the few Afghan prisoners.



Please make your out-of-character comments here regarding the story.

October 1, 1940 - LONAFF Headquarters, Kandahar
General MacDonald paced slowly along the one clear wall of the field headquarters. Whenever he had the time before making a decision, he preferred to take a few short minutes to walk, pray, and compose his thoughts - MacDonald thought his mind worked best in conjunction with his feet. His decisions for today were not momentous in the grand scope of the campaign, but for "his boys" - he thought of the Czechs and Yugoslavs, and not just his Irish troops - his decisions may be as momentous as death. MacDonald had seen too much of it; for every order he gave, he counted the cost and steeled his resolve for it.

I wonder what history will say of us here today - if they remember us at all, MacDonald thought. He breathed deeply and glanced out the flap of the tent at the dirt runway where one of the Hurribombers was warming up for a patrol. MacDonald listened to the throaty roar of the Merlin and recited the first two verses of Psalm 62 before he turned and walked into the tent set up as the headquarters meeting room.

"All right, gentlemen," he said to the assembled officers. "Sorry to keep you waiting. Let's get down to business. Lieutenant-Colonel Bryan, you've got the floor."

"Thank you, general," Colonel Bryan replied. He moved to the head of the table and began. "One week ago, we started an operation to find and ambush a Persian radio operator northwest of Kandahar. The Pandurs conducted a ground reconnaissance and used information gained in that manner to stage an ambush two nights ago - very early yesterday morning, perhaps is more correct - which bagged almost two hundred Afghan tribal fighters."

"Very pretty piece of work, from what I've seen," General Pika interjected.

"Yes sir, it was - and for more reasons than are immediately obvious," Bryan said. "Among the casualties, the Pandurs found a dead Persian officer, complete with documents and maps. In addition, his radio-operator and intact radio fell into our hands. Although the radio-operator is wounded, Captain Nedic - the Pandurs' intelligence officer - conducted a cursory interrogation, and the operator seems willing to work with us."

Bryan paused for a moment before continuing. "The Persian officer killed in the ambush - Lieutenant Esfahani - was a senior lieutenant responsible for setting up contacts with Afghan tribal groups in Helmand and Kandahar Provinces. He seems to have been quite active, and highly relied-upon by his superiors. His greatest weakness, though, is that he wrote everything down." Bryan grinned like a fox in a henhouse. "My staff translators are still picking apart his journal for material, but I've information I think we need to move on immediately. With luck, speed, and skill, I think we can launch some extremely crippling blows against the irregular opposition in the Kandahar Province."

"Thus securing our lines of communication..." Pika said.

"And perhaps perverting Parwiz's own intelligence network," Bryan continued. "I think we have a decent chance at that."

MacDonald rubbed his chin. "We need to maintain our focus on the buildup to attack Chakhansur in two weeks - and rear area security will make that smoother. Let's hear what you have."

Bryan nodded. "Yes sir. My first item is again radio related. Lieutenant Esfahani reported back regularly to a covert radio station set up in the village of Sangin, about forty kilometers north-northeast of Gereshk. The tribal fighters originating in that region were not allied with Yacoobi, but remain hostile to us - and are thus influenced by the overtures of the Persian Nationalists and their allies. Their numbers are not significant even compared to Yacoobi, but we cannot presume they will repeat Yacoobi's mistakes. The radio station set up in Sangin serves as their command post - although by and large, orders are distributed by hand rather than by radio. Regardless, taking this post out will slow communications among the Afghan fighters to word-of-mouth. That will give us extra time to sweep up assets identified in his journal."

"What opposition is likely?" MacDonald asked.

"Frankly, sir, I've still not got enough information to make an estimated guess. Esfahani's journal indicates perhaps two hundred fighters could be gathered in Sangin and nearby Chughak - given enough warning, he thought the numbers would swell."

Pika rubbed his chin. "We'll need at least a battalion, then. What about the Pandurs? They seem to be on the ball."

"If you'll permit me, sir, I may have a better task for their talents," Bryan interjected. "Along with the captured Persian radio-operator, the Pandurs also bagged several injured natives. We've interrogated two of them already, and confirmed the location of several caves used for storing equipment such as arms and ammo. It's likely that any survivors of the ambush will fall back on these caves to hide, rest, and regroup. I think we should go after them. The raid on Sangin and Chughak is perhaps more suited to a mobile force - perhaps an application of this 'kampfgruppe' idea we've discussed."

Colonel Radovanovic spoke up for the first time in the meeting. "My initial impressions lead me to think the same thing, General."

MacDonald nodded. "This might be a good time to trial the idea in action. General Pika?"

"I concur. But I'd like to suggest that we make this first force... a one-language force? They will have enough barriers to surmount without bringing in the language barrier as well."

"My sentiments exactly," MacDonald said. "I've been thinking about Majors Duggan and Devlin - or perhaps Major Husnik?"

Pika frowned. "I'd suggest Major Strakaty before Husnik - but from our discussions, I'm of the mind that Devlin's the best choice to work this out now. He has the most... agility of thought necessary for this."

MacDonald nodded. "Done, then."



Please make your out-of-character comments here regarding the story.

October 3, 1940 - North of Gereshk
[SIZE=1]Excerpt from History of the Irish Army[/SIZE]

Among the Irish units deployed to the Afghan Field Force in 1940 and 1941 was the 5th Infantry Battalion, under Major (later Lieutenant-Colonel) Jack Devlin. The 5th Infantry Battalion's soldiers, even before they deployed to Afghanistan, had a reputation for intransigence and loose discipline in camp, and their voyage out on the SS Kroonland II was marked by numerous fights and three men being charged with insolence by officers of their sister 6th Infantry Battalion. Devlin - "Major Jackie" to his men - had the charges dismissed. Once in theater, General MacDonald selected the battalion for conversion into "camel-mounted infantry." The camels, donated by the French Foreign Legion or purchased from Egypt, Saudi Arabia, or British Soudan, were intended to provide more mobility and reconnaissance potential for the infantry unit, especially in the harsh regions of southern Afghanistan. The troops of the 5th Battalion were among the last League troops to enter Afghanistan, as they were undergoing training in the use of their new camels, which they discovered to be extremely fractious and troublesome. Veterans would later say "We fought with the Afghans once a week, but we fought with the camels every day."

Contrary to the freewheeling reputation of his command, Major Jack Devlin, the commander of the 5th Battalion, was a short, nearsighted and quiet Ulsterman who hardly looked the part of a soldier - let alone one of the finest battalion commanders of the Irish I Brigade. Devlin, however, possessed an unflappable courage under fire, and a reputation for independent thinking.

Despite the difficulties, the 5th Infantry Battalion rapidly came to enjoy their status as camel cavalry, and assumed the air of an elite unit, the informal "Irish Camel Corps". Although the 5th was held in reserve as rear-area security during the Battle of Gereshk, they saw service in the following days tracking down escaping troops and patrolling the region, and their comrades soon dubbed them "Devlin's Devils" or, more enduringly, "the Humpback Dragoons". While the 5th Battalion could - and did - dismount to fight as regular infantry, their specialty soon became long-ranged reconnaissance and raiding in open country. While this reputation was not formed until after the Sangin-Chughak Raid, the 5th Battalion's mobility, and Major Devlin's qualities as a commander, made them natural choices to spearhead the raiders.

Chathghrúpa Devlin formed on October 2nd and left Gereshk on the evening of the 3rd, sweeping northward through the open countryside, avoiding so far as possible the main roads and traveling at night to avoid initial detection. The raiders' goal were the villages of Sangin and Chughak, where intelligence indicated irregular Afghan fighters were marshaling for attacks under the leadership of Persian coordinators and advisors. One of the keys to the Persian coordinators' work was a radio station located in Sangin, and a buried arms cache in Chughak.



Chathghrúpa Devlin Order of Battle:
- 5th Infantry Battalion (Irish)
- 3rd Tank Lance, the Tank Company (Irish) (one tank section replaced by armoured car section)
- B Battery, 1st Artillery Battalion (Irish)
- A and B companies, 23rd Infantry Battalion (Afghan National Army)
- Medical platoon (Czech)
- Chathghrúpa Staff (Irish/Czech composite)
- 3x Lysanders detailed for air support



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October 5, 1940 - Sangin
The small village of Sangin lay in relative silence under the hazy gray pre-dawn sky. Lieutenant Tommy Brennan moved forward with his lead squad, gripping his Enfield firmly with both hands. The village was, politely, a den of squalor, with a spread of huts next to a hand-dug irrigation canal leading out from the river. Brennan's platoon had reached the outskirts of the village without any unusual alarm being sounded, at least as far as the Irish knew.

Sergeant Gallagher, the point man for Brennan's squad, held up his hand and the men paused, Brennan third in line. Gallagher forward, peered around a corner, and pulled back. "Locals in the street."

"This early?" someone behind Brennan muttered. A chorus of shushes silenced the man, and Brennan leaned forward to peer around the corner himself. Two women in the street, carrying water; Brennan pulled back and gestured the squad to silence. The women turned the other way and went down a different street; Brennan risked another look.

"There," he said. "Five houses down, Sergeant. Big building - tell me what you see."

Sergeant Gallagher looked; pulled back. "Machine gun post. It's manned. Damn!"

"And there's a radio aerial on the building. That's what we're looking for," Brennan muttered. The Afghans had very few machine guns, and the ones they did have were mainly water-cooled models, more useful more for fixed defenses, and they'd chosen their post well: the machine-gun could sweep the street and prevent Brennan's platoon from advancing.

Gallagher risked one more look. "Lieutenant - don't think the gunner's awake."

Brennan frowned and looked himself. Sure enough, while the gunner remained at his post, he looked suspiciously comfortable; not the sort of performance Brennan would like to see from his own troops, but was more than happy to see in the enemy.

"All right, let's go," Brennan said. "Silently!"

Brennan's lead squad filed out into the street and moved quietly on the main house. Unlike most of the huts in Sangin, this house was multilevel and positioned next to the irrigation canal; the dusty metal antenna showed that it was not an average Afghan dwelling.

Only a moment before the Irish reached the house, Brennan saw movement near the machine-gun post. A dog - a big dog, more wolf than anything else - suddenly raised its head and barked, then charged Brennan's raiders. The machine-gunner snapped awake - looked up at the soldiers immediately in front of his position, and belatedly lunged for his post.

A dozen Enfields snapped, but the dog startled most of the troopers, who were torn between shooting the gunner and the dog. It was too late for the machine-gunner even so, as he collapsed over his gun. Brennan fired at the dog as it lept at Sergeant Gallagher and knocked him to the ground, going for him with its teeth. Before Brennan could come to the sergeant's aid, Gallagher drew his Webley, planted the muzzle in the dog's chest, and emptied it. The dog collapsed without a sound, teeth only releasing Gallagher's arm when it was dead.

"Come on, boys, after them! Follow me! Faugh-a-ballaugh!" Brennan shouted. He charged past the machine-gun post and into the building itself. Three of the riflemen followed him in.

The occupants might have resisted - but three of them were still blinking sleep from their eyes when the Irish troopers broke in, and the radio operator on duty simply raised his hands rather than try to futilely reach for the Mauser he'd left across the room. The only resistance came from the officer in charge, who threw a pot of coffee at Brennan, and received a Enfield-delivered bump across his skull for the effort.



Please make your out-of-character comments here regarding the story.[/quote]

Two Noorduyn Norseman single-engine transports of the Royal Yugoslav Air Force circled and landed about a half a kilometer from the defile where Novak’s Number Three Company had executed their ambush. Novak had accompanied the party carrying the wounded and the prisoner, and he was surprised to see his commander, Oton Elbinger, jump out of the first aircraft.

“Great work Karlo,” he began, “particularly grabbing that prisoner. If he cooperates it will go a long way to finishing our job in this area.”

“Thanks Chief,” Novak replied, “but I don’t think that is what brought you here.”

“No, I’m afraid it isn’t.” Elbinger admitted. “I need you go to back to Shirinak and put that village and the cave complex under surveillance. If I can convince Headquarters, we’re going to root them out before they can scatter. If the enemy starts to scatter before I can get reinforcements to you, you’ll have to stop them.”

Novak knew he men were tired, but he also knew Elbinger was right. “Sir, we’re short on water and ammunition…”

“I didn’t come empty-handed Karlo,” Elbinger said, smiling. “Rations and water in this plane, ammunition in the other. It’s not a lot but the best I could do on short notice.”

Novak saw his men off-loading the supplies and loading the wounded on the aircraft. “It will do Chief,” he added.

“If Headquarters agrees, I’ll move the entire battalion to support you. If we’re coming I will send a blind radio message, ‘Tabasco’; if they balk and want you to withdraw, ‘Soybean’. Understand?”

Novak nodded. “Yes Chief. Let’s hope that Headquarters keeps us on this.”


Number Three Company started its march for Shirinak late in the afternoon as the sun was setting in the west. Novak hoped that his men could make it by sunrise, and be in position to observe the enemy. While he and his men slogged their way through scrub and the ever-present dust Oton Elbinger was busy making representations to Colonel Radovanovic and the rest of the Field Force staff arguing for a major effort against the cave complex.


The village of Shirinak lay clustered around a spring in a box canyon that ran up among the mountain foothills. There were perhaps thirty huts and above them were three cave entrances in the side of the mountain – entrances that might have been man-made but over decades, perhaps centuries, had been widened by the hand of man. Karlo Novak lay doggo behind a screen of rocks and watched the village come alive in the morning sun.

Only a few huts showed wisps arising from their arising from their smoke-holes, announcing that the occupants had started a cooking fire; most seemed empty – and Novak theorized that their former occupants were now dead or dispersed. Number Three Company had arrived in the early morning hours and had not even had time to properly deploy before daylight forced them to hide. Novak was surprised but pleased that Shirinak seemed to be devoid of women and children; it must be a tribal war camp, with their dependents elsewhere. “It will make easier what we will need to do,” he thought.

The Afghans didn’t seem to be overly concerned with security Novak saw; only a few sentries posted on the tops of hillocks. He noted the paths trodden in the dust between the huts themselves and between the huts and the cave complex. The caves seemed to be used for storage and not as a regular hiding place for fighters – and to Novak’s mind there were perhaps sixty or seventy armed Afghans in the place; that, however, was not destined to last.

The dust cloud on the horizon announced the approach of a new group of tribal fighters – who were sufficiently in a hurry to risk travel by day to reach the safety of the village – perhaps forty in number, including a few who rode two to a horse. Some looked to be injured.

“Damn!” Novak thought. “Survivors from the ambush; that tears it – they’ll be leaving this place any moment and I’m not ready to stop them.”

Yet the gods of war seemed to favor the Pandurs; the Afghans made no move to leave, though it seemed that they became more aware of their security. Novak now saw more sentries and more foot traffic between the caves and the village, as if supplies were being drawn and issued.

As the cloak of night fell Novak made haste to position his two platoons to block the entrance to the canyon and deployed scouts at the rear of the village to try and keep the Afghans bottled up. He knew that if the Afghans bolted he really didn’t have enough men or enough ammunition for a sustained siege. He had done his best and it was near midnight that he fell asleep from exhaustion.

A light nudge woke Novak from his slumber.

“Sir, a radio call from the Chief,” said Sergeant Talic. “One word, Tabasco”.

Novak checked his watch and saw it was nearly 0400 hours; he had managed four hours sleep. “Tabasco,” he whispered. “That’s good. What’s happening in Shirinak?”

“Still quiet sir. I guess they figure they’re safe here.”

“That is something that will change, if they give us time,” Novak smiled. Inwardly he was much relieved; the radio message from Elbinger indicated that Headquarters had authorized the reinforcement of his small force in an effort to wipe out this particular batch of tribal fighters. The problem was time.


Oton Elbinger knew that time was an enemy as well, and he pushed his men as hard as he could as they marched through the Afghan wilderness. He had brought the Third Pandur Battalion as close to Shirinak as trucks would allow, but they still had miles of scrub and hills to cross on foot; and they had to do it at night to avoid detection. Each man carried his weapon, rations and water – as well as reserves for Novak’s men who had spent unknown hours observing the village of Shirinak. Novak was under orders not to break radio silence unless the Afghans tried to escape, but the silence on the radio brought Elbinger no solace.

He looked at the head of the column and saw the first element signal stop; by hand-signal it flew down the column and each man crouched; Elbinger made his way forward.

“Report,” he ordered as he reached the lead element. He winced when he discovered that Sergeant Konstantin Prigal was in the lead.

“Sir,” Prigal began. “Our tame Afghan here, Selim, says that Shirinak is about one kilometer ahead, over that range of hills.”

Elbinger looked at the young Afghan they had recruited to serve as a scout, a harki. He got out his map and shone a carefully hooded light upon it.

“The map agrees with him. Prigal, take a squad forward and carefully make your way towards the village; find Captain Novak and send a runner back.”

Prigal did as he was ordered


Two hours later Elbinger had effected a link up with Novak’s troops and begun to deploy the Pandurs to best effect. With three companies he felt he had the firepower to bottle the Afghans in the canyon and chop them up. His concern was the caves – he didn’t wish to force his men to clean them out rock-by-rock. Elbinger had Novak’s Number Three Company circle the canyon and deploy to block any escape. Number Two Company would make the initial assault, covered by Number One Company.

It was cold; winter comes early in Afghanistan and the night was frigid. The extended darkness and cold worked in the Pandur’s favor, giving them more time to get into position while the Afghan sentries grew numb. In the pre-dawn hours half a dozen Pandurs crept forward, charged with sentry elimination. In quick succession knives flashed in the night and soft thuds confirmed that the way was clear to execute the attack.

Elbinger waited for the half-light to clear; the village lay silent. He put his whistle to his lips and blew a shrill blast.

Captain Zarko Todorovic led his troopers of Number Two Company forward by leaps and bounds; they were among the huts of the village before the Afghans knew what hit them. Section by section Pandurs took on each hut, breaking down doors and tossing grenades inside to deal with the occupants, finishing with rifle and automatic weapons anyone remaining. They were not as interested in prisoners as eliminating this nest of vipers. Above them the heavy weapons of Number One Company provided cover fire, machinegun and rifles sweeping the further reaches of the village, allowing Number Two Company time to complete its mission.

“Cover the cave entrances!” Elbinger shouted. “Cut them off!” He directed a reserve platoon of Number One Company to advance toward the caves but they quickly came under fire from snipers located within the cave and were pinned down; the firefight there grew hot.

Some Afghans tried to escape up the rear of the canyon and found themselves driven back by concentrated fire from Novak’s Number Three Company. Hand grenades thrown with a practiced hand quickly dealt with knots of resistance. As Todorovic reached the last of the huts he found the occupants had managed to fortify their position and were keeping up a heavy fire. The first section that tried to cross the space in front of the hut was driven back, loosing two men in the process.

“Bring up a mortar,” he ordered, as rifle bullets whizzed round him. It took a few moments for his men to comply.

“Sir,” said a corporal. “We’re too damned close. If we fire from here we’ll be in the danger zone.”

“Not if do this,” Todorovic replied, as he seized the tube. “Dig a hole, here” he indicated, and a Pandur stripped off his helmet and quickly gouged a shallow hole, into which Todorovic nestled the mortar tube, eschewing baseplate and bipod. He sighted along the tube in the general direction of the hut and lowered it almost to the horizontal.

“Hang!” he cried, and a mortarman slipped a round into the small 60mm mortar. Todorovic and the mortar crew shielded their faces from the blast as the round fired. It arced through the open space and landed a meter short. Todorovic raised the tube slightly; “Hang!”

The mortarman slipped another round down the tube; it fired and this time struck the wall of the hut, blasting a large hole through it. Several grenades now followed, thrown by waiting Pandurs. The crump of exploding grenades was answered by an explosion within that blew the roof off the house. A section moved forward to assure that the occupants had been dealt with.

The firefight at the foot of the cave complex still raged. Though lacking automatic weapons the Afghan position allowed their rifle fire to cause a mounting number of casualties among the Pandurs; and they showed no desire to surrender; they had shot down Selim, the Pandur’s scout, when Elbinger sent him forward under a flag of truce to try and convince them to do so.

Elbinger ordered Number One Company to move forward and cover the cave entrances with automatic weapons fire while Novak’s Number Three Company scaled the cliff walls above the caves.

Karlo Novak made certain that the volunteers knew what they were to do.

“The satchel charges have a fifteen-second delay. When you get above the caves, arm them, lower the rope and swing them into the cave.”

Four stout Pandurs held each rope as the three volunteers began to rappel down the cliff-face. Slowly they inched down to within a few feet of the caves, hoping that the ricochets from their companions would not hit them in the arse. When the reached a spot some two meters above the caves each man lit the fuse of his satchel charge and flung it in an arc towards the cave entrances.

“Pull for God’s sake,” Novak cried as the Pandurs tried to haul their friends out of the blast area by main force.

Three explosions ripped through the mountain, sending a cascade of rock shrapnel over Elbinger and the Pandurs in the village below. The fire from within the caves ceased, and patrols moved forward to check for survivors. They found the entrances to each of the caves sealed by rock falls.

Elbinger stationed a squad to cover the caves in case survivors managed to claw their way out; if not, their graves were already dug. The operation was over except the mopping up and the tallying. Eight Pandurs, or nine if you included the slain Afghan harki, were dead, twenty-two wounded or injured by flying rock. They counted ninety Afghan dead, twenty-five wounded and taken prisoner; interrogation of the latter suggested that there had been perhaps twenty or more in the caves.

The Pandurs buried the Afghan dead and made ready to bring their own back with them, fashioning travois for the few Afghan horses they captured. The captured weapons – mostly old British Enfields or other Khyber Pass specials – were stacked and blown up to prevent their future use. Regrettably there were few documents to be found in the village – perhaps there had been some in the cave complex itself – but what was found had been secured.

Elbinger reported the results to Headquarters and indicated that the Third Pandur Battalion would be withdrawing as soon as possible, and requested medical evacuation for his wounded.


Please make your out-of-character comments here regarding this story.

October 5, 1940 - Sangin and Chughak
[SIZE=1]Excerpt from International Soldiers: The League of Nations at War, 1935-1940[/SIZE]

Before dawn on the morning of October 5th, following a night march, leading elements of the Irish 5th Battalion assigned to Chathghrúpa Devlin infiltrated and seized the villages of Sangin and Chughak. Resistance in Sangin was weak, with dismounted "Humpback Dragoons" of B Company capturing a Persian radio-operation team.

In Chughak, though, tribal fighters were alerted to the approach of the Irish soldiers and opened fire. Resistance centered in an impromptu stronghold composed of twelve brick and stone-walled huts in the center of Chughak. Major Devlin ordered a pair of Crusader tanks to shell the row of huts, and the fire knocked down several of the exterior walls. This served to cover the movement of a small body of infantry, who broke into the complex and engaged the defenders with the bayonet. The defenders panicked at the assault and fled out the rear of the complex, only to crash headlong into a machine-gun post set up to cover the exit. An estimated thirty tribal fighters were killed and forty-one captured. The Irish uncovered a stash of small arms, mainly grenades, Khyber rifles, and ammunition.



Please make your out-of-character comments here regarding the story.

The dispensary stood some five hundred meters outside the official perimeter of the LONAFF Kandahar cantonment. It was a rather non-descript building – an old caravanserai with a roof repaired with corrugated iron, some canvas awnings giving modest protection against the blazing sun. A pole from which flapped the flags of the Red Cross and the Red Crescent proclaimed the place a hospital, a place of rest, a place where the refugees from the war in the mountains might find succor. It was the brain-child of Captain Frantisek Fajtl, one of the medical officers of the Czech contingent. Begun on a voluntary basis it was now a regular feature of the life of the cantonment.

Medical personnel from Czechoslovakia, Ireland and Yugoslavia worked side-by-side to do what was possible to ease the suffering of the Afghans. In one corner of the dispensary’s courtyard was a small impromptu kitchen where Afghans in LONAFF pay provided those who came with a hot meal – mutton stew with rice – simple, but filling none the less. From a trailer-mounted cast-iron tank an Afghan might draw clean water – perhaps the first he had to drink in weeks. Lieutenant Naser Oric of the Yugoslav Army, whose regular duties were those of an intendance officer, oversaw this part of the facility – as a Bosniak imam he was able to reassure many of the more hesitant Afghans about the intent of the Europeans – the farangi, or Westerners.

Yet the core of the dispensary was a small medical aid station – wholly inadequate but the best to be had in the circumstances. By mutual consent the LONAFF generally used French as a means of communication among themselves – but occasionally a doctor might utter an expletive in his native tongue, and there was a constant chatter of Pashto in the background.

Sergeant Rudolf “Rudy” Pernicky of the Czech contingent sat at the dispensary’s dilapidated reception desk – to his left was Hamid, a young Afghan interpreter who helped Pernicky understand the idiomatic Pashto spoken by the incoming patients. To his right was Lieutenant Jan Golian, a short, bespectacled officer who reviewed the small index cards Pernický completed to record basic patient information. The patients who came to the dispensary were typical – fractures requiring setting and splinting, infected cuts that needed cleaning and a sterile dressing, dysentery induced by bad food and water.

Lieutenant Golian concentrated of the file cards and appeared oblivious to what Hamid and Pernicky had to say to the incoming Afghans; actually he followed their conversations, and those of the other Afghans about him, quite closely. He was, in fact, one of LONAFF’s sharpest linguists and intelligence officers. He preferred that the Afghans think that he did not understand their language, as they often would speak more freely in front of such a farangi.

Through the door of the dispensary came an elderly Afghan, followed by a younger man who carried a young girl in his arms. Pernicky asked the older man to sit in the chair in front of the desk and called an orderly to fetch a second bench for the younger man and the girl, whose right foot he saw was wrapped in a dirty and bloody cloth. Hamid, the interpreter, engaged the older man in a rapid conversation and then explained to Pernicky.

“His name is Mehmet Ali,” Hamid began, “chief of the village of Mansurabad. The girl is his grand-daughter – she hurt her foot four days ago and she has gotten worse. He hopes that we can cure her.”

“We will do what we can,” said Pernicky in broken Pashto. He filled in the card and passed it to Golian.

At that point the younger man began to speak heatedly, while Pernicky repeatedly tried to break in to get the man to slow down. Hamid tried to explain.

“He is the girl’s father. She was injured running away form the men from the mountains. Four nights ago these men came to their village, demanding that the young men join them to fight the farangi. The chief refused; so the men from the mountains began to fire their rifles wildly, scattering the people of the village. They killed many people; they killed his wife; he managed to escape with his father and his daughter. He wants to fight.”

Golian tried not to betray his interest in this information.


Captain Patrick McKenna of the Irish Medical Corps took charge of the examination of the little girl’s foot.

“Let’s see what we have here little one,” he said in a soft and lilting voice as he carefully unwrapped her foot. He frowned when he finished removing the makeshift bandage – the scrape on the top of her foot had become infected and oozed a mixture of pus and blood. Her skin was warm to the touch – a fever no doubt, perhaps caused by the infection in her foot, perhaps from other causes.

“First things first. Orderly – a basin and some peroxide please,” he ordered. An orderly brought the items and McKenna began to carefully clean the wound. The girl winced when the cold peroxide touched her skin and foamed up, but she did not cry. “There,” McKenna whispered. “It will sting a bit, but we need to clean it out.” He dabbed away the foam with some cotton lint and reapplied the peroxide several more times to assure that the cut itself was cleaned out, and then proceeded to examine her foot more closely.

“Ah, we’re very lucky little one.” The wound it seemed was not too serious by itself, but left untreated it would have been an open door to further infection. He applied a dusting of sulfa powder to it and began to bind it up with a sterile dressing.

Through an interpreter he told the girl’s father, “Her wound is not too serious – if God wills it should heal in a few days. Bring her back in two days so I can examine her again to assure that she is healing.”

The father nodded, “Two days…”

McKenna reached into the pocket of his tunic and gave the girl a lollipop.


While the attention of the father and grandfather was engaged in the ministrations of Doctor McKenna, Lieutenant Golian had unobtrusively called another member of the staff to take his place at the reception station, and he walked outside. In the courtyard he saw small knots of Afghans – some waiting their turn to enter the dispensary, others availing themselves of a meal. Golian caught the eye of the sergeant in charge of the security team – even in a hospital it was wise to be prepared – who walked over in Golian’s direction.

“Could you find Captain King please,” he said to the sergeant in a low voice. “There is something he might be interested in.” The sergeant nodded and sent one of his men off in the direction of the cantonment. Golian continued to wander the courtyard and stopped when he reached the kitchen.

“Good morning Naser,” he said to Lieutenant Oric, “You seem a bit busy today.”

“Yes,” the Bosniak laughed. “Word of our excellent cuisine has spread far and wide, and all Kandahar now comes to my little restaurant.”

“You saw the two men carrying the little girl into the dispensary?”

“The old chief and his son,” Oric replied. “Yes – they came with those fellows over there.” He cocked a shoulder to indicate a group of six Afghans sitting in the shade of the wall. “I spoke with them when they arrived; their village was attacked by tribal warriors, or bandits – it is sort of the same thing. Many were injured, some killed; they are angry. Allah has compassion for those who are innocent but he has no mercy for those who kill indiscriminately.”

Golian nodded. “The chief’s son, the girl’s father, lost his wife in the firefight. He wants to fight.”

“I think these men too would wish to do so; their village is no more and they are refugees. Perhaps Captain King…”

“I’ve already sent for him,” Golian acknowledged. “I hope he gets here before they leave. Can you stall them?”

Oric checked his watch. “It will be simple. It is nearly time for the noon prayer. Take my place here for a minute while I speak to the old chief.”

Golian did as he was asked and busied himself in the kitchen for a short while until Oric returned.

“The chief will stay for prayer,” Oric announced. “He is thankful for the work Captain McKenna did on his grand-daughter’s foot. His men, of course, will stay with him.”

“Good. King’s the man for this.”






Please make your out-of-character comments here regarding the story.

Captain Alan King, late of the 4th Irish Infantry Battalion, sat in the Nissen hut that served as his headquarters within the LONAFF Kandahar cantonment. Unlike most of the buildings in the cantonment, no sign proclaimed the occupants or their purpose, but the curious did not bother to inquire – at any given time a number Afghan harkis, replete with bandoliers, Mauser rifles and the traditional talwar – could be found encamped outside it.

“Sir, there’s a messenger from the dispensary”. It was Sergeant Finnigan, King’s second-in-command, adjutant and clerk all rolled into one. “Lieutenant Golian asks you to come out, if you please.”

King looked up. “If Jan Golian’s got something, I suspect it’s worth looking into." He stood, buckled on his sidearm and walked out; a Ford field car waited with its engine running. As King walked towards it two Afghans silently rose and fell into step behind him. The driver raised an eyebrow but said nothing; Captain King, it was said, commanded more loyalty among the Afghan auxiliaries that LONAFF had recruited than any tribal chieftain. King slid in beside the driver while the Afghans jumped into the back.

Some moments later they arrived at the dispensary, and the driver was happy to see his passengers depart. King motioned his silent sentinels to stay behind as he approached the compound, scanning the scene. He noticed Lieutenant Golian near the kitchen and walked over.

“Good day Jan,” he said in a quiet voice. “You called.”

“Yes sir,” replied the Czech. “One of the patients in today’s lot was the grand-daughter of a village chief – or perhaps I should say ex-chief, as the village was dispersed by tribals. The child will be fine, but her father said he wanted to fight; so, apparently do several other men from the village. It seemed to be in your bailiwick.”

“Quite so; where are these fellows?”

“At prayer; Oric took the opportunity to keep them here until you arrived,” added Golian.

King nodded. “I’ll wait – what’s on the menu today?” He raised a pot lit and took a whiff. “Ah, mutton stew!”

In fluent Pashto he called to his followers and bade them avail themselves of a hot meal; instantly they obeyed.

A few moments later a number of Afghans began to filter back into the hospital compound, for prayer was finished. Lieutenant Oric escorted the old chief and his followers and smiled when he saw King.

“Effendi,” he began, “I have a friend I would have you meet,” and he led the knot of Afghans in King’s direction.

“Captain King, this is Mehmet Ali, chief of the village of Mansurabad, and these are his followers; alas, their village is no more – they are refugees in the camp near the river.”

King bowed to the elder man, “The blessings of God be upon you and your people in this your time of trial,” he said.

“He has shown his compassion for us already,” the chief replied. “The physician has seen to my grand-daughter’s foot, and she will be well. Such of my people who escaped the men of the mountains have found a place where they are safe, for the moment. But there is still much anger among them.”

“We wish to fight the men of the mountains!” said the chief’s son, and the other Afghans murmured their agreement. “We are not children but men! But the men of the mountains have guns, and we have not.”

King nodded. “I understand your wish. But revenge is a bitter dish; I cannot help you if all you wish is revenge. But if you wish to rid the land of bandits so that a man may tend his flocks and raise his children in peace then I can help you. If you are ready to fight to end the terror of the men of the mountains, come here tomorrow at mid-morning, and I will offer you the chance. But now return to your people, and decide.”

The old man allowed himself a smile. “You speak wisdom sardar; young men often speak words freely. We will reflect on the choice you offer.”

Golian had scrounged up a canvas litter, which allowed the injured child to be carried in far more comfort. The chief thanked the soldiers for their kindness and reiterated his promise that his people would consider the offer King had extended; they therewith departed.

After the Afghans had left King turned to Golian and asked, “Think I will see anyone tomorrow?”

“I think so, at least a few.” Golian replied. “How many will follow you thereafter is a different question.”





Please make your out-of-character comments here regarding the story.

The crew of volunteers who arrived the following morning to open the dispensary found that Captain King and his small band of Afghan harkis had preceded them. King explained:

“While I doubt that the old chief will betray us, it never hurts to be prepared. We will camp on that rise, there,” he added, pointing to a small knoll some two hundred meters of the dispensary.

“I hope you are right sir,” replied Golian.

As the dispensary came to life King and his harkis shifted to the spot that he had indicated. Besides Sergeant Finnegan King had a dozen Afghans with him, dressed in customary Afghan garb, distinguished only by their Czech-made Mauser rifles and the green native cap, or pakol, which each man wore. They made a small fire to brew tea, and waited.

As the morning wore on the stream of Afghans heading to the dispensary began to pick up; yet Jan Golian made it a point to make his way to King’s encampment before mid-morning. He wanted to see King – whom some called the ‘Pied Piper of Kandahar’ – at work.

“Have a nice cup of tea Lieutenant,” said Finnegan.

Not long afterwards a small group of Afghans was seen approaching – the old chief, Mehmet Ali, and half-a-dozen younger men. King rose to greet them. “Blessings of God be with you this day Effendi” he said.

“The chief bowed. “And with you Sardar. My people have heard your words and have considered them deeply. These young men would follow you to clear the land of the men of the mountains. They have yet to found families of their own, and would do so in peace rather than war.”

King allowed himself a smile. “If they wish to follow me I will give them the chance. Please, Effendi, be seated, and we will begin.”

He turned to the first newcomer and inquired his name. The man said it was Karim.

“Karim,” King said in a stentorian voice, “Do you swear by God to obey my commands, follow where I lead and serve faithfully until I release you from your vow?” The man replied unhesitatingly. “I swear!”

“Timur! Kindjal!” King ordered. One of King’s harkis rose and drew from the fire a knife whose blade was now well heated. Quickly he did brought the knife to the waiting Irishman.

“Open your mouth,” King instructed, and Karim obeyed. “God will punish those who bear false witness,” said King, and he lightly touched the man’s tongue with the hot blade; it sizzled audibly but the man did not cry out.

Golian turned to Finnegan in disbelief. “What in the devil is he doing?”

“Tis an old trick Lieutenant,” Finnegan explained. “A man who is lying finds his mouth dry, where a man who speaks the truth hasn’t the problem. The spittle on his tongue protects him, where a liar will feel the pain and cry out.”

The Czech shook his head. “That is not very scientific!”

“Maybe,” replied Finnegan, “but they believe it.”

King called upon each of the Afghans in turn to swear his allegiance and face the test of the hot knife. With each the chief muttered his approval. When the attestation of the new harkis was complete King began the next part of his ceremony. “Sergeant Finnegan! Rifles!”

Finnegan rolled away a blanket to reveal a cache of rifles and bandoliers. Assisted by several harkis Finnegan brought the rifles to King, who in turn gave one to each of the new recruits.

“This is your closest friend,” he explained. “Used wisely it will help you rid the land of evil men and carry you through a hundred battles. You will be taught to use it wisely, and to care for it, until you and your rifle become a single being.”

He then opened a small satchel at his side and drew forth what seemed to be a bundle of green cloth, which he unraveled, to reveal several native caps. He held one up and continued,

“This marks you in my service. Look at the members of your new tribe – each man wears it proudly.” Giving a green pakol to each recruit he finished, “Put it on, and join your companions in arms!”

Golian still looked on in disbelief. “That’s all?” he asked King.

“Oh Finnegan will have some paperwork to do, sorting out the Faisals from the Farhads, but as far as they are concerned they are now my tribal warriors – I have accepted their vows, trusted them with rifles and they bear my mark. Afghans are very simple and forthright people – the formalities of warfare have no meaning for them.”




Please make your out-of-character comments here regarding the story.

October 1 - Chakhansur
Haji Munadi waited patiently as the old Junkers F.13 transport came to a stop at the end of the dusty runway, and the aircraft's passenger disembarked. He felt his face twitch as he recognized the man, and stepped forward to greet him.

"General Parwiz. I'm surprised to see you here; but honored you've come."

Parwiz stretched. "Thank you, General Munadi. I'm glad to be here."

Munadi waved a hand at the airplane. "Given the Infidels' command of the skies, was it wise to risk yourself in the air?"

"It was a necessary risk," Parwiz said. "The infidel fighters don't have the range to patrol this far from Kandahar, so I only risked Lapdog forces crossing the border from Persia."

"We've had several overflights in the last week," Munadi said.

"Yes. I believe the League mercenaries are nearly ready for their next move - against your forces here in Chakhansur. That's why I felt I had to come here; we have a lot to discuss."



Please make your out-of-character comments here regarding the story.[/quote]

“Colonel, Mazraeh ye Abbas is the fourth village that’s been attacked this month!” Captain King expostulated.

Lieutenant Colonel Dan Bryan paused before responding. First – the raids on villages in the Arghandab valley were a fact; second – he knew how thin the Field Force’s resources were stretched.

“Look here King,” he began, “these attacks look to be the work of bandits, not a local warlord or the remnants of Yacoobi’s forces. They not directed at us, and we don’t have the resources to go after them. Elbinger’s Pandurs are moving forward.”

King dug in his heels, figuratively speaking. “Sir, they’re not operating ‘just like bandits’.” He walked to the map tacked up on the wall of the hut that served as Bryan’s office.

“They struck at Mansurabad, then Khvajekmalk; next they raided Maranjan and then the latest, Mazraeh ye Abbas. If they get to Arghandab they’ll be right on our lines of communication.” King picked up a grease pen and connected the dots, ending with the point of an arrow.

“The Afghan Army has a full regiment of cavalry at Arghandab. They wouldn’t dare strike at it!” Bryan struck his desk with the palm of his hand to emphasize the point.

“And you’d trust our supply lines to the Afghan Army?” King asked in a quiet voice.

Bryan had to admit that he would prefer not to depend on the Afghans, though right now there was little choice in the matter.

“Moreover,” King continued, “these ‘men of the mountains’ seem to be after more than mere robbery. Look at the reports: they sweep into the village by night, dispersing the inhabitants – many of whom seem to disappear. Livestock is run off, food stores and other valuables taken. What’s left is burned. And then they disappear – until their next raid.”

Bryan seemed to grow convinced and was about to speak when King anticipated him.

“We may not be dealing with a warlord yet, but nits make lice. If we can deal with this band before they grow too large we nip the problem in the bud.”

Bryan shook his head. “What do you suggest?”

“Give me a free hand to deal with it and my harkis will eliminate the threat,” King assured him.

“The Auxiliaries?” Bryan scoffed. “You have barely forty men besides yourself and Finnegan.”

“They will suffice Colonel,” King said with a smile.

“Very well, I will take it to the General; but I doubt he will approve.”



Please make your out-of-character comments here regarding the story.

Much to the surprise of Lieutenant Colonel Bryan General MacDonald approved Captain King’s request to deal with the bandits operating in the Arghandab valley.

“We can’t afford to risk our supply lines as we move into the next phase of our operations. King is a wise-enough officer to not bite off more than he can chew.”

Two days later King’s force of harkis formed up at the LONAFF Kandahar cantonment, looking more like a band of highwaymen than a military force. Each man was mounted on a sturdy Afghan horse, carrying a Mauser and at least two bandoliers of ammunition; Finnegan was passing out Mills bombs to those Afghans who had been trained in their use. King noticed some additional gear on the back of Finnegan’s horse.

“What have you got there Finnegan?” he asked innocently.

“A ZB.30 machinegun and ammunition sir,” the sergeant replied quite candidly. “A gift from Lieutenant Golian.”

King smiled. “That was quite generous of him. If we come back from this alive, remind me to drop him a thank you note.”

The column started out at a good pace, leaving the lines of the cantonment behind them. Heading northwest they struck out into the hill country, following secondary tracks rather than the main routes into the Arghandab district. King had the benefit of scouts who knew the country and the terrain intimately, and his party took paths and passes that appeared on no maps. They took care to avoid settlements, and by nightfall they were camping deep in the mountains that separated Kandahar from the area in which the bandits were believed to be operating.

It was late in the afternoon when they began their descent from the mountains into the valley of the Arghandab River – several of the harkis showed obvious signs of joy mingled with anger as they neared the ruins of what had been the village of Mansurabad – the first to fall victim to the bandits they sought. King was careful not to camp in the ruins themselves but some distance away, where they could observe movement in the valley, if there was any. As an additional precaution, he sent two scouts towards the ruins, with orders to observe and return.

As the sun fell behind the mountains to the west the scouts returned.

“Sardar,” reported Hasib Arzadi, the senior of the two, “there are tracks of many horses and of those on foot, but they are not fresh – they are many days old. Yet it is most strange – the river does not flow as it should in this time of year; it flows like the drought of summer – there is little water where there should be much.”

King wondered about this. Afghan rivers were notorious in their variability, and while summer was long gone the snows of winter had yet to come to refresh the watershed in the mountains. In the morning they would follow the tracks northward, and he would see for himself about the river. He posted sentinels for the night and waited for dawn.

King discovered that his scouts had reported correctly that the level of the river was below what one would expect; still, it was running freely and they were able to refill their canteens before following the trail of a large party northward.

“See Sardar,” Hasib said as he pointed to the tracks. “Many horses as well as those on foot – moving slowly as if bearing heavy burdens.”

“Yes,” King replied, slowly. The foot traffic intrigued him. The reports he’d received indicated that the bandits were all mounted; if they were accompanied by others on foot, it implied that they were captives. But why take captives – the folk of the valley were not worth ransoming…

King sent some of his harkis ahead as scouts, and others he deployed as flankers to guard against ambushes.


Mirza Ali Khan arose from the morning prayer and took the opportunity to look out from the balcony that overlooked his growing dominion. The hamlet of Kar Malla had once been a very small settlement in the upper reaches of the Arghandab Valley had grown and prospered under his rule. He smiled – while the infidel farangi and the Persian heretics competed with the authority of the king in Kabul he had taken advantage of the troubled times to rise from mere horse thief to leader of a devoted band of warriors and beneficent ruler over the hundreds of captives who toiled to make his home an oasis.

In the distance he could see the dam which slowed the river’s flow and fed the qanats that led to the fields in which labored many of the captives his men had taken. The tall stalks of wheat and other grain would soon be harvested, ready to sustain his men for the forthcoming winter. There were the pens in which the bullocks were kept, soon to be slaughtered and salted. In the workshops the smiths toiled to fabricate more of the swords and rifles his growing force of fighters required. It would soon be time to lead his men on another razzia to augment their stores before the onset of winter – time to gather food, horses and women.

Mirza Ali Khan smiled at the thought.




Please make your out-of-character comments here regarding the story.

King’s column of harkis followed the trail left behind by what by now was confirmed to be a rather large raiding party. The scouts reported several decomposing bodies left at the trail-side – stragglers who fell by the wayside and died; one appeared to have been helped on his way by a bullet to the back of the head. It only strengthened King’s resolve to find the culprits and deal with them. According to the map there were no villages north of Mansurabad, but the captives were obviously being taken somewhere.

They kept a cold camp that night, not wishing to have their presence betrayed by the glow or smoke of campfires. King passed among his harkis asking if there were any clues in their legends or stories that might shed light on the possible movements of the bandits.

Ahmad Hossein, one of King’s first recruits, provided something:

“There is a story told of the Old Man of the Mountains, who kept a fortress in the north. No man approaching it might see it until the Old Man of the Mountains prayed to God who opened the Earth to reveal the entrance to the fortress, which lay in a chasm. The Old Man of the Mountains would lead his warriors forth on razzia over many leagues – riding as far as Kandahar or Herat. On one such razzia the Old Man of the Mountains angered God by burning a mosque and shut up the Earth against the Old Man’s entreaties, leaving him to be cut down by the righteous who pursued him. From that day the place of the fortress has been hidden from the eye of man.”

King thought is sounded like a garbled version of Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves, but in asking several other harkis found that the legend of the Old Man of the Mountains was real enough to them.

“A place hidden from the eyes of man,” he thought. “That’s easy enough to accomplish in these mountains. A cave, a canyon, or…”

He found a niche in the rocks that shielded him and took out his map case; with a hooded pocket torch he examined the area of the headwaters of the Arghandab River… there was an area where the river flowed through a canyon – or at least the map said so. The morning would tell.


The guards escorted the visitors into the presence of the bandit chieftain. These were not captives, for the guards were deferential in their treatment of the visitors.

“Remove their blindfolds,” ordered Mirza Ali Khan; instantly his henchmen obeyed. Both merchants blinked as their eyes readjusted to the sunlight.

“Greetings great khan,” said the first merchant. “We thank you for receiving us.” The second merchant nodded in agreement, though his thoughts were filled with dread.

“I received your message and allowed you to come here. My men have told me that your mules carry rifles,” Mirza Ali Khan’s voice was little more than a whisper but his eyes danced at the prospect of acquiring additional arms.

“This is so great khan. We would offer them to you if you wish to buy them,” said the merchant

“Why should I buy them when they are already within my power?” Mirza Ali asked with a sly grin on his face.

“For they are but the first fruits of what might be had, great khan,” the merchant added hastily. “Our partners would deal with others should we not return to advise them.”

Mirza Ali nodded. “This is so. If the goods you bring are as good as your words, we will strike a bargain. Please, sit and we will examine the merchandise.”

Some of Mirza Ali’s henchmen carried in two large boxes which they opened with crowbars; the first contained a dozen factory-made rifles, the second boxes of ammunition.

“The Government in Kabul receives many gifts from the farangi – these few they will not miss; and our partners can supply more, if the khan is happy with these.” The merchant concluded with a smile.

The khan stood and picked up the rifle and checked its action. The bolt slid easily and effortlessly. “How much?” he asked.



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King’s column of harkis broke camp in the early morning, continuing to follow the trail of the bandits who had led their captives northward some days ago.

“Captain,” asked Sergeant Finnegan, “where do you suppose this trail leads?”

“To the fortress of the Old Man of the Mountains”, King replied with a grin.

“That old wives tale?” said Finnegan with a snort.

“I think that it is true in its essentials. If our maps are to be trusted the river runs through canyons further north. I suspect that the somewhere in that area is a canyon in which these bandits have made their lair.”

Finnegan thought a moment. “I can understand them raiding, but why take captives? They’d be just so much baggage.”

“Whoever is leading these bandits has some intelligence and a sense of vision; a rather skewed sense of vision perhaps, but madness may have a purpose.” King concluded.

They rode on, with scouts in front and flankers covering the high ground on their left and right. As they went higher into the valley the ground became stonier and, at mid-day, the scouts reported that the trail had petered out in an area of rocks.

While they rested King took the opportunity to pull out his map and check it again. It indicated that several miles ahead the river passed through a narrow pass but widened out beyond it. He called to him Hasib Arzadi and Abdul-al-Haji, his most experienced men.

“Do either of you know of any villages or settlements in these parts of the mountains? The map does not indicate any,” he said with a sense of resignation.

“Your paper does not serve you well sardar,” said al-Haji. “There was once a small village further up the river, a place called Kar Malla; bandits attacked it many years ago and drove off the few families that lived there. This was in the time of Saidullah, who made war on the king in Kabul.”

King considered this information – according to al-Haji, Kar Malla would have been destroyed more than forty years previously – long enough for most anyone to have forgotten it. He looked at his map again. “Could you show me on the map where this village was?” he asked.

“No sardar, I cannot understand the scratches on the paper – but it is said that the village lay in a side canyon beside a stream.”

King scowled and acknowledged that his way of war was not the Afghan way. But the map did suggest options.

“We will take to the hills to our right and climb to the plateau above. Perhaps God will show us the fortress of the Old Man of the Mountains that we might punish those who make war upon the innocent,” King finished, more for the benefit of the harkis than himself.


It was late in the afternoon when King’s scouts rode back to him with news.

“Sardar,” one reported, “it is most strange… we looked across the plateau and could see nothing on the ground, yet there was smoke in the air at the horizon. As you instructed we went no closer and returned immediately.”

If someone had reoccupied the settlement of Kar Malla it would not be visible from the plateau unless you were right on top of it, ‘hidden from the eyes of man’. But smoke? That suggested a rather active settlement.

“We will go carefully; if there are enemies nearby we must be cautious. Rely upon the talwar or kindjal rather than the rifle,” King ordered, “lest our enemy be forewarned.”


Mirza Ali Khan was quite pleased with the rifles he had purchased from the two traders – so pleased that he had allowed them to depart laden with the gold he had paid them; the prospect of acquiring more rifles stolen from the arsenals of the royal army caused him even greater joy. His most loyal followers, his personal guard, also rejoiced – for the khan had gifted them with the new rifles – and every Afghan warrior whatever his station wanted the prestige that went along with having a modern rifle.

Zafar Karzai lovingly tended his rifle, and had carefully cleaned it prior to putting it into use. Zafar was mighty warrior, loyal to his khan – but he could not read; certainly not the scratchings of the farangi. The rifle his khan had given him was one of the finest products of Zbrojovka Brno, a Mauser vz.24 – a weapon that made him the envy of many of the khan’s other followers. Having cleaned it, he began to load the rifle in order to test fire it. He had some difficulty in slipping the cartridges into the rifle’s magazine, but managed to do so with several tries. The markings on the box of cartridges – ‘.303-inch’ and ‘Birmingham Small Arms Company’ meant nothing to him.

He took his rifle and rode away from Kar Malla to a place where he could fire his rifle and show it off to the several others of the khan’s men who followed him. They were all full of high spirits. Zafar set a melon on a flat stone some distance away to serve as a target and then took aim at it; pulling the trigger the rifle kicked but the melon was unscathed. Zafar was livid – he never missed at that distance. He worked the action of the bolt and with difficulty chambered another cartridge – and fired again.

His companions later reported to Mirza Ali Khan that the rifle seemed to explode in Zafer’s hands, driving part of the bolt back into his skull, crushing it and killing him instantly. The khan seemed to accept the loss as a judgment from God.





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Map of southwestern Afghanistan; for upcoming posts.

October 7 - Gereshk
"Pomp, circumstance, bluster, and thunder," General MacDonald muttered to himself as he watched the Afghan generals arrive. Finally, his dilatory Afghan National Army "allies" had lurched into motion, sending three of their awkwardly large and yet underpowered infantry divisions under General Mohammed Ashraf Abubakir. The League of Nations staff called him General Bluster, and MacDonald was pretty certain he'd been unable to stamp out the use of the unflattering nickname - people just made sure he wasn't present when they used it.

Unfortunately, it's a particularly apt nickname; and it doesn't help at all that he's taken a disliking to us. Me, in particular, it appears.

Two of Abubakir's three division commanders were hardly any better. Ahmed Ali and Abdullah Shaker Khan were cousins, apparently somehow related through tortuous family alliances to the Afghan Shah, and thus were political golden boys. They'd apparently been partly responsible for pushing the taxes that had led to the near-thing Hazara Revolt, which meant that they too disliked MacDonald. They cultivated a meticulous appearance, though, with decorated, stiffly starched uniforms and a bearing that reminded MacDonald more of a Prussian or English aristocrat.

Second Infantry's commander, though! He'll do, MacDonald thought. General Keramuddin Sherzai was a real soldier. Though he retained the distinguished demeanor of an Afghan khan, he was energetic, affable, and most importantly, capable. Even better yet, he spoke English fluently, which meant that, even though the other three generals hated his guts, they had to send him to work with the League commanders.

Once the Afghan generals had been shown into the headquarters, and introductions made, MacDonald got down to business. "Gentlemen, thank you for coming today. I want to speak with you about the upcoming operations of the Field Force, and collaborate with you on strategy." He waited for the translator to finish; but General Abubakir said nothing. "If we are to work together," MacDonald continued, suppressing a frown of annoyance, "then I'd like to inform you of my plans, and hear your opinions on how best we can work together to restore your country to it's natural unity, without the interference of the Persian bandits."

"Continue," Abubakir simply said.

This is going to be even more difficult than I anticipated. Doesn't he see we're his allies? MacDonald suppressed another frown. "Very well. My next operation is aimed at the Persians and rebels here in Chakhansur. I intend to move my force from our encampment in Kandahar and Gereshk down this road, from Delaram to Xasrrod, and then to the city of Chakhansun. I will destroy the troop encampments of Haji Munadi's fighters. I have supplies and more troops awaiting me across the border in Zabol, but on my march there, my supply lines will be badly strung out. Once I am in motion, that supply line will be vulnerable to any of Maqsoodi's tribal fighters which care to strike at my flanks."

Abubakir said nothing in the following silence, but signalled for MacDonald to keep talking.

MacDonald finally gave into the urge to frown. "General, I asked you to join us for a war conference; I would like your input."

The general spoke for a few moments in Pashtun, and as General Sherzai translated, MacDonald felt five years older. I've got to put up with this man for another six months, and he's already insufferable!



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October 9 - Farah
"My spies have confirmed your guesses, General Parwiz."

"Have they indeed," Parwiz said, his eyes glittering.

"They have," Ismatullah Zadran replied. Western Afghanistan's prime warlord leaned forward. "The infidels will move to capture Delaram tomorrow, and then head south towards Chakhansur. General Abubakir's three divisions will guard the General MacDonald's tail. Ahmed Ali Khan's division will garrison the road north of Delaram, advancing as far as Char Rah; Abdullah Shaker Khan's division will deploy south of the mountains. Sherzai's division will remain as garrison troops strung out between Kandahar, Gereshk, and Delaram; and the Afghan Air Force will move their new Hurricanes to the landing strip at Delaram."

"That's bad news!" exclaimed Khaled Hashem Maqsoodi. The warlord of Farah - and the host for Parwiz and Zadran's conference - frowned impressively. "The infidel MacDonald will outflank me to the west with his tanks!"

"Calm yourself, my friend," Parwiz said smoothly. "The infidel MacDonald will not be able to do that if he is dead, and his tanks out of gas in the desert - his men dropping of thirst."

"Then you have decided to act?" Zadran prompted.

"Yes, but I need you both with me - fully engaged - if we are to do this."

"You will throw in your forces as well, General?" Maqsoodi asked.

"I will," Parwiz said.

"Then command me; I will do whatever it takes to drive the infidels from Afghanistan." Maqsoodi nodded firmly.

"As will I," Zadran echoed.

"Then let me tell you what we're going to do. There's a trick I thought up during the War of Liberation, but I've never been able to use it..."



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October 12 - Farah
[SIZE=1]Excerpt from the Journal of Khosro Parwiz[/SIZE]

Word has just come to me - the Europeans are on the move. Like a vast and sinuous serpent, they have uncoiled from their encampment in Gereshk, and struck forward to the village of Delaram. Their engineers have already begun grading ground outside Delaram to base their airplanes. This snake of an army will turn southeast, now, and slither towards Xasrrod and thence to Chakhansun, across the desert the Pashtuns call the Dashti Margo - the Plain of the Dead. I find myself drawn to the name, for it is in these barren lands that the infidels will meet their disaster.

This serpent of the nations is a dangerous beast, and we must beware the fangs. Our actions must be swift, our blows decisive, our resolution strong. My Afghan allies know the price we must pay to defeat the "farangi", and they are willing to pay it. Allah help us, for so am I.

The more I stay in this dusty land, the more I yearn to see my nation reborn. The leaders of Persia have seen - or will soon see - the price that Bharat will extract for her "help" in the Civil War. Indian scum - they force aged Persia to grovel on her belly and lick clean the mud and blood from their jackboots. I'm afraid I will not live long enough to see her rise again, but I can prepare the sight for my grandsons, or my grandson's grandsons.

I shall forge that vision on the Plain of the Dead.



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