WesWorld

Having left Sergeant Finnegan with the main column King and four scouts had continued forward to view the reported phenomenon. Indeed, as they approached King could see a thin pall of smoke hanging in the air.

“See Sardar,” one of the harkis exclaimed, “there is no village yet there is smoke.”

The flat mesa seemed lifeless and almost devoid of cover. King ordered his men to dismount and they continued on foot, leading their horses. After some minutes King held up his hand to signal a halt – the ground seemed to rise slightly but King could see that it dropped off thereafter. Leaving two harkis with the horses King and the remaining two scouts crept forward over the small crest and saw before them a deep, rock-walled canyon filled with people and activity.

Through his field glasses King saw that there were green plots where workers tended crops, irrigated by waters drawn from an impounded stream. There were well-founded houses and a large fortress-like building, yet there were also fenced enclosures surrounding clusters of tents and ramshackle huts, and these seemed to contain many people, to judge from the foot traffic. Some of the more substantial buildings appeared to be workshops – from one arose a large plume of black smoke.

Then King noticed some activity in from of the largest building. A big burly man emerged and began to strike a gong that echoed across the canyon, and King noted that workers from all parts of the canyon began to converge on the place, some encouraged, he saw, by overseers bearing whips.


Mirza Ali Khan knew that his rule depended upon absolute obedience, particularly among the captives who laboured in his fields. That one of them might seek to escape was a crime not to be trifled with. The call to assembly was now finished, and the commotion outside his headquarters announced that it was time to mete out punishment. He strode out onto the dais in the forecourt and began to harangue the assembled captives.

“Children,” he said, “I am angered. I have treated you with kindness and how do you repay me? You would run away from this earthly paradise? Bring the prisoner forth!”

Two of his men frog-marched a half-naked Afghan from within and tied him, spread-eagled, to a frame that stood nearby.

“There is no escape from this place,” Mirza Ali Khan continued. “and this is the fate of those who would attempt to do so. Watch and learn.”

The bandit chieftain nodded, and Usam Beg, called by some “Usam the Whip”, arched his rawhide instrument and began to flay the skin of the unfortunate captive before the eyes of those assembled.


King watched as a captive was tied to the frame but he could not hear what was being shouted by the man to the assembly; yet he could guess the content – a surmise confirmed when the whipping began. One of the harkis motioned to his rifle with a questioning glance.

“No Anwar,” King whispered. “Not now at least. But we have found what we sought.”

King and the harkis crept away from the rim of the canyon and rejoined the other scouts; they then rode back to the column where King laid out his plan for dealing with the bandit encampment.




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

As darkness fell over the countryside King reflected that his plan – such as it was – depended on luck; which, it seemed so far, was running with him. The canyon emptied out into the wider reaches of the Arghandab valley that was certain; the stream indicated that there must be a cleft in the rocks through which it ran. To block this – the main entrance to the canyon – King had sent Finnegan with eight harkis to find it, eliminate the sentries that were certainly there, and block it when King launched his attack. That, King realized, would be difficult enough. He was certain that there was a rear entrance to the canyon, and he thanked God that his scouts had found it. They had left their horses behind in the care of two harkis and had carefully followed the winding trail that led from the mesa down towards the rear of the canyon.

King had with him but thirty men, but proven fighters in whom he had absolute confidence. How many bandits were in Kar Malla – and certainly this was the place – he did not know. The presence of so many non-combatants placed severe restrictions on his likely tactics, and he worried that the bandits might try to hide among their captives. He tried to put these fears out of his mind.

Ahead of him the lead scout, Abdul-al-Haji, held up a hand. The column of harkis froze in silence, but King continued forward and stopped beside the harki. Al-Haji pointed to a pair of figures below on a rock. Sentries, but their attention was focused on the canyon itself; obviously their mission was to assure that no one left the canyon – they were not expecting anyone to approach from above. King turned to the harkis behind him and made a slicing motion with his hand. Without a sound two of his men crept forward. Kindjals flashed in the night and dull thuds announced that two bandits had been eliminated. The column moved on, and soon reached the floor of the canyon.

King sent several of his men to check the area for other sentries – a precaution that proved wise. Some moments later they returned.

“Sardar, there were four more,” whispered Ahmad Hossein. “They have gone to be judged by God.”

King had the harkis rest for a time; it was far too dark to risk blundering into the outliers of the settlement. It was also possible that reliefs for the sentries might come out in the night, and King had to assure that his presence was undetected. Yet his luck remained; the hours seemed to pass so slowly but soon the false dawn provided enough light for him to make out the fenced enclosures in which the captives were kept, and the line of houses where the bandits apparently lived. He signaled his men to follow and they carefully made their way to the first of the pens.


Ismail ibn Timur resented being detailed to keep watch over the cattle – the khan’s captives – over night. He was cold; winter was fast approaching; he wanted to be asleep in his bed in his hut. He stamped his feet in an attempt to warm them. Then he felt the arm clench around his throat as his breath was cut off and he drifted into unconsciousness…


The scene was repeated several times as the harkis crept among the compounds where the captives were held. The sentries were eliminated and the word spread among the captives that they would soon be delivered – but they must keep silent and quiescent.


Usam Beg sounded the great gong before the khan’s headquarters – calling the khan’s fighters to attend their leader and signaling the captives that they should begin their day of toil. He sounded it several times, for the fighters were loath to rise from their beds on this cold morning. He looked about puzzled; looking out across the settlement he saw no movement from the pens where the captives where shut in. “What has happened?” he thought. “Have the fools forgotten to open the gates to let them go to work?”

He then heard a thunk, and saw an oddly shaped rock roll in his direction. Or at least he thought it was a rock – and he looked about to see who had dared to throw a rock at Usam the Whip. That was the moment when the grenade exploded, fragments tearing through the Afghan bandit and clanging off the gong, adding a strange metallic clang to the explosion that was the signal for King’s men to sweep from their hiding places and strike against the awakening bandits.

King led half-a-dozen harkis straight towards the fortress-like building that seemed to be the headquarters of the bandit chieftain, while another six harkis moved to flank the building. Other groups of harkis spread out to take up positions to cut down the bandits emerging from their slumbers, their rifles crackling quickly as they laid down a base of fire.

Mirza Ali Khan was leisurely preparing to depart with his men on razzia; he heard the gong announce assembly and thought nothing of it. The explosion however startled him, and picking up his talwar he ran to the stairs and looked out to see armed men surging through the lower portion of his palace, including a tall farangi shouting orders. Four of his guards stood at the bottom of the stairs – their rifles – the fine ones obtained days before – leveled at the intruders. “Fire you fools!” he commanded. “What are you waiting for?”

King saw four bandits with rifles at the ready before him, and heard the scurrying of more in the interior of the building. He ordered two of his men to move left while he and the others moved straight forward. On the mezzanine above a small man in elaborate clothes appeared and shouted, ordering the bandits to fire. Their moment’s hesitation gave King the opportunity to bring his Webley revolver up and fire once and then dive to his right towards the floor.

The pistol shot which struck one of their comrades galvanized the remaining bandit guards to action, and they pulled the triggers of their rifles as one. But nothing happened. King’s harkis did not hesitate but surged forward, bayoneting the guards. King rose to his feet and began to ascend the stair.

Mirza Ali Khan could not believe that God had given the farangi a miracle. The rifles of his guards were rendered useless and now the farangi was racing up the stair toward him. The bandit chieftain did not hesitate to flee.

The crump of grenades echoing through the fortress told King that his harkis were busily clearing the first floor, and now he heard the sound of firing on the second floor as well. The small man in elaborate clothes – who he presumed was the bandit chieftain – had run back down a corridor in flight.


It had taken time but Sergeant Finnegan and the detachment of harkis he led had found the entrance to the canyon in which Kar Malla lay. It was nearly dawn when they had finished their long march, and ahead of them were several bandit sentries. He was about to send several of his men forward to eliminate the sentries when he heard in the distance an explosion, which announced that King had opened his attack. With no need for stealth now Finnegan cupped the ZB.30 to his shoulder and gunned the sentries with a neatly spread burst of machinegun fire. Then at the trot he led his harkis deeper into the canyon and set up a blocking position as ordered.


The harkis detailed to cover the exterior of the fortress found themselves hard pressed; it seemed that there were several score of bandits converging on the fortress from several directions and as quickly as their fire killed one another took his place. The fire from the bandits, while not as accurate as their own, was taking its toll. Then the unexpected happened.

A human being can only take so much punishment before reacting. Mirza Ali Khan had used heavy punishment, and the fear of it, to keep his captives in line. Yet the captives were not dumb animals, they were men and women, who had been seized from their homes and worked like slaves, kept in line by whips and chains. Watching the firefight from their huts they could see that the khan’s men were beginning to gain the upper hand – and if they stood by idly they would loose the freedom that seemed to be in their grasp. Across the settlement men in twos and threes picked up what was at hand – shovels, pitchforks, clubs – and moved towards the sound of the guns.

“God is Great!” came the shout, a guttural cry from what was now a surging mass of Afghans that fell upon the flank and rear of the bandits facing the harkis. While some were gunned down by the bandits they quickly overwhelmed the remainder, slashing and bashing, releasing their pent-up hatred and revenge for their captivity.


Mirza Ali Khan heard the sound of rifle fire in the apartments behind him. The devils commanded by the tall farangi had reached the rear of the building before him, and he was trapped. He gripped the hilt of his sword more tightly and put his back to the wall. If he must meet God today, he would send the farangi to his god first…

King stopped at the corner of the corridor. He sensed ahead of him the presence of the bandit chief and listening he could hear the latter’s breathing. He saw no reason to risk his life to take the bandit alive. He took a Mills bomb and quietly pulled the pin, released the lever, and threw it down the corridor.

Fortunately for Mirza Ali Khan, the explosion merely stunned him, as the grenade had rolled past him and expended its force at the end of the corridor. Yet he was staggered and fell to the floor, and when he was able to focus his eyes he saw the muzzles of several rifles in his face and felt his arms pinioned beneath the feet of his captors.

“You are my prisoner,” King advised him. “And to justice I will deliver you.”



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

The capture of Mirza Ali Khan virtually ended the fighting in the bandit camp. Those few bandits who managed to escape the revenge of the released captives tried to flee out of the canyon and right into the sights of Finnegan and those harkis station to prevent just such a move. Those in the first rank were mowed down by machinegun fire, and the rest threw down their arms and begged for mercy.

King and his harkis were hard pressed to keep the former captives from tearing their tormentor limb from limb.

“Here me!” he shouted to the angry crowd. “This man will be judged according to the law before a qadi and will receive punishment according to the law. Until that time he is under my protection and no man will harm him.” The crowd was sullen, but their anger was for the time spent. Now King was left to deal with the situation in which he found himself.

Casualties had been heavy. King had lost five dead and eleven wounded among his harkis; more than a dozen captives had been killed and a large number wounded in their maddened charge that had broken the back of the bandit resistance. Of the bandits there were more than a hundred dead, others wounded and in custody. Of the captives King estimated that there were more than five hundred, including women and children; further complicating the situation was the presence of the bandit’s own camp followers, who were nearly in as much danger from the former captives as the surviving bandits.

It took time to sort things out and to gather up the various detachments of harkis. It also took time to go through the bandit encampment gathering up and destroying weapons, finding sufficient food and water to feed the now-swelled column on its long trek back to Kandahar. Animals – horses, mules, sheep – had to be gathered up. The accumulated treasure of Mirza Ali Khan had to be secured and safeguarded, until the Afghan authorities decided on how to distribute it. In point of fact it took a day and a half to sort out all the issues. Fortunately there was sufficient food in the bandit storerooms to feed everyone, and Mirza Ali Khan had the opportunity to contemplate his own dungeon, where King incarcerated him for his safety.


Dealing with the bandits’ arsenal was one of King’s major headaches. He could not leave the mass of swords, rifles and ammunition lying about – that would only invite other would-be bandits to start the cycle again. So he told had a dozen or so Afghans, under the watchful eye of Sergeant Finnegan and several of his own harkis, bundle up the dozens of ancient Snider-Enfields, Khyber Pass Specials, flintlocks and other firearms for the long trek home.

As King was finishing discussions with a group of former captives Finnegan came over with a rifle in hand.

“Captain,” he said with a wry smile on his face, “I found something you might be interested in.” Without further word he handed King a very fresh-looking Mauser rifle of obvious Czech manufacture. “It’s not one of ours; found several like in on the bodies of the bandits in the fortress.”

King hefted the rifle and checked the markings. To be sure the Czech markings were bright and unworn, including the serial numbers. “Interesting,” he replied with a frown.

“This is even more interesting,” Finnegan chortled, and handed King a bandolier. “We took it off the fellow who was carrying that rifle.”

The first thing King noted was the bandolier contained rimmed ammunition; taking a clip out he examined the rounds carefully, noting the BSA headstamp on them. Then thinking of his own close call in the assault on the fortress he touched palm to head. “The fools didn’t try…”

Carefully he worked the rifle’s action and found it jammed. From what he could see someone had tried to force-fit the wrong ammunition into the weapon; a fact that may have saved King’s life.

“Finnegan, this is most interesting indeed. Make certain that this rifle and any more like it are packed together for our trip home, together with the ammunition. Somebody in intendance is going to be spending time tracing serial numbers.”


Another headache King faced with what to do with the settlement itself. Mirza Ali Khan had worked his captives hard but they had built a number of substantial houses, and the fields were well tended. Fortunately another group of former captives saved him the problem.

“Sardar,” said their spokesman. “We are among the captives who have been here longest; what families we have are here with us, and our homes are long since turned to ashes. We would stay here, and turn this place from a place of war to a place of peace. There are houses sufficient for us, and the harvest will see our small number through the winter, God willing.”

Leaving people in Kar Malla would certainly lessen his burden on the return march to Kandahar. There were already enough refugees in the camps near the cantonment.

“If that is your wish, it can be done. There has been enough evil done here and, if God wills, now there will be good to replace it. I will order that some of the animals be left for your use, together with the implements and other goods. Are you willing to accept such terms?” King concluded.

“Yes Sardar,” the spokesman replied. “The blessings of God, the compassionate, the merciful, be upon you and your followers, who freed us from slavery to the evil man you now take to justice.”


Two days after liberating Kar Malla King and his harkis led a large column of refugees out of the canyon and back down the valley of the Arghandab. Their march was slow, and at each of the sites of villages that Mirza Ali Khan had raided some of the captives, those from those villages, would decide to stay and try to return to a peaceful life. King did what he had means to do – leaving some sheep, mules, horses and a small parcel of treasure, to tide them over the forthcoming winter.

The march down the valley lasted six days, reaching the district town of Arghandab, where King was able to turn his prisoners over to the LONAFF provost marshal and the remaining refugees to the Afghan authorities for settlement. From the refugees he had found five recruits to replace some of the men he had lost, their graves now tended by the freed villagers of Kar Malla. His work would go on.



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October 13, 1940 - Gereshk
[SIZE=1]Excerpt from International Soldiers; The League of Nations at War, 1935-1940[/SIZE]

On the morning of October 8th, the leading elements of the Czech 1st Dragoon Regiment entered the village of Delaram, seizing it without a shot fired. The League troops wasted no time garrisoning the village, handing it over to police units of General Sherzai's 2nd Afghan Division on the afternoon of the 8th. However, the League's engineering units quickly began construction of a dirt airstrip east of town, complete with sheltered aircraft revetments. By October 12th, the airstrip was open for business, with one of the Yugoslavian transports flying in a load of cargo from Kandahar Airport, and a squadron of Afghani Hawker Hurricanes, freshly delivered from Britain, arrived on October 13th to take up residence.

Meanwhile, the 1st Dragoon Regiment turned southwest and began their march towards Chakhansur. The highway they traveled was only a marginal track following the Khash Rivier, but the League commanders had planned and prepared for the inevitability of poor infrastructure. Immediately behind the Czech horsemen came a squadron of engineers, who carved a road across the desert, bridged dry ravines, and set up a number of prefabricated depots for gasoline, parts, food, and water. Behind them on the newly-built highway rolled the hundreds of trucks and wagons necessary to keep the army on the march. Such was the care paid to the arrangements for the supply of the forces and the construction of the highway that Czechoslovakian Colonel František Vrchlický, the overall commander of the support forces, received both the Czech Cross of Merit and the Irish Distinguished Service Ribbon for his outstanding services. Major Milos Popovic, who commanded the Yugoslavian engineers, also received high commendations for his work preparing the Delaram airstrip and the Dashti Margo Highway.

A hundred and eighty kilometers separated the League troops from their final goal in Chakhansur, where they would link up with the newly-arriving Yugoslavian Brigade. The Yugoslavians, under Major General Ljubomir P. Stefanovic, would hold open the new supply route through Zabol while the rest of the League forces secured the Chakhansur Province. Stefanovic's troops began arriving in Zabol in early October, setting up a base camp east of the city and beginning to stockpile supplies, in addition to setting up an airstrip to handle both fighters and cargo aircraft. This airstrip, after its abandonment by the League, was acquired and further improved to become the Zabol Airport. On October 12th, four Fw190s of the Irish Air Corps arrived to open the small airbase, but lack of fuel prevented them from starting operations immediately.

On the northern flank of the marching League forces, two Afghan infantry divisions deployed to prevent any action against the League's logistics. General MacDonald retained the Irish 5th Battalion in Delaram to serve as a security force, with the 5th's commander, Major Devlin, instructed to serve as a liaison with General Abubakir's staff.



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October 14, 1940, Morning - West of Delaram
The Afghan infantry of Abdullah Shaker Khan's 4th Infantry Division received plenty of warning. As the sun rose into a clear blue sky, all eyes turned to their northwest, where the dust kicked up in great clouds. The Afghan infantrymen watched as the cloud grew in size and proximity for a half an hour - one hour - two hours, and those closest to the front line eventually picked out the row of tanks in the front of the column, and Maqsoodi's massed tribal horsemen riding on the flanks of the armoured vehicles. The company commanders sent mounted couriers back, frantically requesting more troops, artillery fire, close air support.

All of the Afghan soldiers knew what approached. Many of them had seen the League troops on the march, with their dozens of tanks kicking up clouds of obscuring dust, and they grimly imagined the sort of force which could create an even more spectacular - and terrifying - sight. They had no way of knowing, however, that it was in fact a massive deception. The leading edge of the attacking army was composed of twelve Polish-built TKS tankettes, which implied the movement of an armoured force; but the vehicles moving behind them were merely old or confiscated trucks and a few confiscated private cars, often equipped with fake "turrets" made of wood. These decoy vehicles added to the Afghans' perception of a massed armoured assault by "hundreds" of tanks, even though the force only had a total of twelve tankettes.

The attackers - hard-core Persian Nationalist troops in the spearhead, and Afghan tribal fighters in the wings - hit the 4th head-on at 0820 hours, by which point the Afghan troops had over two hours to ponder their fate. The infantry battalion at the point of attack held for less than five minutes against the tankettes which apparently composed the first wave of the enemy armoured assault; the battalion commander, seeing his force being devastated by machine gun fire, and noting the lack of response to his urgent requests for air and artillery support, ordered the retreat. His men were only too happy to comply, many of them throwing down their brand-new Czech VB-24 rifles in order to lighten their own load and ease their escape. The flanking battalions, though never directly attacked themselves, succumbed to the rising panic and began retreating, pursued by the tribal horsemen, who often stopped just long enough to retrieve weapons and ammunition dropped by the soldiers of the 4th. Although several Afghan officers attempted to gather ad-hoc groups of infantry, inspiring them briefly to further resistance, most of these groups broke apart with the approach of enemy troops.

The arrival Afghan Air Force at 0910 just made things worse. Four of the Hurricanes, which the Afghan troops spoke of in awed tones, spent fifteen minutes fruitlessly attempting to discern friendly from enemy targets, but the fifth, its pilot less given to introspection than the rest, proceeded to bomb and strafe General Abdullah Shaker Khan's headquarters. Fortunately for the General, the Afghan pilot mistimed his two strafing and bombing runs, hitting absolutely nothing of value. The other Hurricane pilots launched attacks individually, but only had time to carry out one strafing run before they were bounced by four Nationalist-marked fighters.

The Persian pilots, led by Nationalist ace-of-aces Captain Reza Yazdanian, were all veterans of the Persian Civil War, and followed General Parwiz into exile in Afghanistan, bringing with them twelve Italian-built Macchi C.200 fighters, delivered in 1935. Yazdanian claimed four kills for the day (for a total of twenty-six), while his friend Lieutenant Peyman Ghalam also claimed four kills for a total of nineteen. Yazdanian, however, believed his kills were against the Irish Air Corps, apparently not spotting the Afghan roundels on the aircraft.

With clear defeat in the aerial combat over the battlefield, all effective resistance by the 4th Infantry Division ceased, and Khan's men splintered into small bands of men. These fleeing infantry were rapidly overtaken by Maqsoodi's mounted tribal fighters. By sundown on October 14th, the 4th Division had lost an estimated 2,500 killed, with another six thousand men captured or missing in action.

The collapse of the 4th Infantry Division opened a wide gap in the League-Afghan line, and Ahmed Ali Khan's 3rd Infantry Division, encamped on the northeastern-most end of that line, was in danger of being cut off by the advance, as well as the supply lines for the League units advancing down the new Dashti Margo Highway.



Note [1]: Captain Yazdanian actually downed only three of the Afghan Hurricanes, and Lieutenant Ghalam bagged one. The fifth Hurricane, having unsuccessfully strafed General Khan's HQ, escaped unscathed.



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October 14, 1940, Noon - 50km north of Lake Puzak
3000 meters

Captaen Edmund Flood glanced out the cockpit as his Fw190 purred along at three thousand meters. Jaysus, I love this kite, he thought to himself. I wasn't so hot on this plane at first, but it's won me over. And this Kommandowhatsit is a damn handy piece of kit! A lot better than what we had in the P.94s.

"Hey boss, I'm getting a bit low on petrol."

Flood frowned and keyed his microphone. "What'd you do, Mick? Dump your belly tank on takeoff?"

"Not that I know about, boss," Dara-Leifteanant Mick Finlay replied. "But I'm down to three-eighths already."

"That's because you've just been foostering about, you big muck savage," Flood said, grinning. "You just want to get back to Zabol."

"That's right - I was going to show those Yugoslavian supply troops how to have a proper hooley. They've got a case of... hey, have a look at yer one o'clock. Is that dust?"

"It looks like it is," Flood replied. "Well, if you've got three-eights left, you'll still have enough for us to check that out."

"Well, I might have exaggerated. It's more like a half," Finlay replied. "It's just that I've got to use the jacks sometime soon."

"Thanks for sharing. Now button up your hole and lets have a look..."



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October 14, 1940, Afternoon - 50km north of Lake Puzak
Parwiz's Mobile Headquarters

The messenger handed the slip of paper off to Parwiz's aide-de-camp. "Read it," Parwiz ordered.

"Yes sir," the aide said, unfolding the note and dutifully reading it aloud. "It's from Colonel Forouhar. It reads - 'Operation successful. Afghan National Army division broken before me. Heavy enemy casualties. Numerous prisoners, arms taken. In pursuit of fleeing enemy forces.'

Parwiz balled up a fist and struck the table. "YES!"



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Map with colored lines on it.

October 14, 1940, Late Afternoon - Xasrrod
Field Force Headquarters - on the move

General MacDonald swore loudly; paused; and then swore some more. Pika, standing on the other side of the impromptu map table, looked grave, but said nothing until MacDonald fell silent.

"I've got to take my hat off to Parwiz," Pika said slowly. "He's kicked the ladder out from beneath us."

"Yes, he has," MacDonald said. "If all this information is right. Fifty or sixty tanks north of Lake Puzak; a hundred tanks breaking through to attack our supply line at Delaram. Air assets the damned Bharati intelligence service never told me the Nationalists had. The Afghan National Army running like scared cats behind us. And us sitting pretty between two prongs of a pincer attack."

Pika traced his finger along the map. "If we continue onward in our current marching order, we'll get to Chakhansur before Parwiz's western force; but we'll lose our supply line if we ignore the eastern force. And if we're held up at all by Haji Munadi's fighters, then he'll hit us in the flank and roll us up, right to left. We'll need to withdraw and hope we can beat his eastern force back to Delaram, and then trade space for time - perhaps falling back on Gereshk..."

MacDonald stared at the map, then shook his head. "No, I have something different in mind, Helidor. Something different. That Parwiz has got to be the most ingenious dumb so-and-so since the Garden of Eden! I never thought that Parwiz would be stupid enough to pop out of his hole in Farah or Herat and then come skipping across the desert to me like a brasser fresh out of Monto!" He saw Pika's bemused - and confused - expression. "I'll explain that later. But think about it, Helidor! He's just moved his troops - his best Nationalist troops - into the open, on the attack! We don't have to go crawling into some dirty Afghan caves or cities after him while he raids our supply lines and picks us off in twos and threes. He's in the open, and on the move. Let's smash him, here and now!"

"But Parwiz isn't coming at us on our terms - he's coming at us on his terms!" Pika protested. "And if these reports are to be believed, then his eastern force is twice the size of the western one, and has more tanks in it than the entire Field Force has in the country!"

"Perhaps that's right, Helidor - but I'm still suspicious. We know Parwiz had a number of tanks - thirty or forty - hell, that's why we brought GOFABs! But now we're seeing fifty to the west and hundreds in the east - where did those extra tanks come from? Let's not forget, too, that we're only getting fragmentary reports out of General Abubakir's headquarters, and even less from Abdullah Shaker Khan himself - and our Afghans haven't exactly been the most reliable sorts. I'm actually inclined to think the western force is our biggest threat."

"If that's the case, then wouldn't it be wiser to pull back to Delaram, defeat the weaker eastern force, and then try again once we've built up supplies?"

MacDonald considered. "Perhaps - but it'll be deeper winter, then. I think this is our best chance to take down a big chunk of Parwiz's elite - which means the western force."

"Very well, sir. What's the new plan?"

MacDonald grinned. "The new plan is the same as the old plan - but with more asskicking!"

"Hopefully those aren't glorious last words, General."

"I hope they aren't either. But here's what we're going to do. I was looking at Colonel Vrchlický's supply reports just this morning, and we've got enough supplies in our dumps along our highway - we can get to Chakhansur with what we've got. I'm abandoning my supply line through Delaram. I'll have to leave the Irish 5th Battalion in Delaram, unfortunately - there's no time to get them down the highway to join us."

MacDonald ran his finger across the map. "Your Czechs are already in the lead, so we won't modify the marching order at all. Let's form two Chathghrúpas: you'll take the first, with whatever units you have at the head of our column. Husnik's tanks, Strakaty's mounted infantry, the dragoons. I think your Czechs will prefer you as their overall commander, Helidor. You need to go after the city of Chakhansun and blow through whatever defense Haji Munadi can mount. Link up with the Yugoslavian Brigade in Zabol and get our supply line going again. They'll have food, fuel, ammo and water enough to keep us going."

"I can do that if I don't have to watch my right flank," Pika said firmly. "What about your Chathghrúpa?"

"I'll take them as far as I can along our Dashti Margo Highway, then turn north towards the eastern side of Lake Puzak. I'll ram Parwiz and his armour head on, and I think I can hold him there. If not, then I'm going to come backing up into your force in Chakhansur, and hope to God you're holding the door open for me."

Pika scratched his chin. "What about the enemy's eastern force?"

"For our purposes, it's now a complete sideshow," MacDonald said. "My business is out west. If my hunch is right, then I think General Sherzai will soon be in charge. I expect the Afghan 3rd Infantry Division will be cut off before tomorrow afternoon, if Parwiz's eastern commander is worth his salt. Frankly, I think Sherzai can stabilize the front and maybe even save Delaram, but if he can't, then he'll be smart and talented enough to withdraw in good order. Most of the League's airpower is still at the field in Gereshk, after all, and there's nothing I'd love to see more than for them to get the chance to work over an army of tribal fighters stuck in the open."

General Pika slowly nodded. "We'll be in a bad way if Munadi's troops slow us down any. Should we not order the Yugoslavian Brigade to attack from the west, too?"

"Perhaps," MacDonald said thoughtfully. "Perhaps. I really wish, though, that I'd had a chance to confer with this Major General Stefanovic and his men before commanding them in battle. On the one hand, having him move east against Munadi's rear will be of great help to us, but on the other, that will sap our supply base there in Zabol - and he may be of greater use to us guarding that supply center."

"In that case, general, might I suggest we order him to act at his discretion, but provide him a few parameters for any operations he might undertake?"

"Hmm. That might be a good idea in this case, though I normally don't wish to limit commanders from pursuing good opportunities. Let me give some thought to that."



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

Quoted

RED PIKE SWIMMING UPSTREAM FIONN [1] TO MARKO [2] En'y armor fifty km north Lake Puzak deemed main force [Stop]. I believe Parwiz cmmding western force [Stop]. En'y also attacking PYRAMID [3] in force [Stop]. Eastern force numbers uncertain but includes tanks and tribal horse [Stop]. ANA [4] 4th ID broken and fleeing comma ANA 3rd ID possibly encircled [Stop]. Supply situation for LONAFF units SW PYRAMID uncertain [Stop]. I am cutting supply line through PYRAMID but maintaining advance twd BOXTY [5] [Stop]. CG [6] GRIP [7] shall attack BOXTY soonest [Stop]. CG FIONN shall engage enemy tanks E of Puzak [Stop]. Once engaged I will be low on all supplies comma fuel water ammo food [Stop]. Take action at your discretion comma but ensure safety of supplies in OUTHOUSE [8] comma I will need them to maintain CG FIONN [Stop]. Maintenance of your supply base and stockpile critical repeat critical to my continued operations [Stop]. Air ops to slow en'y tanks north of Puzak desired [Stop]. En'y fighter planes believed operating in area [Stop]. Coord with GRIP about activities [Stop]. Best wishes comma FIONN [Stop]. SKIP ALL THE WAY TO WORK

Note [1]: Fionn = MacDonald's radio call sign.
Note [2]: Marko = Stefanovic's radio call sign.
Note [3]: Pyramid = Code name for Delaram.
Note [4]: ANA = Afghan National Army.
Note [5]: Boxty = Code name for Chakhansun city.
Note [6]: CG = Chathghrupa.
Note [7]: Grip = Pika's radio call sign.
Note [8]: Outhouse = Code name for Zabol.



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

Major General Ljubomir P. Stefanovic, commander of the Royal Yugoslav Army’s 17th Independent Mixed Brigade, re-read General MacDonald’s message very carefully.

“RED PIKE SWIMMING UPSTREAM FIONN TO MARKO Enemy armor fifty km north Lake Puzak deemed main force [Stop]. I believe Parwiz commanding western force [Stop]. Enemy also attacking PYRAMID in force [Stop]. Eastern force numbers uncertain but includes tanks and tribal horse [Stop]. ANA 4th ID broken and fleeing comma ANA 3rd ID possibly encircled [Stop]. Supply situation for LONAFF units SW PYRAMID uncertain [Stop]. I am cutting supply line through PYRAMID but maintaining advance toward BOXTY [Stop]. CG GRIP shall attack BOXTY soonest [Stop]. CG FIONN shall engage enemy tanks E of Puzak [Stop]. Once engaged I will be low on all supplies comma fuel water ammo food [Stop]. Take action at your discretion comma but ensure safety of supplies in OUTHOUSE comma I will need them to maintain CG FIONN [Stop]. Maintenance of your supply base and stockpile critical repeat critical to my continued operations [Stop]. Air ops to slow enemy tanks north of Puzak desired [Stop]. Enemy fighter planes believed operating in area [Stop]. Coordinate with GRIP about activities [Stop]. Best wishes comma FIONN [Stop]. SKIP ALL THE WAY TO WORK.”

Their Persian Nationalist quarry had come out into the open, it seemed, but in an all too dangerous a fashion. With the League forces strung out on the highway they were quite vulnerable to the attack Parwiz had launched. Yet MacDonald had ordered him to secure the supply depot at Zabol at all costs – and given his plan, that was of singular importance. He looked up at his chief of staff, Colonel Radovan Sokol and said,

“We have to hold here. Much as I’d like to move the entire brigade forward we cannot risk our supply line and the stores we’ve accumulated.”

“No sir,” Sokol replied, “though I agree with you that the chance to catch Parwiz in the open is hard to resist.”

“That could be part of their plan,” Stefanovic considered. “But we won’t just sit here.”

He walked over to the map that hung on the wall of his headquarters. “The road between Zabol and Chakhansun runs,” he pointed, “through Zaranj. If the enemy gets there first Parwiz will hold the road junction and he might be able to prevent a link up with Pika’s force. We have to take that junction first and hold it until we can effect that link up.”

“Yes, but if our first and most important mission is to hold the depots here, we don’t have much strength to send forward.” At times Sokol could be a master of the obvious.

“I trained this division, I know what they can do,” Stefanovic said with a streak of pride in his voice. “Two can play the game of kampfgruppen. Alert the 6th Motorised Reconnaissance Squadron, and take one rifle company of the 33rd Infantry Battalion, both cannon companies and four 75s from the 17th Artillery. Detail enough trucks from the 26th Supply and Transport to motorise the entire column. With any luck they will have enough mobility to get there before the enemy and enough firepower to hold once they get there.”

“Right away sir,” Sokol acknowledged, and scurried out to notify all the relevant commanders.


Major Lazar Tonic, commander of the 6th Motorised Reconnaissance Squadron sat in his personal Nemanja armoured car near the head of the column, shaking his head at the prospect before him. It was barely two hours since he had been called to brigade headquarters to be briefed on the mission he now found himself in command of.

“Advance to Zaranj and secure road junction Zabol and Chakhansun. Hold until relieved.” The orders were coldly formal, but General Stefanovic had been quite clear – in order to prevent the enemy advance from cutting the entire League field force from its supply lines Zaranj had to be secured and held. He had little strength for it – fifteen armoured cars, a dozen of the little Lazar scout cars, an infantry company crammed on to trucks; four of the new 75mm divisional guns and a somewhat larger number of light 75mm regimental guns and heavy machineguns. Certainly he’d be able to outgun the enemy. What he did not know is whether he would be overwhelmed by sheer numbers. Reports were sketchy – supposedly the enemy had routed two Afghan divisions further north; while Tonic had little regard for the Afghan National Army, the fact of their rout suggested more than bands of tribal cavalry were operating against the Field Force.

His wireless headset crackled with acknowledgements as the various units composing his task force – Battle Group Tonic the General had dubbed it – they had to get on the move before nightfall.

“King Six to all elements. Move out!”

The long column began to roll – A pair of Lazar scout cars flanking the lead Nemanjas on either side of the road. Behind them alternated sections of cavalry, platoons of truck-borne infantry, gun detachments. It headed northeast in a growing column of dust.




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

October 15, 1940, Morning - East of Chakhansun
Chathghrúpa Pika

Dawn found Second Lieutenant Vaclav Mírohorský still in his Lt-35. The leading elements of Battlegroup Pika had rested in the afternoon heat, but as the sun set, roused themselves and moved onward through the chilly night. Mírohorský, tossing down his cigarette, figured the history books would call it a "forced march", but there were no unwilling troops that needed to be prodded into the march. The senior officers had been unusually frank with the men, telling them that the Afghan divisions guarding the rear of the Field Force had been broken and the survival of the army depended upon them. Mírohorský wondered if that had been a good idea - many of his tankers had spent part of the previous afternoon's rest time writing "If you receive this..." letters to their wives, sweethearts and families, when the day before they'd been too confident of their success to imagine them necessary.

On the other hand, Mírohorský knew the temper of his own platoon, and though they might wonder about the likelihood of survival, they were going to march and fight anyway.

"Stop!" Mírohorský called, making the hand-signal to the other three tanks in his platoon. He raised his field glasses and, in the gathering light, saw the city of Chakhansun ahead. Horsemen moved before him, riding towards the city - he knew, more by instinct than knowledge, that they were the outer scouts for the Afghan defenders, and not his friends in the dragoons. They'd left the Czech horsemen behind in the night, the armour and truck-mounted troops outpacing mere flesh and blood.

"They're fortifying against us," Mírohorský growled. He dropped down into the turret and took the radio. "Dragon three-one to Lion six. I have a visual of Chakhansun. It appears the enemy has dug in trenches roughly five hundred meters east of the city. I see a few tank obstacles near the major entry points, but I see no field artillery from my current position." He paused. "Request permission to attack."

"Lion six to dragon three-one. The Horse Artillery is setting up for a fire mission; observers are on their way forward. Shell any visible targets you can see but maintain your position."

"Copy that." Mírohorský glanced at his watch: 0620 Hours. Dawn in five minutes. And thus I get to command the opening of a big beautiful battle... "Gunner, target that house at eleven o'clock. Looks like they've made it a nice strongpoint. Let's flatten it."

"Load!"

"On target!"

"Fire!"



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

Tonic pushed his men well into the night – a dangerous risk; the highway between Zabol and Zaranj was untested. Most of it actually lay in Persia, and presumably friendly. Tonic did not want to trust that too far, and so rested his column at the abandoned customs post that marked the Afghan-Persian border; blundering into a mass of tribal fighters at night could wreak havoc on the truck-borne infantry and the limbered artillery. So he disposed his troops in laager, interspersing dismounted infantry between his armored vehicles, with the supply vehicles and artillery in the center.



Abdul Rashid and the six fighters with him ambled across the broken plain beneath the moon-lit sky. Their sure-footed horses threaded their way between rocks and clumps of vegetation. He had no idea why his leader had sent them to patrol tonight instead of preparing to do battle with the foreign invaders, as the rest of Haji Munadi’s forces across the province were doing this night. In the distance he thought he saw dark shapes on the horizon, moonlight reflecting off something more than rock.

“We head that way,” Abdul said to his companions. “I think I see something.”



Tonic relieved his sentries at regular intervals – it was one way to assure that they stayed alert and got some rest in what would be a very short night.

Private Jaksa Lukic sat in a hastily dug fighting hole some twenty metres outside the column’s laager, a human tripwire. He was thinking about his relief when he heard the sound of metal striking a rock and froze, peering into the darkness to his front. He could see dark shapes outlined against the horizon, six or more, he was not certain. “Halt! Who goes there?” he shouted in proper military format.

Abdul Rashid heard the voice cry out something in foreign gibberish and he reined up. Startled, one of his companions fired wildly into the night. “You fool! Why did you do that?” His delay to protest cost him dearly. Suddenly the Afghan horsemen were bathed in light from powerful lamps that appeared as might from the darkness, and they froze in amazement.

The troopers of Battle Group Tonic certainly over-reacted. Machineguns and rifles opened up on the now visible horsemen, and Private Lukic, over whose head the tracers were flying, flung himself as deep into his fighting hole as he could. A torrent of bullets ripped into the Afghans and their horses, which darted about wildly in their death throes, throwing their riders to the ground. Abdul Rashid managed to turn his mount about and urge him to flight, not knowing that he had been wounded and was bleeding; he rode into the night, towards the town of Zaranj. Behind him his companions lay dead or dying.

“Farangi” he thought. “Here? What deviltry brought this about?”



Lazar Tonic took word of the incident with the Afghan patrol quite seriously. Their presence indicated that the enemy was actively patrolling the approaches to Zaranj and that the tribal garrison there might now be alerted to the battle group’s approach. All he could do now was to move the column forward as soon as light permitted, and to move prepared to for immediate combat.

His wounded horse finally gave out beneath him; Abdul Rashid took his rifle and his saddlebag and continued on foot. “Must warn…” he thought. “Farangi approaching from the west…”



Dawn was still coming up when the Yugoslav column resumed its march toward Zaranj. Tatra trucks carrying squads of infantry now rode near the head of the column, the faster to deploy in the event of attack. Gun tractors towing a pair of 75mm regimental guns also rode near the front, prepared to engage the enemy. One way or another the Yugoslav Army would remember this day.



Zaranj, 15 October 1940, Dawn

Yunus Anwari commanded the several hundred tribal warriors gathered in Zaranj in the name of their lord, Haji Munadi. Their lord and his Persian confederate General Parwiz were moving to crush the foreigners who were foolish enough to try to cross the Plain of the Dead. That Haji Munadi and General Parwiz were cooperating did not, however, mean that all was well between himself and the Persian officer, Bahram Aryana, who commanded the small detachment of Persian soldiers sent to help hold Zaranj and “stiffen” the Afghan warriors. Stiffen was the word Aryana used when he demanded that Anwari turn over to him several hundred warriors, who were now digging holes to the east of Zaranj under the command of Persians; it rankled. A warrior does not fight from a hole in the ground but on horseback, man to man. But the prospect of destroying the soldiers of the League caused Anwari to swallow his pride – for the moment.

Bahram Aryana turned wearily towards the house that served as headquarters for the garrison in the settlement; Zaranj was not a proper town, but a straggling collection of houses, sheep pens and huts set amidst the drainage canals and putative marshes. There was little proper water here; how the Afghans managed to survive was beyond Aryana’s mind, which was focused on preparing the defenses General Parwiz had ordered.

“I need more men,” Aryana demanded of Anwari.

“You have nearly half the force I have. What more do you want?” Anwari replied.

“There is no reason to keep scores of men doing nothing in the comfort of Zaranj while others labor to defeat the foreigners!” Aryana insisted.

Their mutual recriminations were interrupted by distant thunder to the east. “That is artillery!” cried Aryana. “Battle has been joined!”

“Good!” Anwari replied. “Let us ride to battle.”

“No!” shouted Aryana. “Our orders are to remain here.”

It was at this moment that an exhausted Afghan was brought to Yunus Anwari. He recognized his old companion, Abdul Rashid, covered in dust and blood and nearly unconscious from his exertions.

“Farangi!” was all Abdul Rashid could say.

“What farangi!” Anwari asked in amazement.



Tonic’s column had reached the outskirts of Zaranj as the sun was coming up on the eastern horizon, making driving rather difficult. But the town lay spread before him, and he could make out the presence of tribal warriors. They had gotten to the road junction first; he would have to take it.

Shock and awe would be his trump cards. He ordered his artillery, both the light regimental guns and the new 75mm divisional guns to deploy, ready to take the town under bombardment. They would cover the advance of his armoured cars and truck-mounted infantry straight up the highway into the town; with luck the Afghans would panic.

“King Six to Red Six, Blue Six and White Rook. Execute fire plan Alpha; I repeat, execute fire plan Alpha.”

Sixteen artillery pieces fired nearly as one, their shells arching over the flat ground that separated their positions from the town of Zaranj.




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

October 15, 1940, Before Dawn - Delaram
Leifteanantchoirnéal Hector Carrollton was not supposed to be in Delaram, but he felt certain he could not be anywhere else. The air assets he controlled were scattered to the wind. Carrollton dispatched his six Henschels to fly out from Kandahar to Zabol, where they would be able to better cover the League troops; the Yugoslavian Dakotas were in Kandahar with a load of cargo; four Focke-Wulfs were in Zabol; and Carrollton, with all twenty of his Hawker Hurribombers, was in Delaram.

At least I'm in a good place to make a difference. He looked around at his commanders, certainly an odd group if ever there was one. Even though he was in the Irish Air Corps, Carrollton outranked all the ground commanders, and was thus theoretically in command. Major Devlin, commander of the 5th Irish Battalion, and Major Popovic, commander of the Yugoslavian engineers, provided the greatest portion of Delaram's defenders - although Major Musa Ghulam Miraki, of the Afghan 2nd Infantry Division, was gathering remnants of Afghan troops.

Fleeing men of the Afghan National Army's 4th Infantry Division poured through Delaram all night, but Delaram's garrison, even the Afghans, seemed oddly detached from the panic-stricken troops. The shame of defeat and rout was emblazoned on their faces.

"Well, I guess we need to discuss our strategy," Carrollton said. "What's the state of our defenses?"

Popovic answered. "My men have dug what tank obstacles we could, and I set up a few dozen infantry and antitank mines in the most likely avenues of an enemy attack. The airfield defense troops will man the northern perimeter, while Major Miraki's troops will cover the south and east. Major Devlin's men will form our strategic reserve, and will man our antiaircraft guns." He paused. "Most of our supplies, both for the troops and your aircraft, are being moved into some ditches my earthmovers have dug; that will protect them from direct fire. Your aircraft, Colonel Carrollton, will also have quite a bit of protection in your parking area, but once you get out on the airstrip itself, it's likely a close enemy will be able to shoot at you on takeoff. There's nothing I can do about that, I'm afraid - not without more men."

"Fair enough," Carrollton said. "Major Miraki, have you had any success rallying the survivors of the 4th Division?"

The translator listened to Miraki a few moments, then turned back to Carrollton. "I am not going to try. They are defeated men, without weapons or spirit. If I see a party moving in good order, with their weapons still in hand, then I shall invite them to join us and so erase the dishonor of their regiment."

Carrollton frowned. "Major, we need every man we can if we are to make a defense or withstand a siege."

Miraki nodded once the translator was done, and switched to his badly broken English to bypass the translator. "Yes, such men we need. But we need men! Not cowards."

Carrollton stared at Miraki for a few minutes, but the Afghan defiantly met his gaze and held his ground. "Very well, Major," Carrollton finally said. "Let it be as you say." He turned back to the others. "As soon as we have enough light, I intend to start air operations. Since it seems we've got air opposition, I'll need to detail a few fighters for air patrol, unfortunately. Any questions? None? Very well, gentlemen - dismissed. God be with us all."



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

“What foreigners?” Aryana repeated. “Where?”

Abdul Rashid tried to speak but his tongue was thick. It was then that the three of them heard the strange screeching sound – which Aryana alone recognised.

“Incoming!” he shouted, instinctively, in Farsi, and threw himself to the floor of the building. Then the incoming shells of the Yugoslav artillery began to explode all over the settlement of Zaranj. Instantly there was chaos as Afghan warriors tried to mount their now stampeding horses.



Through his field glasses Lazar Tonic saw the first shells impact and grimaced. What had that American general said…? “War is hell.” Shelling the settlement to cover his advance was not clean, but it was necessary.

“Driver advance,” he ordered, and his armoured car began to roll forward. Tonic pulled the charging handle on the machinegun before him and released the safety. Behind him rolled a mix of armoured cars, scout cars and trucks, on the back of which were riflemen on the 33rd Infantry with bayonets fixed.



Aryana pulled himself up off the floor of the damaged headquarters; shells had landed right outside the building, driving debris and shell fragments into it. He noticed Arwani slumped down, blood oozing from a chest wound. Of the other Afghans that had been in the room he could see no sign. He heard the screech of incoming shells again and the crump of explosions across the town.

He ran out of the building into the roiling mass of Afghans seeking to flee in all directions.

“Farangi!” shouted a passing Afghan. “Shaitan’s chariots of death!”

Aryana grabbed the reins of a riderless horse and struggled into the saddle. Looking to the west he could see the dust cloud thrown up by many vehicles – and he could see streams of tracers coming from those in the lead. They were unlike anything he had ever seen. His mind reeled – where had these LONAFF soldiers come from? Certainly not from the force that was fighting General Parwiz, they were still east of Chakhansun. They seem to have appeared from no where.

He drove these thoughts out of his mind. With Arwani dead there was little hope of him rallying what Afghans remained in this part of Zaranj. He might be able to hold the troops he had east of the settlement and counterattack – if the Afghans did not melt away in fear. As a fifth salvo of artillery landed across Zaranj Aryana turned his horse eastward at a gallop.



“King Six to Red Six, Blue Six and White Rook. Cease fire. Repeat, cease fire. Execute advance to stop line Alpha.”

As the reached the outskirts of the settlement proper the trucks carrying the infantry pulled off the road to disgorge them. Tonic’s armoured cars pushed on, chivvying fleeing tribal cavalry before them. Behind the scout cars paired up with infantry sections to root out the few nests of resistance in the western portion of Zaranj. To the west of town the artillery limbered up and moved forward, ready to add its firepower if required to reduce strongpoints.

Tonic’s armoured car rolled to the road junction that justified Zaranj’s importance. To the east he could see dust clouds raised by fleeing Afghans. His troops spread out to establish a defensive perimeter against a counterattack.



Colonel Sokol handed Stefanovic a message flimsy with a smile. “Good news sir!”

Stefanovic scanned it quickly.

“GIN TO MARKO BITTERS secure [Stop]. Repeat BITTERS secure [Stop]. Enemy resistance slight, casualties light [Stop]. Counterattack anticipated, adopting defensive posture [Stop].

“Excellent!” Stefanovic exclaimed. “Notify Generals MacDonald and Pika that we’ve taken the enemy’s back door and he can’t easily escape. And see what reinforcements we can scrape up to move forward to Zaranj.”




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

Outside Zaranj, 15 October 1940, morning

Bahram Aryana gave thanks that ‘his’ troops east of Zaranj had not panicked as the LONAFF assault swept over the town. When he reached their position he discovered that his Persian regulars had held the Afghans in their positions and had even managed to persuade some of those fleeing Zaranj to stop their flight. He estimated that altogether he had somewhere between five and six hundred men at his disposal. This was to the good; that they lacked heavy weapons capable of dealing with the LONAFF armoured vehicles now in Zaranj was to the bad. Yet to Aryana not all was lost, and so he called his officers and the leaders of the tribal warbands together.

“The infidel farangi have surprised us by taking Zaranj, but General Parwiz’s strategy is still working. The farangi are attacking Chakhansun, but soon they will find themselves taken in the flank by our forces. Their supply lines are already under attack and the troops of the lackey army flee before our warriors. If we can prevent the farangi forces in Zaranj from advancing on Chakhansun we will assure victory over the farangi and they will find their end here on the Plain of the Dead.”

“How can this be?” one of the Afghans asked. “The farangi have cannon, machineguns and their flying machines rule the skies. How can we defeat them armed only with rifles?”

Aryana smiled. “We do not need to defeat them,” he replied, “We need only to deny them victory. Their supply lines are cut; Delaram will soon fall to our forces. The farangi attacking Chakhansun will wither and fall to General Parwiz. Once he has achieved victory, the general will crush those farangi who choose to remain in Zaranj.”

He could see the doubt still on the faces before him. “We will adopt the strategy of the great Khalid ibn al Walid. He skirmished the great Greek army to death at his victory at Yarmuk. In all his battles he was undefeated.” To this the Afghans nodded, for the reputation of the great Khalid stood high in their eyes.

“We will skirmish,” continued Aryana, “we will snipe, we will bleed our foe dearly in small bites. His cannon are useless against a dispersed target, so too his war machines. If he sends out a part of his force to strike at us, we will cut it off and destroy it. At night, God willing, we can approach and overwhelm his position. Once in amongst the farangi, their weapons will be useless and their throats vulnerable to cold steel.”

The leaders of the Afghan tribal warriors took heart at Aryana’s speech and returned to their bands. Soon groups of rifle-armed Afghans on foot and on horse were moving towards the outskirts of Zaranj, carefully using scrub and dead ground to conceal their movements.




Lazar Tonic had disposed the few troops available to him as best he could. Expecting a counterattack from the Afghans he placed his infantry company on the eastern perimeter of his position, with interlocking fields of fire covering the front of their positions. On the northern perimeter he placed one of the two regimental artillery companies, and the other to the south; here their guns had decent fields of fire, but Tonic assured that the gun crews dug deep revetments for their weapons and for themselves, using rocks and sandbags to fortify them. He covered his western perimeter, his rear, with a mix of supply troops and the artillery gun crews, backed up by a troop of his own armoured cars. He kept the remainder of the mechanised reconnaissance squadron as a reserve.

Sitting in the shadow cast by his personal Nemanja armoured car Tonic reflected that his position, while not enviable, was not desperate. Reports suggested that the attack on Chakhansun was progressing despite heavy opposition; he could hear the distant rumble of artillery. His men had adequate supplies, including water, and he was confident that he had enough firepower to break up any Afghan attack long before it reached his lines.

The zip of rifle bullets overhead woke him from his reverie. In the distance he heard the cries of “Medic” as the fusillade caught the Yugoslav troopers by surprise. Crouching and darting from cover to cover he made his way forward in search of Captain Kovalev of the 33rd Infantry; Tonic found him sheltering behind the half-demolished wall of a building.

“Major,” said Kovalev, “they’re firing from all over the place. We’ve taken several casualties so far, and we can’t spot them to return fire.”

“Then tell your men to keep their heads down and hold their positions. They want to thin us out before making an attack. No doubt it will get worse towards nightfall.”

Tonic’s prediction was correct. As the afternoon wore on the Afghans under Aryana’s command kept up a constant fire that slowly began to take its toll on the Yugoslavs, both in dead and wounded. Only occasionally would an Afghan sniper be spotted, instantly drawing bursts of machinegun and rifle fire. The kill ratio was favoring the Afghans and their Persian allies.



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

October 15, 1940, Shortly After Dawn - Chakhansun
Pika lowered his field glasses and pursed his lips in silent concentration. His command car sat hull-down on a rise east of town, giving him a good view of the unfolding attack on Chakhansun. Smoke rose from the outskirts of the town as the Czech field guns slowly rolled their barrage forward, and dismounted cavalrymen, huddled behind tanks for protection from small arms fire, crept forward into the outer works.

This is going to be different than Gereshk. This is going to be worse. What if I just encircled the town...? No, if I do that, the best and only road for trucks and tanks will still be in enemy hands. They've set up a pretty decent defensive line, here, but with nothing to contest my artillery and tanks, we've eliminated their forward outposts pretty easily...

Pika frowned I suppose, then, that the road to salvation is the straight and narrow one ahead.



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

October 15, 1940, Dawn - Near Farah
3,800 meters

A golden sun climbed in the east as Captaen Edmund Flood's flight of four Focke-Wulf Fw190s cruised towards Farah. In his cockpit, Flood craned his neck to keep a sharp lookout while meditating on the revelations of the past day.

A visiting Persian Air Force officer had happened to "drop by" the airfield at Zabol when the news came over the radio that Persian Nationalist aircraft had appeared in the Afghan skies. The Persian had laughed, shook his head, and suggested that the Irish and their Hurricanes would be no match for "the vaunted Captain Yezdanian and his Macchis." Rather than take offense to the Persian's words, Flood and his three fellow pilots had lured him to their private tent, liquored him up on Guinness (a waste of good drink, in Flood's opinion) and got him talking. The Persian proved loquacious and very well-informed, telling the four Irishmen more than they'd ever hoped to learn about their opponents... because he'd flown alongside them until he took the Persian government's amnesty.

Captain Reza Yezdanian, Persian Nationalist Ace of Aces. Twenty-two confirmed kills in the Persian Civil War, including six kills against the Indian Air Force. A talented pilot and an inspirational leader. Left Persia at the end of the war with his entire surviving squadron of Nationalist pilots, half of them certified aces. Lieutenant Peyman Ghalam, his friend and second-in-command, with fifteen kills - and made ace-in-a-day. Kazim Ahmasi, Yezdanian's wingman - five kills, and has flown with Yezdanian for three years straight. Lieutenant Kiarash Kooshan, a dazzling defensive flier with only four kills - but plays the bait for his squadron-mates. Lieutenant Fereydoon Zandi, scored thirty-nineth of forty-nine in the 1936 Talons, but got twelve kills in the war. Lieutenant Mehdi Khorsandi, nineteen kills, Yezdanian's friendly rival. His brother and wingman Kayhan, four kills...

The Irishmen had started to develop a deep professional respect for this group, but then their Persian source admitted - only after drinking his fifth Guinness - that Yezdanian preferred, once he'd dispatched the aerial opposition - to shoot his downed opponents in their parachutes, and ordered his pilots to do the same. That promptly turned Flood's growing admiration for his enemies into outright disgust and revulsion. Illogical though it is, it's the line between a warrior-pilot and a murderous butcher. I wonder, though, if our Persian friend was telling us the truth there, or repeating to us propaganda from their Civil War... No, if he flew with them... Maybe it's propoganda, maybe it's not. Whatever the case, I need to remember that they're my enemies.

Flood shivered. We've got a big advantage, though, thanks to our Persian friend. We know all their favorite tactical maneuvers and tricks of the trade, while they don't know us from Adam. But all I've got is three of the best pilots of the Air Corps, with a collective zero kills to our names, these Hun-built kites, and the rising sun at my back.

He'd planned the mission carefully the previous night. The Focke-Wulfs left Zabol long before dawn, and with the extra range provided by their drop tanks, cruised northeast through the darkness, swinging far off course so to approach Farah from the east. Flood decided it was well they had - they'd skirted ugly weather north of Zabol, and as the Focke-Wulfs turned back west attack Farah, the sun bright behind them, there were dark clouds to the west.

Mick Finlay was flying Flood's wing - Gealbhan a dó [1] - again. He had two years less experience than Flood, and most of it was flying Fairey Swordfish before he'd managed to win a transfer to fighters. The Fw190 was his first real posting in a front-line fighter unit, though he'd flown the new Focke-Wulf just as long as Flood. Despite that, Flood had confidence in his wingman, as they'd trained together long enough in Miles Masters for Flood to see the potential.

The other element leader - Gealbhan trí - Leifteanant Stephan Ryan - had nearly as much flight time as Flood, and they'd been posted together back in the days when the Air Corps only fielded a single squadron of Hurricanes. However, Ryan had been passed over for promotion due to several incidents which ought to have - but miraculously hadn't - cost him his career, and only his availability had scored him one of the coveted new Fw190s.

Ryan's wingman, Dara-Leifteanant Paddy McManus in Gealbhan ceathair, was Flood's biggest worry. While he had plenty of flight experience in the Hurricanes - he'd not had as much time for familiarization with the new Fw190s as his squadron-mates, and as a result he only had fifteen flight hours.

This could be the recipe for disaster, Flood mused.

"Keep a sharp lookout," Flood said. "We're nearly to Farah. Their airfield has to be around here somewhere."

"Southeast side of the town, he said," Mick Finlay reminded them. "I think I... Aircraft, two o'clock low!"

"I see 'em. As eagle-eyed as always, Mick," Flood said. "Remember our plan: don't let these gougers control the fight. Millie up!"

"Looks like there are four kites," McManus said, a moment later. "They must just now be taking off - I'm seeing dust on their runway, looks like we've got another pair getting airborne!"

"All right, boys, follow me down," Flood said. He half-rolled - reflex from too many years flying Hurricanes - then dove, leaving the throttle at medium-high cruise setting to keep from building up too much speed.

The enemy aircraft grew clearer to Flood's view, and resolved into a quartet of Macchi C.200s, circling to wait for the two remaining aircraft to join them. They circled, leisurely, apparently unaware of the diving Focke-Wulfs. Flood shoved the throttle all the way to, but not through, the stops; the engine responded and the supercharger kicked in with the slightest of jerks, and dove below the enemy about five hundred meters astern. With the speed from the dive and the greater power of the Focke-Wulf, Flood planned to shoot from the enemy's low six, then pull up high.

Three hundred meters. Two fifty. Both eyes open, don't shake the stick, two hundred, breathe calmly, gentle climb, aim for the belly forward of the wings, aim for the engine, a hundred meters, adjust for the lead, bring the nose up, plan for a brief burst, fifty meters, FIRE!

The four wing cannon roared and Flood saw his rounds slam home into the Persian Macchi. With the Focke-Wulf's speed still up, he only had a moment to shoot before he passed, nearly brushing wingtips with the enemy kite.

Zoom climb, get away from the enemy guns below me! Flood pulled back and felt the gee-forces pressing him down into the seat. Clear your mind, breathe like you ought, keep focused on the task...

As the altimeter rose and the speed fell, Flood called out to his flight. "This is one, report in."

"Two, I'm still on your six. Think you hit him - he's smoking and going down!"

"Three, I hit the tail-end fighter, he's on fire. About five hundred meters astern and two hundred below you, lead."

"Four, I'm okay and forming up again on three."

"Keep climbing," Flood ordered. "Once we get far enough above these guys, we'll set up again, if we can."

"One, this is four," McManus said. "Can we out-climb these guys with belly tanks still attached?"

"Jaysus, I forgot those!" Flood hissed, wincing. "Cut to internal fuel and drop tanks. Anyone see our Persian friends?"

"One, this is three. Two are climbing after us. I don't see any of the others."

This is where things get tricky. I don't want to dogfight these guys - they've got too much experience and they'll beat us if we try. We know those Macchis were good back in the day, but they're not likely to be in mint condition after so many years, and the Focke-Wulf can out-climb and out-run them anyway. Okay - strategy. The planes taking off earlier won't have had time to get above a thousand meters yet. We're back up to two and a half thousand and climbing. Four versus two...

"Three, this is one. Break off shallowly to starboard, and two and I break off to port. If they follow me, work back around and take them. I'll do the same if they follow you."

"Confirm, one. I'm banking away now."

Flood leaned over to look and saw his second element separate away; moments later, the Persian Macchis followed. Better climb rate than I was prepared for, but we're faster by a massive margin. They have to know they're going to fall behind... "Three, four, maintain your climb rate but throttle back a bit. Let them think they can catch you. I'm going to start working back around..."

The two Macchis hung gamely onto the tails of Ryan and McManus. Flood wondered which of the Persians was in command - and wondered if he realized he was being led by the nose to his death. Of course, I mustn't get cocky. These guys are seriously experienced veterans... Doesn't he see us creeping up on his tail?

Flood estimated the range again. If the Persians are going to maneuver, then it'll have to be soon. No, Ed. Keep your mind clear. If they're leading you into a trap, then you know how to deal with it. Keep your mind clear. Line up for the deflection shot. Range is good. A little closer... a little closer... red-white-green tricolor band on the tail, the takbir beneath the cockpit, and a squadron leader's markings - that's Yezdanian's plane!

Flood brought his thumb down on the triggers, and the four guns roared, shaking the entire plane. The Macchi twitched, it's pilot apparently surprised by the sudden fusillade. As Flood ceased fire, the Persian plane twitched, slewed from side to side, and burst into flames. Then it was gone from Flood's sight, and Yezdanian's wingman, presumably Kazim Ahmasi, suddenly appeared off Flood's starboard wingtip.

More on instinct than anything else, Flood pulled hard back on the stick, letting the Focke-Wulf's power and speed carry him through a short climbing roll. As the Macchi squirted ahead, Flood turned his climb and roll into a shallow dive, lined up his nose, and loosed a short squirt of cannon fire which ripped through the Macchi's canopy. Then the Macchi exploded, and several pieces of aluminium struck Flood's Focke-Wulf with shocking harshness.

"Jaysus!" Flood bit out, startled out of all pretense of calm. The aircraft, on the other hand, just kept purring along without any apparent damage.

"You got a third one, skipper!" Lieutenant Ryan said. "Nice shooting!"

Flood forced himself to remain calm, and thumbed the radio on. "Thanks, three. You see those other two Persians? They ought to be below us still..."

"Last I saw of them, they were bugging out to the southeast," Ryan replied. "I caught a glimpse of them as we were climbing out; I think they might have been light bombers, not fighters."

Flood acknowledged, and turned southeast to finish the job, eyeing his fuel gauge as he did. Somehow I doubt we're going to find these guys, if they're bombers; they'll run as hard and as fast as they can, and we don't have much fuel left before we need to turn back for Zabol...

As the four Focke-Wulfs fell back into a loose finger four, Flood found his hands were shaking and wouldn't stop.



Note [1]: Translates as "Sparrow Two".



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[SIZE=1]Captaen Flood's Fw-190, "Dierdre"[/SIZE]

October 15, 1940, Dawn - Farah

Captain Reza Yezdanian, Persian Nationalist Ace of Aces, hung in his chute and watched his beloved Macchi curving down towards the earth in a stately arc. Allah, how did THIS happen? he raged to himself. He'd been shot at before; he'd even been hit before, and his Macchi showed the scars of battle. Even Yezdanian himself wore the marks of combat, where he'd been wounded by the tail gunner of an Indian bomber. He had another battle-scar now, a deep cut across his arm where he'd caught himself on the edge of the canopy as he bailed out.

But I've never been shot down before! By Allah, how did this happen?

Yezdanian thought back carefully through the course of the fight. The blunt-nosed Irish butcher-birds came out of the sun and slipped beautifully into firing position. The first Yezdanian knew of them was Lieutenant Zandi's scream over the radio - followed by a more ominous silence. I have to admire what those Irish infidels did. Hit us at dawn, and took up every advantage they could for themselves. Then I made a childish mistake - I let my anger loose, and I got the tunnel vision on the two planes in front of me. How stupid I was! That's the mistake a new recruit pilot should make, not a veteran! I want to meet their leader... and shoot him down.

Pieces of another plane - another one of Yezdanian's Macchis - tumbled distantly from the sky. Yezdanian knew almost by gut instinct that the pilot was dead; and by the same instinct, Yezdanian knew it was the Macchi of his friend and long-time wingman, Kazim Ahmasi. Ah, Kazim. Allah take you to Paradise, my friend. I shall avenge you or join you soon.

By the time Yezdanian rolled to his feet on the rocky side of the hills overlooking Farah, his rage and shame had solidified and come back under control; but the hot hunger of revenge remained.



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October 15, 1940, Shortly After Dawn - East of Lake Puzak
General MacDonald's command car - one of the modified "Armoured Carrier Wheeled Irish Pattern" vehicles that had started appearing in the Irish Army - bounced as it crested the sandy ridge. The vehicle crews had lowered their tire pressure to move better on the soft sand, but the Irish tanks leading the column were not severely hampered. In fact, the tanks are slowly outrunning the infantry, MacDonald thought, sweeping the horizon with his field glasses.

"MacGrath, get on the radio and tell Leith not to get too far ahead of the main force, especially in these conditions."

"Yes sir!" the radio operator replied, and began working on his set. "FIONN to GALLOWGLASS, FIONN to GALLOWGLASS..."

Actually, MacDonald thought, This might be good ground to stand on. My left flank can be anchored by that mud-hole of Lake Puzak, and I've got three or four sandy ridges running east-west here to set up my defense. I can put my mines out on the flanks, artillery protected well in the rear, an OP on that hill to the east... If the weather lets me work!

MacDonald glanced to the northwest again. The wind had begun picking up before dawn, and clouds were forming off on the distant horizon. His meteorologists hadn't informed MacDonald of this, but their work depended entirely on receiving timely and accurate reports from the Persian side of the border. Still, the sky looks ominous, and we just don't have a feel for this country's weather.



"GALLOWGLASS confirms, FIONN," Captaen Colin Leith replied. "Over and out." He switched his radio back to his tank company's frequency and said "All right lads, let's rein it in at the next ridge and let the poor bloody infantry catch up."

Leith's Crusader came to a halt on the back side of the ridge, and the rest of the leading echelon spread out along the reverse side.




Defensive dispositions by noon.



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