WesWorld

October 18, 1940, Lash-e Joveyn, North of Lake Puzak
[SIZE=1]Excerpt from Completed All Objectives: the League in Afghanistan, 1940-41[/SIZE]

In the pre-dawn hours of October 18th, the Irish Air Corps units gathered at Zabol prepared for their toughest ordeal of the war. The troops of the warlord armies faced a long march back to the relative safety of their citadel of Farah, but it was General MacDonald's hope to "eat them up on the march". Although only the mechanized and motorized elements of the Irish Army had any realistic hope of overtaking the retreating enemy, the Persians and Afghan tribal troops would be vulnerable to air attack for the length of their hundred and forty kilometer long march. In the hopes of laming the fleeing enemy, the Irish brought together twelve Fw190s, eight Lysanders, six Hs129 ground attack planes and four Avro Ansons and tasked them with stopping the march.

Over the next three days, the thirty-four aircraft based at Zabol flew six hundred eighteen sorties; dropped nine hundred bombs and six thousand 2kg bomblets; expended a hundred and fifty thousand rounds of ammunition; and used 375,000 liters (82,400 imp. gal) of aviation fuel.



It's like a big black snake, Dara-Leifteanant Liam Feeney mused to himself as he lined up his Henschel's nose for another strafing run. And I HATE snakes! The Persian and Afghan armies were on the run, marching in their long, drawn-out column along the desert road back towards Farah. There must be ten thousand men down there.

Feeney lined up his sights on a still-intact unit of infantry and pressed the firing stud. Rifle and machine gun fire, entirely too accurate in Feeney's opinion, splattered across the armoured nose and armoured glass canopy. But unlike the people shooting at him, Feeney had excellent armour protection on his GOFAB. He returned fire with his guns, and like a nest of disturbed ants, the troops scattered for the ditch and the open country. Along the side of the road a truck - Feeney had special orders about those - exploded in a big, beautiful fireball; Feeney applied a bit of rudder, a lot of power, and thundered on over the enemy column. A few slight thumps underfoot told him the Persian machine-gunners were still trying to bring him down.

That's naughty. I'd best take care of them before they try that against a Lysander or a Focke-Wulf...

Feeney circled back around for another run.



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

October 18, 1940, Lash-e Joveyn, North of Lake Puzak
Captain Alireza Hannaneh saluted as General Parwiz's command car drew alongside. "General."

"Captain. Why aren't your tanks moving?"

Hannaneh took a deep breath. "Sir, I'm just about out of gas. I was told to refuel my tanks here, sir, but when I arrived..." he waved to the old fuel truck that was burning on the side of the road.

"I see," Parwiz answered, sadness in his voice.

"There's not enough left to go around, and I know the infidels are only a few miles back, General," Hannaneh said. "If they've got fuel, then they could chase the whole army down." The Persian tanker knew from the look on Parwiz's face just how true that was likely to be. By Allah, it's all falling apart. "General, I would like to request..." Hannaneh took a deep breath. "I've still got enough ammo to make a good fight, sir, and this is a decent place. I've still got enough fuel to deploy. We can hold them here and give you time."

Parwiz closed his eyes and looked down. When he looked back up, Hannaneh saw the General's eyes were wet with tears. "I cannot ask you to do such a thing, Captain."

"I know you cannot, sir," Hannaneh replied. "But we volunteer."

Parwiz slowly rose and stood in the back of the car, drawing himself to a full, picture-perfect salute. "Allah protect you, Major Hannaneh."

"Thank you, General. And now you'd best get yourself going, sir - wouldn't be good for the Army if you lingered here too long, General!"



Captain Leith perched half out of his Crusader, field glasses to his eyes, and gazed forward at the retreating remnants of the Persian and Afghani armies. He was down to a mere fifteen Crusaders now, with the slower Matilda and the Valentines falling behind with the slowly marching infantry; only Duggan's motorized 2nd Battalion could keep up with the tankers now. Some of the infantry had also elected to ride en desant on Leith's Crusader, sitting haphazardly on the top of the tank's turret and rear deck.

At least, free of the leash, Leith thought to himself. While he knew his tanks had given invaluable service to the brigade, it pained him to be shackled so closely to infantry that was merely foot-mobile. Infantry support was not, he felt, the purpose of his tanks - well, not the Crusaders, at least - and now MacDonald had freed him to the job he'd been ready to do for weeks, months, years.

One of the infantrymen riding atop the turret pointed a grimy finger. "That one of our tanks, Captain?"

Leith pulled his field glasses back to his eyes. "Driver, HALT!" he shouted. "All right, you lot - DISMOUNT! Company deploy!" He realized belatedly he needed his radio handset for the command to be effective. "GALLOWGLASS to all tanks, deploy! Enemy armour ahead, range five hundred meters!"

The first shells screamed overhead. "Oh, masterfully done, sir," Leith said to his distant opponent. "And here I was thinking you'd be a skiver and spend the entire battle avoiding me! I've got you now!"

"Target!"

"Fire!"

The Crusader's six-pounder antitank gun roared, but Leith did not see if they'd scored a hit or not. The Persian tanks - Iberian-built Verdejas - were a third the size of the Crusaders, but still packed on a 45mm gun and two centimeters of armour, made possible by dropping the concept of the turret and leaving the vehicle open-backed. For the moment, this critical flaw made no difference, as the Persian Verdejas formed a long line backed by Agjar armoured cars.

A forlorn hope, Leith thought. They've been left to die to slow us up, so that the rest of the army can perhaps escape. He counted nearly a dozen Verdejas and nearly as many armoured cars behind them, probably a decent match for Leith's fifteen Crusaders, if only the range had been less. The low rolling terrain the Persians had staked out for defense wasn't enough for them to hide hull-down, and most of the vehicles were almost fully exposed.

The Irish tanks quickly fell out into their fire-and-maneuver elements, with half of them shooting while the other tanks moved. Four of Leith's Crusaders lurched to the west across the open country, sweeping around to outflank the Persian tankers in their turretless tanks. Several of the Verdejas fired at them as they went, but Leith didn't think their shooting was particularly accurate at the current ranges.

"Fire!"

Another shell shrieked overhead, tearing only three or four feet through the air over Leith's head, entirely too close. Leith dropped into the turret, but left the hatch open for the moment.

"Load!"

"Fire!"

One of the Verdejas exploded, ammunition cooking off a few moments later. Something hit Leith's Crusader and it rang like a bell, shaking up dust inside - but that appeared to be the worst of it.

"Load."

"Fire!"

"Turret track right - driver ADVANCE!" Leith commanded. As some of the Crusaders angled off to outflank the Persian defenders, it was necessary to keep up the pressure on the line. Find, fix, flank, finish.

Two more Verdejas began burning; one of the Crusaders halted with a thrown track, but the crew stayed aboard to keep shooting.

"Halt!"

"Target!"

"Target dead ahead, enemy tank - give me AP!"

"Loaded!"

"Fire!"

The flanking Crusaders slowly began to work their way back down the line of Persian tanks as Leith's main body rumbled forward in their shoot-and-move elements. One Crusader was apparently knocked out, one immobilized, and twenty minutes gone.

"Turret track right! Firing!"

"Got 'im!"

"Armoured car, one o'clock!"

"He's burning, give me another!"

"Advance!"

Leith poked his head back up out of the turret as the Crusader rumbled forward. The Persian armoured cars and tanks had cost him almost twenty minutes, and perhaps three dozen rounds of ammunition, but they were all burning nicely now, courtesy of the harder-hitting six-pounder guns. The crew of the knocked-out Crusader climbed woozily out of their tank, while the infantry - those dismounted from the tanks and those from the ACW-IPs further behind them - swarmed over the Persian defensive line, taking the few survivors prisoner.

Leith frowned and shook his head sadly. "Brave men. What a waste."



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

October 18, 1940, Delaram
Khaled Hashem Maqsoodi suppressed a flash of rage as he read the carefully-worded message. "Chakhansun fallen; relief column delayed by enemy action and returning to Farah. If you have not reduced Delaram by the evening of the 18th, fall back under cover of darkness. P."

"Parwiz must think I am a very stupid man," Maqsoodi mumbled to himself. He counts on us not having access to his radios - and withholds the things that he doesn't want us to hear. Such as the small fact that his "delay by enemy action" has, in fact, been a rather serious defeat. Maqsoodi paused to consider his options. There is no way I can take Delaram by this evening, not without incurring such casualties to make the prize too painful to contemplate. However, if I begin preparing now, I won't have to leave behind any of the heavy equipment I've captured from General Khan's divisions - and with all the gear I've taken, my forces will be as well-equipped as the Persians.

Maqsoodi was still contemplating the advantages this might give him when he heard the commotion outside his headquarters. Voices rose in alarm, and then came the roar of aircraft engines. Maqsoodi immediately ran for the slit trench as bombs fell.

By Allah, that's a lot of bombs, he thought, huddled in the trench a few moments later. Where are they all coming from? He poked his head up briefly as one of the aircraft came over. He'd gotten entirely too familiar with the sleek Irish Hurribombers and their three-color swirl roundel, but these were different aircraft with the Afghan flag painted on their tails.

That does not bode well.

As if sparked by that thought, Maqsoodi heard the rumble of distant artillery to the east.



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

October 18, 1940, Delaram
[SIZE=1]Excerpt from Completed All Objectives: the League in Afghanistan, 1940-41[/SIZE]

The attack of General Sherzai's 2nd Infantry Division on October 18th caught Sheikh Maqsoodi's troops by surprise. Their scouting arrangements to the east had been insufficient, and Sherzai's cavalry, supported by the Yugoslavian Pandurs who'd marched with them from Kandahar, had overwhelmed the pickets in the early hours of the morning.

Although Maqsoodi was reluctant to withdraw during the daytime, under the threat of the Delaram-based Irish Hurribombers, with the arrival of Sherzai's troops delay would prove fatal. Sherzai had massed nearly seven thousand men, supported by two full mountain artillery battalions, and his troops were widely acknowledged to be some of the best-disciplined and best-led in the Afghan National Army. As it was, even Maqsoodi's hasty retreat failed to prevent the 2nd Division from overwhelming small groups of tribal fighters too stubborn to retreat. The 2nd Division took this resistance in stride and crushed it quickly, barely even slowing their rate of advance.

At 1530 hours, General Sherzai - never an officer to wait patiently behind the lines - rode into the Delaram encampment, where he took command of the situation.



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

October 19, 1940, , Lash-e Joveyn, North of Lake Puzak
[SIZE=1]Excerpt from Airpower in Small Wars, 1912 to Present[/SIZE]

The continued pursuit of the League of Nations forces pressed with vigor on the rear of General Parwiz's retreating force. Although a few Persian Nationalist aircraft made their appearance on the morning of October 19th, they did not seriously hinder the Irish-led air operations from attacking the retreating army.

The difficulties of the Persian Nationalist troops and their Afghan allies quickly became acute. Ground-attack aircraft specifically targeted supply vehicles and pack animal trains. The only cover from air attack was the smoke of burning vehicles. The air attacks prevented the troops from moving forward on the road; but if the troops did not move forward on the road, they were overtaken by pursuing Irish and Czech tanks. Water and food shortages among the troops became evident, and some of the Afghans, knowing the country better, abandoned their heavy equipment and vanished into the Dashti Margo. Others struggled on until they were pinned down by air attack or fell from exhaustion. General Parwiz was forced to abandon his personal Voisin C28 command car after it was disabled by machine-gun fire.

As the League troops advanced, they discovered the grim evidence of the effectiveness of their own airpower. Bodies lay amidst burned-out vehicles in the road. Wounded soldiers crawled to the edge of the highway to wait for capture or death. The Irish found a field ambulance abandoned on the side of the road, with six wounded left in side; the driver had fled into the desert, leaving the wounded to their own fate. Many soldiers of the rear-guard, as they were overtaken by their mechanized pursuers, stacked their arms in the road and waited to surrender, calling "water, water" or "doctor, doctor". In one case, an Irish soldier taken as a prisoner on October 16th, and marched along with the retreating army, found himself brought before the officers of a Persian Nationalist infantry company. The officers pushed a rifle into his hands, and then promptly surrendered, followed immediately by nearly a hundred men of the company.

By the afternoon of October 19th, the League pursuit finally ended as they reached the limit of their own tenuous supply lines, now weighed down by the need to feed and guard thirty five hundred prisoners. Estimates of casualties from the air attack ranged anywhere between one to four thousand men. Others, estimated at several thousand Afghans, deserted and fled into the Dashti Margo.



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

October 19, 1940, Mid-morning - Southwest of Farah
2,500 meters

It was already the second mission of the day, and Captaen Edmund Flood felt the tiredness from the long week. He'd flown seven sorties the day before, and only missed an eighth because the mechanics had grounded his Focke-Wulf for necessary engine repairs.

The range from the League's base in Zabol to Parwiz's retreating army was beginning to take its toll on the sortie rate of the airmen. On previous days, the sortie rate had been high, as the aircraft only had to make a short hop to reach the retreating Persians, but now the range was over a hundred kilometers, and the aircraft were losing time and spending precious fuel in transit to the target.

Worse, we're getting closer to Farah and the Persian air base. I just wish I'd gotten the Henschels in Zabol before now, or I'd have taken the chance of attacking their airfield and leveling it. I know they've still got planes they can use.

Flood looked out his canopy and found the road running towards Farah. Though the attacks of the previous days had whittled down the enemy, many still clung to the roads in an attempt to flee, and the men on the ground still fired at the aircraft with every rifle and machine-gun they had.

"Alright, boys, break by pairs and we'll get these guys," Flood said. "Soften them up for the GOFABs." He prepared to arm his single bomb, and on instinct checked his blind spots one last time.

Before his brain quite registered the sight, Flood heard himself say "Cancel that, everyone break right, now!"

Flood's quartet of Fw190s scattered across the sky, though Dara-Leifteanant Paddy McManus in Sparrow Four broke left instead of right. A trio of Macchis screamed past, pulling out of their dive.

"Jettison bombs, now!" Flood commanded. "Sparrow One to control, I have Macchis over the target area."



"Damn it!" Reza Yezdanian swore, twisting his MC.200 into a fast climb. It was such a perfect setup, if only they hadn't evaded at the last minute! These guys are as good as those Bharati fighter pilots! But I swear, by Allah, that they are not better than we are!

The Irish flight of four had broken apart in their last-moment evasive turn. One of the wing-pairs had stayed together in a loose combat formation - either they were a veteran team, or they'd learned from one. The second pair of Fw-190s had come apart, one fighter turning right with his leader and one left, probably in a momentary panic. That left him... vulnerable, but only for a few moments before the Irish flight leader could reform his quartet. Yezdanian wasn't about to offer him the chance.

Yezdanian banked again and used his energy to dive towards the lonely fighter. The pilot sideslipped, not quite expertly enough and much too soon to be necessary; Yezdanian bored in, letting the Irish pilot waste his efforts to jink, and lined up for a point-blank shot. The Macchi's guns chattered, and though the 190 took hits, it wasn't enough to knock the plane down. Abruptly, the Focke-Wulf nosed up sharply; Yezdanian had to snap-roll to port to avoid a collision, and oncoming Irish fighters filled his gunsite.



"Get him off me, get him off me!" McManus shouted over the radio, his voice shrill. Flood's mind calmly dissected the situation: the most junior pilot in the flight had gotten separated from the mutual protection of the rest of the flight, and the Persians were too veteran to let a mistake like that slip.

"Pull up, Four, pull up!" McManus's wingman was too far away to offer anything but encouragement; but McManus yanked the stick back and climbed until he stalled his plane. Damn it, kid, stop making mistakes! Flood thought to himself. But the maneuver, more brute force and desperation than skill, threw off the trailing Macchi, and he rolled away to avoid a collision. He rolled straight towards Flood's inbound fighter.

Flood passed the Macchi head-on at over a thousand kilometers an hour [1]. Neither of them fired - there was no time to line up the target, and Flood knew better than to waste his ammunition. One of the Persian fighters stayed with their leader, but the third dove to shoot at McManus's Fw-190 as he recovered from his stall. As Flood circled around and looked back, the Focke-Wulf caught fire and headed for the ground, though a parachute snapped open in the sky.



"Down one infidel!" Kayhan Khorsandi crowed over the radio. It was his fifth kill, Yezdanian knew - it made him an ace.

"Get back in formation!" Yezdanian snapped. Kayhan's dive to get the kill had drawn him away from the rest of the Persian Macchis, just as the Irish Fw-190 had been picked off away from his companions. If the Irish commander saw it, then Kayhan would be in trouble. But the Irish Focke-Wulfs turned to sweep back towards Yezdanian and his wingman.

Then a chill waltzed up his spine as his wingman came on the radio. "Four more fighters," he called out. "Twelve o'clock high. They're coming down..."

Three versus eight. That's not good odds...



Two planes of the second flight of Fw-190s jettisoned their bombs and dove on the lone Macchi that had shot down McManus; the other two kept their bombs and stayed at four thousand meters as high cover. The two newcomers, the second flight of Flood's squadron, swiftly went in vengeful pursuit, and Flood quickly ignored them.

"Two and Three. On me. We're going to put these guys in the dirt where they belong," Flood snapped.

Easier said than done. The two Macchis winged over and dove for the rough terrain below, apparently hoping that the Irish Focke-Wulfs would decline to fight "on the deck". Think again.

Flood pushed the throttle all the way to the stops and felt the power surge through the fighter. The Macchis went low, but although the ground was rough there was not enough relief to make piloting difficult; and Flood maintained his altitude until it was time to dive. "Three. You take the wingman. I'm taking the leader," Flood said. "Two, stay high and loose, and watch for these guys to evade and try to turn the tables on us. If you get a good shot, take it."

The Macchis stayed low and ran flat-out, but the Fw-190s with all their power slowly reeled them in and dove. The range closed. Unlike the dogfight a few days prior, though, Flood knew this time that the Persian pilots were not blind to the danger behind them - the wingman's plane twitched as he tried to keep an eye on the planes behind and above him.

"They're about to maneuver now," Flood announced. "Watch for it..."

The lead Macchi broke to port, and the wingman to starboard. Flood followed the wingman through his turn, only to find the Macchi banking back around and intentionally setting up a flat scissors. Flood immediately pulled up, using superior speed to climb and keep from getting pulled into the scissors with the slightly more nimble Macchi. The climb left him in a position to re-engage the leader's plane, and Flood dove again, closing to seventy-five yards and opening fire.



The terrain flashed by outside Yezdanian's canopy as he pulled the scissors maneuver. It was a horrible risk letting the Irish fighters close in on their tails, but Yezdanian had seen no other way to fight them. At altitude, he'd already learned the Irish Focke-Wulfs could outrun and outclimb the Macchis, and so Yezdanian trusted in the Macchi's formidable maneuverability, hoping he could force the Irish pilot into a maneuver he couldn't escape from.

Yezdanian lost the Irish fighter in his turn, but felt certain he knew when and where it would reappear, hopefully in his gunsights. He'd pulled this maneuver three times before, once against an Indian pilot, and scored two of his kills this way...

The infidel isn't there. Where is he? What did he do...?

Cannon shells tore through his plane as the Fw-190 reappeared above him, renewing the fight from an attacking position. Yezdanian's plane shuddered and screeched under the hits, and the ground suddenly filled the canopy.

I suppose I'm too low and too late to try to bail out. Well, at least it won't hurt for very long, Yezdanian thought to himself.



Notes:
- Note [1]: I.E., both aircraft are traveling at least 310mph / 500 kph and pass each other head-on.



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

October 20, 1940
[SIZE=1]Excerpt from The League of Nations Sourcebook, Volume Four (1940-1950)[/SIZE]

While General Parwiz's failure to break past the Irish defenders at the Battle of Lake Puzak, and Maqsoodi's failure to secure Delaram, resulted in the end of Parwiz's plan, the heavy casualties taken on the retreat back to Farah turned a mere failure into a catastrophe. Although General MacDonald terminated his pursuit and aerial bombardment of the Western Force on October 20th, General Sherzai pursued Maqsoodi until the 22nd, although he was unable to bring the Afghan warlord to battle. By October 25th, however, the League forces had largely re-established themselves in the general vicinity of Chakhansun and Zaranj, waiting to again build up their supplies before the inevitable push on Farah.

With the defeat and discrediting of the other main Afghan commanders, Sherzai received command of all Afghan National Army forces in western Afghanistan. Although the forces at his disposal were much lessened, the League commanders had a much smoother working relationship and higher trust in Sherzai, treating him as a co-equal.

By the end of October, with the exception of some rear-area security operations, combat operations largely ceased in the Chakhansur Province.



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

November 5, 1940, , Delaram
"Pass the word for Lieutenant MacDonald - Major's CP!"

"Sergeant, I'm looking for Lieutenant MacDonald - you seen him?"

"Saw him five minutes ago talking to Captain Healy over by the motorpool."

"Thanks sergeant."

"Where you going so fast, corporal?"

"Sir, the General wants to see Lieutenant MacDonald. Sergeant Harris said he saw him talking to you a few minutes ago."

"Sorry, corporal, he was heading over to Post Fifteen. If you run, you can probably catch him up before he gets to the wire."

"Thanks sir."

"Lieutenant MacDonald!"

"What's the matter, corporal?"

"General MacDonald wants to see you at the Major's CP, sir, soonest."

"Thank you, corporal."



General MacDonald settled himself down into the chair while he waited. What a day. What a month... what a year. Major Duggan excused himself, leaving MacDonald alone for only a few moments before quiet footsteps crunched in the gravel outside the tent.

"Lieutenant MacDonald, reporting as requested, sir."

The general stood and returned the lieutenant's salute. "At ease, Lieutenant." He smiled, and grabbed his son by the shoulders, pulling him into a hug.

"Aw, come on, Pa! The men are probably watching!"

The elder MacDonald snorted. "Let them. I'm the commanding general, and I'm entitled to my quirks. It says so in the Army regulations." He sighed happily. "How have things been here with 5th Battalion, Aidan? And what on earth did you do to your face?"

"We're low on shaving razors this week," Aiden MacDonald answered.

"That's more than a week's growth."

"Well, we were low on shaving razors last week, too. But it's fine; most of 5th Battalion has let it grow out. I know it's not regulation, Pa, but it actually helps a bit in dealing with some of the locals - it improves their attitudes towards us. You should try it."

"Possessing large quantities of artillery also improves their attitudes, and your mother would kill me if I ever grew a beard. She hates them." The general shook his head and laughed. "But I'm afraid I didn't fly up to Delaram for pleasantries. I need you for task."

Aiden slipped into the seat across from his father. "A task?"

"Yes. I'm not going to order you to take it, but you're the second-best man for the job."

"Only second-best, huh? Thanks, Pa."

"It ought to be my job. But after I winged off to meet with the Hazaras during the Battle of Gereshk, I got strict orders from my commanders not to, quote, 'take unnecessary personal risks' again."

Aiden laughed. "As if orders from someone in Dublin or the League would stop you from doing what you thought you needed to do?"

"That's true, but don't repeat that anywhere." General MacDonald shook his head. "No, this is a job I'd prefer to do myself, but it's not a desperate enough one that I literally can't delegate it. In this case, though, you're one of the most highly qualified men in the Field Force for this position."

"Oh? Why's that?"

"Because you're a MacDonald." The general opened his attache case and removed a folder of maps and documents. "Let me explain the job, and I'll let you tell me if you want to take it. Needless to say, don't talk about this to others, etc etc... Here. This is the city of Chakhcharan, in the Ghowr Province. It's nominally part of the territory still controlled by the Afghan rebels, but that's mainly due to the presence of a group of Persian troops, who support a Pashtun tribal militia. The locals are overwhelmingly loyal Tajiks, however, and there's a band of them led by an old tribal chief, Hakim Mojadeddi. The Persians call them the... I don't remember the term, but it translates as 'the Ghosts of Ghowr'."

"Sound like nice folks."

"Mojadeddi has been an outlaw for quite some time, and he's a mortal enemy of Ismatullah Zadran. It's rather interesting from another stand-point, as well - Mojadeddi's daughter married Zadran's son, Daud Sardar Zadran, who's joined with his father-in-law with a band of loyalist Pashtuns from the Herat area." He sighed. "Local politics, all very confusing and messy... The point is, Daud Zadran and Mojadeddi are both enemies of our enemies, and I petitioned for the Shah to give a pardon to them both."

Aidan grinned. "So the enemies of our enemies are also our friends' enemies, but our friends' enemies are not so much the enemies of our friends that they can be friends and not enemies?"

General MacDonald paused for a few moments, clearly trying to parse the statement. "I really hate it when you do that."

"I got it from Ma."

"I really hate it when she does that, too."

"Yet you married her anyway, Pa."

"She was clever, rich, beautiful, and feisty. And many other excellent things that I didn't even know about until I married her. But I was talking about Chakhcharan."

"And our enemies' enemies?"

General MacDonald wagged a finger. "Don't start with that again, boy. I want to bring Hakin Mojadeddi and Daud Sardar Zadran, and their fighters, into combat against the Afghans and Persians in Herat. The Afghans know, roughly, where their rebels are holed up, but there's not much of a way to contact them; and a few Afghan agents have also sounded the two of them out regarding an alliance with them. Mojadeddi is cautious of our offers, but news of our victory at Lake Puzak has improved the mood of a lot of the local Afghans; and the Afghans say that the MacDonald name carries quite a bit of weight now."

MacDonald paused again. "That's why, in a perfect world, I ought to go deal with this. But the issue is not pressing enough for me to take a week or more to go haring off into the middle of Afghanistan and negotiate any agreements myself."

"Ah," Aidan said. "I see. While you can't do the job, sending me to contact them is the next best option."

"Because you're my son, and therefore you'd represent me better, to them, than if I sent the best, most qualified, highest-ranking men in the Field Force to talk with them. Family counts for a lot here."

Aidan sat quietly for a few moments. "I presume it's dangerous?"

"Likely in ways we can't anticipate, yes."

"General MacDonald, I'd like to volunteer for special missions."

"Accepted, Lieutenant. Your mother's going to kill me."

"Don't tell her about my beard, and I won't tell her about this mission."

"I really hate it when you do that. But agreed."



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

November 5, 1940, Nebandan, Persia
Bijan Hatami sat in a metal chair at a metal table, his arms still tied behind his back. His Persian interrogators had left him alone for a bit over an hour now, listening to the scratchy sounds of rats in the walls of the police station. There was something dark that stained the surface of the metal table - Hatami thought it was blood, which naturally alarmed him.

So much for the reports of the Lapdogs' so-called offer of clemency, Hatami thought. No, perhaps they've just over-reacted...

Hatami heard a truck stop outside the police station; the engine stopped. A few long minutes passed before he heard voices arguing in Persian; he managed to overhear a few words here and there. Then footsteps outside; keys in the door. Two Loyalist policemen walked into the room, Mauser rifles in hand in case of trouble. Behind them were two men in completely different uniforms, both wearing pistols in Sam Browne belts. Hatami did not even need to see the green, white and orange tricolor patch on their shoulder sleeves to know who they were.

The older Irishman sat down directly across from Hatami, and the younger man stood to the side. The younger man was the translator, apparently, as the older man spoke in a language Hatami didn't understand - not English, he knew that one well - while the younger man translated to Persian. "You are Major Bijan Hatami?"

He nodded.

"Lately of General Parwiz's intelligence staff?"

"Yes."

"Why are you here?"

Hatami sighed. "The lapdogs made a general offer of clemency. I'm tired of war." Hatami paused before forging ahead. "Especially after what you Irish did to us on the Farah road." The two Irishmen appeared unmoved by the reference, but both of the Persian policemen visibly twitched. That's interesting, Hatami thought.

The two Irishmen talked among themselves for a few moments, then the senior officer rose and left the room. The translator sat down in the freshly-vacated chair and drew out a package of cigarettes. Hatami expected the Irishman was about to offer him one; it was a good way for an interrogator to show friendliness towards a prisoner and get him to open up. But then the Irishman simply lit his own cigarette and sat back in the chair.

"The Persian police think you're on a special infiltration mission for Parwiz," he remarked offhand. "The local police chief seems to think you're better off up against a wall. Seems very unhappy."

I suppose that might explain why I'm tied up. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"There's a Pushtigerbomb officer outside, too," the Irishman continued, apparently intentionally mangling the pronunciation of the name. "You're a very popular sort of chap."

"I'm encouraged to hear it," Hatami said. "The more people who want to talk to me, the less likely the police chief here will put me up against a wall."

The Irishman threw back his head and laughed. "Ha, you're right about that. You know, of course, that there are a few things you can do to help yourself. From what I've heard, you've done this sort of work plenty of times before, Major - so I'm not going to bother with the posturing."

Hatami raised an eyebrow. "Do you make deals?"

"Within reason, yes. Provided we benefit appropriately."

"I would appreciate a warm meal and a mattress tonight. I'm tired of sleeping on the ground."

"We're asking the Persian police to remit you into our custody," the Irishman said. "If they agree, that will be an easy thing to take care of; I will see what I can do until then. In the meantime, we'd like to know about the defenses of Farah."

Hatami considered. "That's worth more than a mattress and a meal."

The older Irishman - O'Grady - returned to the interrogation room and interrupted whatever response the younger man was planning to give. They talked for a few moments, and then the younger Irishman turned back to Hatami. "We've received permission to take you into custody; we'll drive back to Zabol tonight. In the meantime, I'd like to ask that you think about my question, and what you'd want to deal for it."



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

November 6, 1940, Delaram
Leifteanant Robert "Roy" Hyde continued his slow walk-around of his Lysander. Old beat-up PI-270 "L" had seen better days and better paint, but Hyde loved his kite, giving her (it was of course a 'her') the name Patches. Of course, she'd earned that nickname. There were probably three dozen patches on her now - fuselage, wings, tail, even a patch on the pilot's seat (Hyde did not want to think too much about that one). He'd even been shot down once in Patches, courtesy of some hot-shot Persian Nationalist in a Macchi. Hyde had set her down light, only breaking a propeller and the tail wheel, and had extinguished the fire in the engine using the onboard extinguisher and copious handfuls of sand.

It had taken Hyde a week to steal, er, requisition a truck to tow poor Patches to Zabol, where he'd gotten the engine replaced with a still-shiny-in-the-box Mercury. The tail-wheel was mended by a local Persian blacksmith, who'd enthusiastically accepted in barter a bottle of whiskey and the propeller hub from the old smashed Mercury. At least Hyde thought he'd accepted it - it was a bit tough to figure since the man didn't speak English.

Then on the flight between Zabol and Delaram some idiot Afghans wandering the desert had put five more holes in poor Patches. Those heathen sons of so-and-sos, shooting more holes in my poor plane. But I've got the solution for next time that happens - oh yes I do.

Hyde's two passengers came strolling across the packed-earth parking area. The leader was a scraggly-bearded Irish Army lieutenant in an usually clean and well-pressed uniform. One step behind him was a man in a dirty Afghan NCO's uniform, complete with turban. Both men carried packs, and the Afghan NCO carried a carbine length Czech Mauser slung over his shoulder. Though the NCO's uniform was dirty, Hyde noted his rifle was cleaned, the leather sling well-oiled, and while his uniform was not new, it had been well-cared-for.

"You must be Leifteanant MacDonald," Hyde said, exchanging salutes.

"I am, yes. You must be Hyde."

"Pleased to meet you. You look like your fa... er, like General MacDonald, only with a beard."

"Everyone tells me that." The Army lieutenant looked over the Lysander. "We're flying to Chakhcharan in this?"

Hyde stiffened. "Now, Leifteanant, Patches has been through a lot, but she's a rock-solid kite! She's got a brand-new Mercury in her, and even if she looks beat-up, she'll get you there and back again, don't you worry."

"Sorry - that's not what I meant," MacDonald said quickly. "I didn't mean to imply that, er, Patches wasn't good enough. I mean, can we all fit inside? I thought the Lysander had just a pilot and observer - and will it have enough fuel to get to Chakhcharan?"

"Oh," Hyde said. "Sorry, I... didn't realize what you were asking. In a normal Lysander, it would be a bit of a stretch, but we've made a lot of modifications to Patches. This thing here underneath is an auxiliary fuel tank with almost hundred liters. Combined with our internal fuel, we can go fifteen hundred kilometers with a full load. It's only three hundred klicks up to Chakhcharan, and Patches could do that with a full bomb load. For space, the gunner's position in here got reorganized so there's two seats for you and space for your gear."

MacDonald looked inside, then back at Hyde.

"I didn't say it would be comfortable," Hyde said. He glanced towards the Afghan officer. "Unless he's just here to see you off."

"Sergeant Azimi is my translator," MacDonald said. "Leifteanant, this is Sergeant Sher Ismail Azimi of the Afghan National Army; he's on detached service. Sergeant, this is Leifteanant Hyde, Robert Hyde, Irish Air Corps."

Sergeant Azimi stood to attention and made a picture-perfect salute that would have thrilled the hearts of drill instructors the world over. "A pleasure to meet you, Lieutenant Hyde Robert Hyde."

"Er, just Robert Hyde. And how about you just call me 'Roy'," Hyde suggested. "I prefer to be informal when there are no senior officers around." He waved towards the Lysander. "Well, I'd suggest we be about it, gentlemen."



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

November 7, 1940, Lor Koh, east of Farah
Khosro Parwiz rubbed his eyes and shivered as he looked out across the bleak landscape. His small group of mounted bodyguards stayed on the alert - not that their perception and devotion to duty would matter. If any enemies had managed to penetrate this far into the maze of canyons and gullies of Lor Koh, then they'd have all too many places to set up an ambush.

As they entered the next part of the canyon, Parwiz looked up at the great walls of rock that rose on either side. Here, the sky was just a tiny sliver of gray and blue squeezed out and drowning in an ocean of stone.

Maqsoodi's Afghan tribesmen had warred from these mountain canyons for at least a millenia, and as the technology of modern war trickled into the remote corners of Afghanistan, the tribesmen had improved their defenses accordingly.

The defensive positions are acceptable on their own, but the terrain makes them quite formidable, Parwiz thought to himself, and glanced up at a sangar perched on a ledge of the canyon wall. "Too bad we have so few machine guns left - that would be a good place for it," Parwiz commented to his aide, who rode a tough Afghan horse a few paces behind him. "We're immune to the tanks, the aircraft, and the artillery down here, and a single machine gun could sweep the approaches for as long as the ammunition lasts. A defending company in this terrain could hold off a regiment!"

The Afghan soldiers nearby nodded and smiled, obviously buoyed by the Persian general's assessment. Allah knows they need their spirits lifted, Parwiz thought. There are a lot fewer of us after my disaster.

Just a bit under two thousand of Parwiz's Persians had returned from the Battle of Lake Puzak, though most of the thousand-odd Persians sent with Maqsoodi's Eastern Force had returned. Ismatullah Zadran's Afghans had suffered far worse, though Parwiz suspected many of them had merely quit the struggle and deserted into the Dashti Margo and the mountains. He'd taken nearly fifteen thousand men south to pinch off seven thousand League troops; only three thousand men returned to Farah.

They handed me my @$&(. Parwiz still didn't know what he'd done wrong in the campaign or the battle itself, or what he could have done differently given the tools he had at hand. He was still stunned at the magnitude of it all - he'd expected the possibility of defeat, and made plans in case his attack failed; but even his worst-case scenarios had fallen short of the actual events.

"General, we're here," the Afghan guide reported.

"Thank you," Parwiz said with aplomb, trying to disguise his own internal anguish and self-disgust. He glanced around and found himself in a more open area with trees; a cave nearby had been drilled into the rock. Maqsoodi emerged from the cave mouth a few moments later.

"General Parwiz, my friend," Maqsoodi said. "Welcome to Kale-e Kanesk."

"Thank you, my friend," Parwiz replied. "This is a formidable place you have here."

"It is indeed. Kale-e Kanesk is the best and most defensive of the canyons here; a natural fortress. The infidel aircraft cannot touch us here, though they have flown over several times. Twin engine planes - not the famed 'Hurri-bombers', though."

"Oh?" Parwiz replied. He glanced at one of his Persian officers, a radioman who'd stayed with Maqsoodi's headquarters since the start of the fighting. "Their Henschels?"

The Persian lieutenant shook his head. "No sir, not Henschels. These flew faster and higher. I did not recognize them."

"They cannot strike at us in these canyons anyway, General," Maqsoodi said. "I've placed the anti-aircraft guns we captured from the infidel-lovers ad set them up to cover the canyons. But come - we have many things to discuss, and I'm sure you need refreshment. Join me inside."



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

November 6, 1940, over Ghowr Province
Sergeant Azimi threw up again into the small bag and cursed the day he'd volunteered to become a translator for the League troops. If I hadn't volunteered, then I wouldn't have ever had to fly in an airplane. Especially not THIS tiny airplane. Oh God, here it comes again...

The Lysander sank abruptly as it passed over another snow-covered ridge, and Azimi's stomach flew up into his throat - again. He didn't have anything left inside it, by now, but that didn't prevent him from feeling like he was being turned inside out.

Lieutenant MacDonald pulled a piece of hard candy out of his uniform pocket. "Here, chew on this. It might help you."

Azimi pushed it into his mouth without even realizing it was still in the twisted paper wrapper. Once he got the paper off, it was surprisingly calming to his stomach, enough so that when the Lysander cleared the next ridge and wobbled, Azimi didn't feel an overwhelming need to retch in the bag.

"We've started our descent," Hyde shouted from the front of his cockpit.

Now we're going to die, Azimi thought to himself. I will die in the company of unbelievers. How has my life gone so wrong? Though, on mature reflection, these foreign unbelievers didn't seem to be bad.

"Where's the runway?" the young MacDonald shouted over the roar of the engine. Though both Irishmen looked to be at ease with the way the flight was going, It was not the sort of question which inspired Azimi's confidence.

"Packed snow runway," Hyde replied. "I wish we had landing skis to fit on this bird, but I lowered the tire pressure - so we shouldn't have any problems. Now hold on!"

Azimi gripped the side of the plane with white-knuckled hands. He knew he shouldn't feel quite so afraid - after all, neither Hyde nor MacDonald appeared to be expecting an imminent departure from the Earth, and they'd clearly flown quite a bit before, judging by their imperviousness to airsickness and turbulence.

The Lysander descended towards a snow-draped valley field, the roar of the engine fading slowly to a dull growl. The wheels touched down and...

Azimi was thrown forward at the sudden decrease in speed, smacking his head into Lieutenant MacDonald, who was in turn thrown forward into fuel tank that separated the pilot and passenger compartments. The airplane seemed to tumble about chaotically, and Azimi screamed, not particularly caring now that it might be unmanly.

Some time later, Azimi realized the plane was motionless, and the fact that he was still screaming meant that he was apparently still alive.

"Hey! Hold yer whist, there, for the love of God!" Hyde shouted from the cockpit. "We're down, now, so stop that useless noise!" He got out of the aircraft and sank knee-deep into the snow. "Well, I guess lowering tyre pressure doesn't help with this much snow," he said. "At least the plane doesn't seem to be damaged."



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

November 6, 1940, over Farah
385mph at 5,500 meters

A little wooden airplane buzzed overhead taking photos. The plane wore fresh paint and light RAF-style desert camouflage, but it wore the Irish rather than the British roundel. The pilot, Leifteanant Hector Macken, glanced over at his navigator.

"Done," Sergeant William Tisdall reported. "Though I wish they'd let us fly lower."

"That'll be tomorrow's work, Macken said. He dipped the port wing and eased back on the throttle, and the beautiful-sounding Merlins slowed and changed their orchestral tune. Two months before, Macken and Tisdall had been flying Fairey Swordfish; and now Macken had the most magnificent plane he'd ever flown.

"I hope this new camera works better than the last one," Tisdall complained. "We might have some pretty good pictures if it did."

"Good," Macken said. "Word is, the General's pretty interested in getting good recon on this place. It'd be nice to deliver. So what's my course back to Kandahar?"



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

November 6, 1940, outside Chaghcharan, Ghowr Province
Roy Hyde looked in disgust at his trapped Lysander. The plane itself was undamaged - a miracle considering that it had come to a halt barely two plane-lengths from where its wheels had touched down in the snow.

"We're not getting this plane out in this deep snow," Hyde said to MacDonald. "Now, if I could get some skis, or get some locals to shovel out a few hundred feet of snow..."

"Speaking of the locals," MacDonald said quietly.

Hyde immediately reached into the Lysander, but MacDonald motioned for him to stop. "If you're going to grab a gun, don't. They're covering us; you'll just get us shot. Sergeant Azimi? If you please?"



Hakim Mojadeddi made his way through the deep snow to where his men held the two foreigners and their Afghani translator at gunpoint. As yet, none of Mojadeddi's Tajiks had made a move to disarm the men - the farangi officer had a sidearm on a Sam Browne belt, and the Afghani translator had a Mauser slung over his shoulder. Both held their hands free, just far enough away that they showed they weren't going try to shoot it out. The third man, obviously the airplane's pilot, wore no visible weapon but his leather jacket could have covered a sidearm. Still, he seemed most jumpy of the three, apparently undecided whether or not to raise his hands or keep them lowered.

The airplane had clearly become stuck in the snow; an interesting predicament. Mojadeddi knew from rumor that the Foreign Mercenaries had airplanes, and this one wore a patchwork of desert colors, with a green and orange swirl on the sides and wings.

The farangi leader turned towards Mojadeddi, seeing his approach, and slowly brought his hand up in a salute. Mojadeddi returned it sloppily, as it had been many years since his service in the Afghani Army, and he didn't care for it. The farangi half-turned to the translator and spoke, while Mojadeddi evaluated him. Young, but still confident and composed, even surrounded and outnumbered by my fighters. Meets my eyes, doesn't flinch. Uniform in good condition, but not many decorations.

"Khan Hakim Mojadeddi," the Afghani soldier translated, "Lieutenant Aiden MacDonald, of the Irish Army and the League of Nations Field Force, offers you his greetings and a request to speak with you on the behalf of his father, General MacDonald."

The name sparked an audible ripple of surprise around the group of listening Tajik fighters, and even Mojadeddi, who had worked hard to cultivate a stoic face, raised an eyebrow in surprise. "The fighting general MacDonald, the Irishman, the commander of the Battle of Lake Puzak? We have heard of this battle, and heard many things about him. This is his son?"

"Yes, Khan," the translator replied.

"Interesting," Mojadeddi mused. Interesting indeed. If nothing else, a valuable hostage - though if the reports are true of these formidable League farangi, it would be wise to avoid antagonizing them without good cause. It would seem that Ismattulah Zadran and his allies have chosen badly and are now feeling their wrath. I have heard many good things spoken of this Irish general, though; perhaps he may be a farangi worth listening to.

Before Mojadeddi could respond, one of the Tajik scouts ran up. With a quick glance at the foreigners, the scout quietly passed on his message to Mojadeddi, who frowned and nodded.

"It appears that the Persians have seen your plane landing and have come out with a large patrol. Irishman, I will hear what you have to say, but unless you want to speak it to the Persians as well, then we must move back to more hidden places."



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

November 7, 1940, The League Encampment, Zaranj
It had been some time since all of the League Field Force commanders had been together in the same room, this time with the addition of the Yugoslavian commander, Major General Stefanovic, and a small group of Afghani commanders led by Keramuddin Sherzai. MacDonald was relieved to see that the Afghani commanders were all first-class soldiers, just like their chief; and Stefanovic and his Yugoslavian commanders had smoothly meshed into the LONAFF's command structure.

"All right, gentlemen, please be seated; let's begin," MacDonald said. "You've all had time to look over the circular I've put out, I hope." When all the commanders nodded, MacDonald opened his notes and nodded to Major Wilkinson, who put up the first map. "The goal of our next operation is, of course, Farah. The remnants of the Persian Nationalist troops fell back here after our battle three weeks ago, though some have since moved onward to Herat.

"Our intelligence sources indicate that most of the defenders of Farah will be Maqsoodi's tribal fighters, the men General Sherzai drove back from Delaram. Although their numbers are difficult to ascertain, we estimate that Farah is defended by anywhere between four to six thousand men, including no less than a thousand Persian Nationalists; however, they have taken quite significant defensive measures."

Wilkinson set a few aerial photographs up of a mountain.

"This is Lor Koh, a mountain east of Farah. Maqsoodi has previously used it as a strongpoint, and according to our intelligence services, he has continued refining its defenses. A few defectors have confirmed that, if attacked, Maqsoodi and Parwiz will likely abandon Farah rather than fight inside the town, and whill use the mountain of Lor Koh as a defensive bastion to launch raids on our forces.

"Parwiz's stated goal is to cause the League forces enough casualties to discourage us and cause our recall; he believes that if he can survive six months until the LONAFF's mission ends, then he can continue holding off the Afghan National Army, and return to his raids into Persia once we're gone. Holding Lor Koh as a defensive bastion is thus a key part of his strategy. This is why we're going to take Lor Koh away from him."

Wilkinson finished setting up a few more large-scale photographs, and MacDonald gestured to them. "These drawings and photographs show the difficulty of our task. The mountain has a number of narrow canyons impassable to armoured vehicles, and restrictive even for infantry. Inside the canyons, the enemy has worked to make caves and fighting positions, some of which you can see on these aerial photographs.

"The plan is simple - but in this case, simple does not mean easy. As you are all aware, both the Czech Army," MacDonald nodded at General Pika, "And the Irish Army have reformed a battalion along the lines of the Yugoslavian Pandurs. Those three battalions will be formed into an assault battle-group, Chathgrupa Elbinger, with Major Elbinger of the Pandurs in overall command. Their goal will be the elimination of all Persian Nationalists and Afghan rebels from Lor Koh, which we have code-named Operation Gunnerside. Simultaneous with Operation Gunnerside, Chathgrupa Stefanovic will conduct Operation Countenance with the goal of seizing Farah and ending all resistance there. And finally, Chathgrupa Pika will conduct Operation Ironclad, launching from Delaram and advancing towards Herat, with General Sherzai's troops being the designated units to enter and seize the city.

"Let's go over the details, now..."



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

November 7, 1940, over Chaghcharan, Ghowr Province

Leifteanant Hector Macken rubbed his eyes as he stared down at the brilliant bright snow-covered mountains below. His Mosquito rumbled along a few hundred feet above the mountains, or at least the majority of them. Macken was just reaching to adjust the throttle when the radio buzzed.

"Head the ball, head the ball."

Macken snorted and switched his radio to 'talk'. "This is Iolar Four One, you're reading four by three. Please identify, over."

"This is Roy Hyde, of PI-270. And if I didn't know better I'd swear you were Angel Macken. But you should be flying Stringbags out of our lovely Emerald Isle. Over."

"Should be, but I moved up in the world," Macken replied. "What are you doing, Roy? Crashed again? Over."

"My Lysander got stuck in the snow, and we had to abandon it when some Persians approached. We're hiding in a cave with some Tajiks now. Over."

"Roy, I couldn't quite make that out," Macken said, grinning. "Did you just say you crashed again? Over."

"It got STUCK in the SNOW. Over."

"Sounds like a crash," Macken replied. "How are you talking to me if you abandoned your Sandy to the Persians? Over."

"We have a radio in the belly pod, and we dragged that with us. But the antenna's apparently damaged, so we can't raise Kandahar. Lucky stroke that you flew by; I've jury-rigged a short-range aerial for now. Over."

Macken frowned slightly. He responded to that fast; it's either the truth or had a well-prepared story ready. "What happened to your Sandy?"

"Persians came up with some of their Afghan friends and drove us away from the landing strip. Our Tajik friends saw them tow the plane down to Chaghcharan's landing strip."

"I see. So they've got an operational Sandy, then; I'll pass that on. What about your passenger? Does he have anything for me to report?"

"Moment," Hyde responded. "Okay, here's the message, and I quote. 'Vaudeville Thirty-One Dog Piemaker.' Also, we request the air-drop of several Breires and ammunition. That's all. Please repeat back, over."

Once Macken stopped laughing at the absurd code, he repeated it back. "Message is 'Vaudeville Thirty-One Dog Piemaker', and a request for airdropped Breires and ammo. Over."

"That's right. It'd be nice to have them by tomorrow night in box Adam Hotel Five Two. Over."

"Right. I'll pass the message on. Anything else, Roy? Over."

"Yeah, I'm freezing my bloody rear off with all this snow and I'm dressed in a glorified bedsheet. That's all, over."

"Make sure to take pictures of that. Will you be monitoring this channel?"

"I'll check it on the hour, but I want to save batteries. Over."

"Right. We'll take your message back and see what we can do for you. Iolar Four-One, over and out."

"PI-270 over and out."

Macken's navigator chuckled as the Mosquito turned back for Kandahar. "You know him, Lieutenant?"

"He was in the same basic training class as I was," Macken replied. "He had the record for the s#!)iest landing in Air Corps history."

"Oh?"

"Yeah," Macken said, laughing. "He cracked up a Tiger Moth in a farm field and got thrown out. Should have killed him, but he landed in a wagon filled with manure. Walked away without a scratch. With a stink, but without a scratch. He's crashed two more times since then that I know of - though he's never written off or seriously damaged a plane."

"Sounds like he's stolen a few spare lives from a cat and survived another one."

"Good thing, too. His passenger was General MacDonald's oldest boy. I'm sure glad I didn't have to tell the General last night that the plane he was in didn't return..."



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

November 9, 1940, The League Encampment, Zaranj
Major Elbinger watched the Czech troops move through the training course. It was a makeshift affair, with trenches laid out like the interior of a building, intended to teach the sort of close-quarters battle tactics that the Yugoslavian pandurs had been taught. Elbinger was pleased; both the Irish and the Czechs had been impressed enough with his Pandurs that they'd attempted to re-create their own versions; the Czech troops had even dubbed themselves Pandurs.

The Czechs stormed through the training course without serious mishap, and Elbinger nodded in approval to their commander, Captain Adolph Foglar. "Good work, captain. They've improved amazingly."

Foglar gave one of his rare smiles and replied in his broken English. "They taken to training remarkable good, since we see skills now we needed more weeks ago in fighting."

"I've noticed the same thing in my own men," Elbinger said. "They knew the business, but once they had their first fight, they all seemed to realize on a deeper-than-intellectual level why we do things like this." He paused. "Let's see them run through it again one more time tonight."

Foglar nodded and moved off to direct his company. Elbinger watched for a few moments until an Irish runner approached. "Captain Purcell's compliments, sir, and he asks if you have a few moments to observe a demonstration?"

"I suppose so," Elbinger replied.

The Irish Assault Pioneers company was one of the small units that were mimicking the Pandurs, although the Assault Pioneers had elected to focus almost exclusively on close-quarters battle, with their lightened 5th Battalion taking on much of the light infantry role. They'd set up their own training course in some abandoned outbuildings, and Captain Purcell and several junior officers and NCOs waited outside.

"Major. Thanks for coming," Purcell said, exchanging brief salutes.

"Not a problem, Captain. What did you wish to show me?"

"Got something special on the supply truck today," Purcell said. "Step inside, we'll show you." He waved Elbinger inside and gestured towards several stubby carbines laying out on the table. Elbinger frowned and picked one up; at first glance, it looked like an Enfield, but the barrel was shortened and had a cowling like a small water-cooled machine gun, and a pistol magazine stuck out where the .303 magazine ought to have been.

"The IRA used something similar when my Pa was in," Purcell said. "We got these made special out of some old Enfields. Works even better than the old IRA specials. It's called a Cronin Carbine."

"What's it do?" Elbinger asked, looking it over. There was a shortened bolt action, and nothing looked particularly unusual aside from its 9mm Parabellum ammunition.

"Sergeant?" Purcell prompted.

One of the Irish sergeants slid the bolt forward on a live round, and aimed it at a stack of sandbags at the other end of the chamber.

Pthfp. A bullet hole appeared in the sandbag, and the sergeant quietly worked the bolt. For a moment Elbinger thought the carbine hadn't fired, until the sergeant shot again. Pthfp. Pthfp. Pthfp...

Finally the sergeant finished and left the bolt open on the empty chamber. The loudest sound Elbinger had heard was the movement of the greased bolt, the quiet "Pthfp" which accompanied a trigger pull, and the sound of a 9mm Para round thumping into the sandbag.

"I think you can see the possibilities, Major," Purcell said quietly.



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

November 8, 1940, Chaghcharan, Ghowr Province
The container looked like a disused oil drum, just longer and with a set of latches and hinges on the side. Aiden knelt in the snow and unlatched the container, opening it up to find the contents as carefully-packed as a Christmas gift. There were more batteries for his radio, a box of emergency rations, and best of all, four well-oiled Breire Guns, thirty-round magazines, and boxes of .303 ammunition.

Hakim Mojadeddi stood by and watched the Irishman remove the machine gun, checking it over immediately. Mojadeddi and his mujaheddin had never had machine guns before, although the Persian troops who held Chaghcharan had several, and on many occasions Mojadeddi had been on the receiving end of their fire.

The two Irishmen quickly emptied the air-dropped container, with some of Mojadeddi's Tajiks helping them carry the load.

Back in the security of the caves and the valleys, Mojadeddi continued watching the foreigner officer as he took aside several of the Tajik fighters to teach them how to use the machine guns. The young MacDonald's demeanor surprised him; he seemed to relate almost instinctively with the tribal fighters, calmly explaining through his Afghan translator why the fighters needed to know what he was teaching, rather than merely demanding obedience. MacDonald even put on a blindfold and, by touch alone, disassembled the Breire to its smallest pieces, and then reassembled it again in a similar fashion. Then it was the turn of the tribal fighters, who, even without a blindfold, fumbled around trying to keep up the pace. When they floundered - all of them did eventually - MacDonald quietly but firmly corrected them, showed them their mistakes, and helped show them how to do better.

The other Irish officer, the pilot - Mojadeddi watched him as well. He was more out of place, without question; but he worked on maintaining his radio, and drank a bit from a hip flask that he'd acquired from somewhere.

Interesting men. I wonder, with the machine guns and help from the farangi airplanes, if we could take Chaghcharan back...



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

November 10, 1940, League Airbase at Kandahar
"The mission for today," Leifteanantchoirnéal Hector Carrollton began the briefing without preamble, "Is Lor Koh."

None of the pilots assembled said anything, but their chairs all simultaneously creaked as they leaned forward. They sat in Kandahar's only aircraft hanger, warmed by the winter sun but already thinking of the cold rocky mountain off to the northwest. They had all flown over it doing reconnaissance of some sort; they were all keen to see just what sort of raid they were about to undertake.

"Here's the target. We've identified a number of enemy positions in the canyons, here, here, and here. The Persians appear to be manning a number of antiaircraft guns captured from our Afghans; we've not located them precisely, but we believe there are between four and six 37mm guns, and a similar number of 20mm guns. The plan's to hit them from above the range of their AA, at seven thousand meters, and target the camp in this canyon, here..."



November 11, 1940, League Airbase at Kandahar
"I don't think we hit anything at all."

Carrollton frowned at the aerial photographs the morning's reconnaissance Mosquito had brought back. The previous day's raid had gone off without a loss, with his eight DH.98s bombing Lor Koh as scheduled. The rebel Afghans and their Persian advisers had put up a modest flak umbrella, apparently more interested in conserving their ammunition than trying to actually shoot down a high-flying Mosquito. Unfortunately, a mission without losses doesn't equate to 'success' in this case. Look at this - bomb hits scattered all over the mountainside, and nothing getting down into the canyons where the enemy actually is.

Number Two Squadron's commander, Captaen Sean O'Shea, shook his head at the photographs. "No good, sir. From this altitude, the wind's scattering our bombs across half the mountain. We need to go lower."

"That will put you in the reach of the Ack-Ack," Carrollton replied.

"Yes, but that's a risk we'll have to take, I'm afraid. My boys just aren't trained for this sort of high-altitude bombing."

Carrollton sighed. "I appreciate you not saying 'I told you so', Captaen. But I'm afraid you're right. We need to go lower."

"The mission for tomorrow," O'Shea muttered.



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

November 8, 1940, Near Chaghcharan
Aiden MacDonald sat staring into the crackling fire. Many of the Tajik tribal fighters had already turned in for the night, and the only movement in the caves came from the changing of the guards at the entrance. They're not Western soldiers by any means, Aiden thought to himself, but they're not ignorant, and they learn fast. Most of them are pretty good marksmen, too - better fire control than some of my own men, in fact.

There was a slight scuffling of boots on rock, and Hakim Mojadeddi sat down beside him at the fire. A bleary-eyed Sergeant Azimi, who apparently had been freshly-awakened, took the spot between Aidan and Mojadeddi. Daud Sardar Zadran, Mojadeddi's son-in-law, sat down on the other side, cradling his Mosin-Nagant in his lap. None of them said anything, but Mojadeddi unfolded a map drawn on cloth, and laid it on the ground in front of Aiden.

It didn't take Aiden very long to decypher the markings, and he glanced up at Mojadeddi. "Chaghcharan and its defenses. You want my opinion?"

Mojadeddi nodded and jabbered for a few moments; Azimi translated "He wants to know how the great Irish warlord MacDonald would take the town."

"With tanks, artillery, aircraft, and poor bloody infantry," Aiden replied with a chuckle. He looked closer at the map, and glanced at Mojadeddi. "There aren't many Persians."

"Less than two hundred," came the reply. "But they have mortars and machine guns."

"A badly-depleted fortress infantry battalion, it looks like," Aiden said. "And fewer of Zadran's tribal fighters than we'd been led to believe - five or six hundred, you say? But they have a fairly strong position in the town." He mulled it over. "How many fighters do the Tajiks have?"

Mojadeddi looked sly as Azimi translated his answer. "In these caves, two hundred and fifty. But he's sent word for others to gather, and since you Irish gave him machine guns, he thinks he can gather two thousand in the next few days."

"Two thousand?" Aiden said, incredulous.

Azimi talked for a few moments with Mojadeddi before replying. "Chaghcharan province is mostly Tajiks, but the Persians here support the Pashtun minority, which is loyal to Ismatullah Zadran. They have been afraid to stage an uprising as they would provoke retaliation from the Persian General Parwiz. But as it seems the Persians will soon be fighting for their lives against the great Irish warlord MacDonald, then it may be time to gather all the willing fighters and destroy the Persian invaders."



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