- Oct 3, 2018
- 2,945
Across the emerald landscape of New Caledonia, the eerie silence after nearly twelve hours of constant firefights. No doubt it was a shock to the Polish Garrison, their experience of paradise in flames, the blood of their comrades soaking their uniform, the howling of the wounded, the buzzing of helicopters patrolling the base, the young men and women of the Polish task force were no longer the inexperienced and jolly optimists that first set foot on the Island.
The sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the war-torn landscape. Former French Colonel Jacques Lambert, a cell leader in the resistance, navigated the battered roads with a steady hand, the old military vehicle rumbling beneath him. Tied to the top of the truck was a large white flag. The truck was loaded with bodies of some eighteen Polish soldiers whom they had killed across the Island at various checkpoints. They would be stripped of their Polish gear—helmets, body armor, rifles, rations, and other supplies that had been captured but keep their combat fatigues. Lambert removed their dog tags and kept them in a canteen in the front of the car with him.
Lambert had served with the French military for decades, his career marked by valor and respect for the Poles. Now disillusioned by the endless cycle of violence back home, he had taken it upon himself to act according to his own moral compass. The fight for liberation was non-negotiable for him. The conflict between the former French forces and their Polish occupiers had left an uncanny taste in the former colonel's mouth. As night set in and the violence died down, Lambert had his men collect the bodies of the Poles they ambushed.
As he drove, the countryside blurred into a patchwork of green fields and charred ruins. The silence inside the truck was a calm respite from a day of violence. The journey was fraught with danger no doubt. Lambert knew that the Poles would be suspicious and as he approached the general location of the Polish base he would slow down to under 15 km/h. There was still a few hours left on the cease-fire, and he just prayed the Poles would honor it.
Approaching a checkpoint set out before the base, no doubt placed by the Poles to avoid another VBEID attack Lambert slowed the vehicle and approached the checkpoint. Lambert would be wearing combat fatigues, his sidearm strapped to his thighs holstered. He would approach the check point and speak to the Polish officers in broken English laced in a French accent. "Ezzques me...I...I come with..." He would try to translate the word for fallen comrades into English. "With the bodies of your comrade. It would not seet well with me azz a Catholic to leave their bodies to rot. Please collect them and bring them inside," He said as he handed over the canteen with their dog tags slowly. He would himself offer to get out and open the back in case the Polish guards felt it was a ruse.
ManBear
The sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the war-torn landscape. Former French Colonel Jacques Lambert, a cell leader in the resistance, navigated the battered roads with a steady hand, the old military vehicle rumbling beneath him. Tied to the top of the truck was a large white flag. The truck was loaded with bodies of some eighteen Polish soldiers whom they had killed across the Island at various checkpoints. They would be stripped of their Polish gear—helmets, body armor, rifles, rations, and other supplies that had been captured but keep their combat fatigues. Lambert removed their dog tags and kept them in a canteen in the front of the car with him.
Lambert had served with the French military for decades, his career marked by valor and respect for the Poles. Now disillusioned by the endless cycle of violence back home, he had taken it upon himself to act according to his own moral compass. The fight for liberation was non-negotiable for him. The conflict between the former French forces and their Polish occupiers had left an uncanny taste in the former colonel's mouth. As night set in and the violence died down, Lambert had his men collect the bodies of the Poles they ambushed.
As he drove, the countryside blurred into a patchwork of green fields and charred ruins. The silence inside the truck was a calm respite from a day of violence. The journey was fraught with danger no doubt. Lambert knew that the Poles would be suspicious and as he approached the general location of the Polish base he would slow down to under 15 km/h. There was still a few hours left on the cease-fire, and he just prayed the Poles would honor it.
Approaching a checkpoint set out before the base, no doubt placed by the Poles to avoid another VBEID attack Lambert slowed the vehicle and approached the checkpoint. Lambert would be wearing combat fatigues, his sidearm strapped to his thighs holstered. He would approach the check point and speak to the Polish officers in broken English laced in a French accent. "Ezzques me...I...I come with..." He would try to translate the word for fallen comrades into English. "With the bodies of your comrade. It would not seet well with me azz a Catholic to leave their bodies to rot. Please collect them and bring them inside," He said as he handed over the canteen with their dog tags slowly. He would himself offer to get out and open the back in case the Polish guards felt it was a ruse.
ManBear
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