Operation Obsidian Dagger

[ManBear]

OPERATION OBSIDIAN DAGGER​

Secured and Encrypted TOP SECRET by POSP​

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SPECIAL OPERATIONS TASK FORCE​

COMMANDER
Colonel Marek Lisowski – JW Kommandosów

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FORCES DEPLOYMENT​

SPECIAL OPERATIONS COMMAND – POLAND​

JW Kommandosów (Polish Special Forces)
Colonel Marek Lisowski


Unit Composition

Unit Type	Unit Name	Compliment	Home Base
Special Operations	JW Kommandosów	24 Operators	JW Kommandosów Base
Combat Air Support	Polish Air Force (C-295)	4 Pilots	Warsaw

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SPECIAL OPERATIONS DETAILS​

JW Kommandosów
Mission Profile: Covert infiltration in Syria to support Kurdish resistance against IRGL and Communist forces. The team will conduct high-risk operations, including sabotage, sabotage of enemy communications, and intelligence gathering, while maintaining the highest level of secrecy.

• Tactical Gear:
  • Weapons: 24 x HK416D145RS (Silenced), 4 x M110 Sniper Rifles (Silenced), 24 x WIST-94 Pistols (Silenced)
  • Tactical Gear: MICH TC-2002 Helmets, Night Vision Goggles (GPNVG-18), KWM-02M Bulletproof Vests, Encrypted Motorola Radios, and Hydration Bladders.
  • Supplies: Non-perishable food, water, and desert survival kits for 6 months.
  • Insertion Method: HALO Jump.

Support Equipment:

• C-295 Aircraft(Transport and resupply)
  • Fully equipped with gear for airdrops, insertion, and emergency extractions.
  • Able to transport the team and resupply with critical supplies in hostile regions.

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DEPLOYMENT ORDERS​

Ministry of National Defense (MND)
In coordination with Polish military and intelligence agencies, Operation Obsidian Dagger’s primary goal is to engage in covert actions aimed at countering Iranian-backed forces in Syria, in collaboration with Kurdish resistance groups. The operation is to be kept secret and operates under the highest level of plausible deniability. Preparations have been made to ensure that Poland maintains a non-official presence in Syria, without leaving any traceable evidence linking the operation back to the Polish government.


While the majority of the forces involved will not be informed about the specifics of the mission, the officers are aware that they will be operating in a high-risk environment with possible combat engagements. All operations are conducted with a focus on minimizing risk to civilian populations and ensuring minimal political exposure.


The operation is set to last up to six months, with the possibility of further extensions depending on operational success.

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CONTEXT​

Operation Obsidian Dagger is a critical mission focused on counterterrorism and strengthening alliances with regional partners in Syria. It is an extension of Poland’s increasing military and intelligence presence in global hot zones. The operation is to be carried out in complete secrecy to avoid international backlash and to ensure that Poland’s role remains undetected.


Preliminary planning and discussions between Poland’s Ministry of National Defense and Polish intelligence officials led to the green-lighting of the mission. The majority of Poland’s forces involved in Operation Obsidian Dagger will be kept in the dark about the mission's specifics. The operation is designed to be highly covert, with emphasis on intelligence gathering, sabotage, and local support for Kurdish allies.

 

[ManBear]

The desert, dry and unforgiving, stretched endlessly under the starlit sky. Wind whispered through the brittle stone formations and crumbling oil infrastructure, the only sound beyond the careful, measured footsteps of the twenty-four Polish special operators currently working within the region. Clad in their desert pantera camouflage, their bodies blended seamlessly into the rust-colored wasteland as they moved through the remains of a ruined oil depot, now serving as their forward staging post. Crouching over a weather-torn topographic map that was lit dimly by the red-filtered flashlight was Colonel Marek Lisowski. A forty-seven year old and hardened veteran of the JW Kommandosow. His eyes were like flint as he traced a new route with the tip of a pencil. The plan had changed.

The original plan to link up with Kurdish YPG fighters near Tell Hamis had fallen through when their YPG compatriots failed to show. Radio silence from the Kurds spelled disaster for their hopes of establish friendly contact. Scraps of intercepted chatter on one of their encrypted receivers told them something had gone wrong. Reports of Grey Wolves combatting Kurdish nationals on the Turkish side of the border had reached them days prior and now he was concerned they Wolves had crossed the border in their effort to institute their ideals on the people.

With a click of his transmit button on the radio, his gravel like voice was sent to the ear pros his fellow operators wore.

"Change of vector. We are moving north by northwest. Three klicks to suspected YPG contact. Eyes open and keep radios on low power. No unnecessary comms."

Though the message was brief, that was all his men needed to follow orders. They were certainly Poland's finest. They moved in three eight man teams, with Colonel Lisowski leading Alpha Team from the front. Bravo and Viper teams moved in a stagger delta pattern roughly one hundred meters from the last man in the lead delta formation on either side. Full mobilization of the ground team meant that something was serious as they had been limiting their footprint on the ground.

It started as if a shooting star was falling in reverse through the sky. Tracers. Then the teams felt the slight tremor echoing through the ground from the shockwaves of explosions rocking the village to their front. The three teams converged on one another behind a sand-dusted ridgeline as the distant rumbling in the distance betrayed the technicals approaching their target zone.

Colonel Lisowski's thumb easily found the transmit button on his radio before he clicked it live on the encrypted device and his voice reached out to his compatriots. "Firing. Small arms and RPGs. Kurdish dialect under stress. They’re in contact—Grey Wolves are on top of them, One point five klicks due north."

His men didn't speak they just nodded at their commander. Without command approval they had all agreed for direct intervention. Poland's doctrine in Syria has been one of surgical precision. The one that required intelligence first before action. But Lisowski wasn't going to let civilians and potential allies die in the dark. And thus they advanced. No comms were needed for the unit. His closed fist tapped twice on his helmet softly before motioning for the marksmen to move up the ridgeline overlooking the village to set up overwatch as they approached the village from the dark. The primary two teams continued to advance on the village slowly until three clicks came over the radio and into their hearing protection doubling as headsets for their radios. That meant the marksmen spread themselves over the ridgeline and had line of sight on hostiles. The two ground teams stopped fifty meters behind a dirt wall before Colonel Lisowski transmitted one last time before the action began.

They waited. They couldn't be the ones to start hostilities but they would be the ones to finish them. It didn't take long for the night to erupt into chaos as automatic gunfire from Kalashnikov pattern rifles erupted through the silence. Muzzle flashes punched shadows into the rocks, silhouettes of Kurdish fighters taking cover behind crumbling stone walls lit up the night as they returned fire blindly over walls and around corners towards Grey Wolf members.

Lisowski keyed his transmitter one final time and issued a single command. "Action."

An RPG was launched from the direction of the Grey Wolves technical rocked the valley as a scream rose and was silenced almost as immediately.

The suppressed thumps of the M110 rifles too distant to be heard from the target Grey Wolves members before they fell dead from precision shots to the torso. The crack of the supersonic rounds would be drowned out by the sheer number of rounds going down range between the Kurdish and Grey Wolves fighters. In unison to the first shots by the marksmen, the ground element surged forward with their own suppressed HK416 rifles firing at a level of calm and precision only professional operators could achieve as they took turns covering the advancement of each element. The lead element would reach a designated distance from the rear element before crouching and providing covering fire for the rear advancement. The whole action on the Polish side of the conflict was calm and serene.

Thwip, Thwip. Two rounds entered the torso of a grey wolves fighter as a fighter stepped out of a building Lisowski had been approaching. As Lipowski pied the doorway a second terrorist stepped into the line of fire. A four round burst from the 416 ripped through the man's chest as he pushed into the building only to be met by a third wielding a machete. Using his rifle to parry the blade, the Colonel's instincts kicked in and the man found a suppressor of a WIST_94 9mm pistol pressed into his ribs before two rounds took the fight out of his body and he crumpled to the ground. The third shot to the forehead took his life away. Lisowski reholstered his pistol and tactical reloaded his rifle, replacing the half used magazine back into a pouch after placing a new, full magazine into the gun. After clearing the house, more cracks from the M110 rifles filled the air as retreating grey wolves personnel were shot from the Polish marksmen.

Throughout the village, the Poles were not soldiers. They were dogs of war protecting their flock from the wolves.

Jay

 

[Jay]

The sun had already begun its slow arc downward, casting a copper glare over the flat plains that stretched along the Turkish-Syrian border. Dry wind dragged coarse dust across the armored personnel carrier’s windshield as the patrol moved at a walking pace along the unpaved trail. Corporal Özdemir Toprak, lean and sharp-jawed, squinted against the glare as he adjusted his rifle strap, scanning the low hills.

Sergeant Teoman Uçar walked beside him, his eyes restless under the brim of his cap. Behind them, the rest of the squad moved in formation. Private Hami Kobal, barely two months out of training, trudged with visible effort behind Specialist Nilay Muhiddin, who kept her expression unreadable as she scanned the road in front of them. At the rear, Pvt. Mürsel Ermiş walked with his head half-turned, watching the road behind them.

The border fence ran in jagged metal threads to their right, interrupted every kilometer by squat towers where conscripts sat on long shifts, watching with binoculars and listening to static-choked radios. On the other side of the wire, the terrain sloped away into the low outskirts of rural Syria burnt fields, quiet farmhouses, distant silhouettes of trees shriveled by heat and war.

Then they heard it, the distant cracks of rifle fire, scattered but insistent, maybe a few kilometers out. The entire patrol froze. Their radios remained silent for a beat, and then a dull boom rolled across the dry air, followed by two sharper explosions that echoed off the plains like thunder.

“Contact?” Özdemir asked instinctively, lowering his weight and raising his rifle.

Teoman tilted his head slightly, listening, measuring. “Not near us. Nothing on this side.”

Lt. Cemil Levni’s voice crackled over the comms. “Towers report negative. Sounds are coming from deep across the fence. Possible SAA and Kurdish units fighting again.”

“Could be. Maybe IRGL is in it,too,” Nilay muttered without much emotion. “Sounded like a VBIED from here.”

“No...sounded like an RPG...Let's keep moving,” Teoman said. “Stay alert. Just because it’s across the border doesn’t mean we’re not next.”

They resumed their patrol. The noise in the distance faded to occasional echoes, sporadic gunfire, more muted now and then, nothing but wind again. The border returned to stillness. None of them said it, but all of them knew how quickly fighting could spill across the invisible line. Over the years, they had seen shells fall short, fugitives run north, and dead men dragged across the border like sacks of grain.

“Why do they always fight at this hour?” Hami asked, trying to sound casual but not quite managing it.

“It’s when the air cools and people let their guard down,” Özdemir replied.

They walked until the sun dipped just above the horizon, turning the sky from dusty gold to cool nights.

By evening, the patrol had returned to basem a makeshift FOB pressed into the dry belly of the land, surrounded by blast walls and observation towers. As the last light faded into violet over the sand and steel, two of the men from the earlier patrol sat on a low concrete curb outside the motor pool, the barrel of Özdemir’s rifle resting lazily against his knee.

Private Hami Kobal leaned forward, his elbows on his thighs, staring at the dirt. “You think Ankara’s gonna flip?” he asked suddenly, glancing at his corporal. “All that noise about the Workers’ Party and the Trade Union fighting… They’re saying it everywhere. Even my uncle said it’s like ’77 again.”

Özdemir exhaled, brushing dust off his boot. “Maybe. Maybe worse. People forget what happened the last time the left got too big too fast. But that isn't our concern Hami. Focus here not what is happening back in Ankara."

Hami frowned. “You think they'd come for the army?”

“You want the truth Hami?" Özdemir asked realizing the kid wouldn't leave him alone. "They are already stuffing our corps with political officers and committee men. Trust me. They don’t want soldiers. They want uniforms that agree with them. If you do your job, stay quiet, and focus on the men and women next to you then you'll make it home in one piece.”

A long silence passed between them, punctuated by the distant thrum of a generator and the occasional shout from the mess hall.

“You think we’ll get sent over?” Hami asked, softer this time.

“Into Syria?”

“Yeah.”

Özdemir didn’t answer at first. He lit a cigarette, shielding the lighter with his hand. “It’s getting hotter,” he said after a drag. “Every month, more shelling, more border crossings. The Kurds, the Syrians, the jihadis, they all hate each other more than they hate us. But if any one of them pushes too far north…”

He didn’t finish the thought. He didn’t need to.

“I just want to go home,” Hami said after a minute. “See my wife. She’s six months now. With the baby.”

Özdemir gave a small nod, blowing smoke sideways. “You’ll get there. Just keep your head down. Do your job."

Hami managed a weak smile. “You always this comforting?”

“No,” Özdemir said, flicking his ash to the ground. “Just honest.”

They sat in silence a while longer, the cigarette ember glowing brighter in the dark as the last sunlight slipped away.

But then the shouting started.

“Stand back! STOP! Hands where I can see them!”

The voice tore through the base, loud and panicked, one of the tower guards. Özdemir was on his feet instantly, and Hami wasn’t far behind. They sprinted toward the southern perimeter, past the vehicles and the tents, boots pounding on packed dirt.

More shouting. Then gunmetal clinks, rifle bolts drawn.

As they neared the fence line, they saw the cause.

Three figures were staggering toward the gate, bloodied, barely upright, their clothing torn and soaked through with dirt and red. One of them stumbled, caught himself, and kept running. Another was yelling in Turkish, voice cracking with desperation: “Yardım edin! Allah aşkına yardım edin!” Help us! For God’s sake!

“Contact front!” Özdemir called out. “Turkish—TURKISH. Not armed!”

Teoman Uçar appeared from the right, weapon raised but not firing. “Hold fire! That’s not an attack!”

The outer gate buzzed open, just enough for the two soldiers to rush through. Dust swirled around their boots as they reached the men—two older, one barely twenty, faces slack with blood loss, hands reaching, one of them missing two fingers.

“They’re shot—here, help me lift him!” Özdemir grabbed one by the shoulders, Hami taking the legs. Another groaned, collapsing to his knees, hands gripping a ragged belly wound.

“MEDIC!” Hami bellowed. “We need a medic out here, now!”

A minute later, Specialist Nilay Muhiddin sprinted out, her med kit bouncing against her thigh. She dropped beside the wounded, snapping gloves on as she assessed them. “One through the shoulder, another through the leg, shit, this one’s got a sucking chest wound. I need clamps, gauze, get me a stretcher!”

The men moaned, half-conscious, one sobbing as he clutched Özdemir’s arm. “They...they opened fire. We were delivering food. They ambushed us...Kurds, YPG, I swear, we didn’t do anything…”

The base lights were now flooding the gate area, and Lt. Cemil Levni stepped through the secondary barrier, barking into his radio. “Three civilian males, Turkish ID confirmed. Ambushed south of the fence, requesting intelligence update and QRF standby. Lock perimeter down until we confirm contact.”

Teoman knelt beside Nilay, wiping sweat off his brow. “How bad?”

“Two might live. One’s not gonna make it unless he’s flown out in the next hour.”

“We’re not set up for evac tonight.”

“I know,” she said quietly.

Behind them, the man who had screamed still clung to Özdemir’s sleeve. His eyes were wild with trauma, voice trembling as he repeated over and over, “They were waiting for us. They knew we were coming. It was the Kurds. I swear to God.”

---

The hum in the drone operations trailer was subtle. Corporals Toraman Ucuncu and Eralp Gunduz manned the drone controls. Their eyes staring too long at the screen as they followed the shifting grain of terrain on the infrared monitor. The Bayraktar TB2 they launched three hours earlier was now completing its fifth rotation over the ridgelines south of the border with Syria.

"Altitude 23,000. Weather holding. No interference," Torman muttered. The drone's stabilizers kept the camera perfectly aligned as they crossed over a patch of scorched farmland dotted with scrub and stone.

Lieutenant Eldemir Onay stood behind him, arms folded tight across his vest, still in uniform despite the late hour. The three wounded survivors were sedated in the field infirmary, and none had been able to provide a coherent account yet. Just flashes, an ambush, automatic fire, muffled rounds, running in the dark. And one word, repeated over and over, Kurdler. Kurds.

"We're nearing the marker they gave us," Eralp said. "Grid H8, east of the ravine."

Eldemir leaned forward, pointing to a break in the terrain. "There. That slope. Looks like footprints...Drag marks?"

Eralp tapped the console. The thermal overlay adjusted. "Contact. Multiple heat signatures. No movement. We’ve got bodies. A lot of them."

The image sharpened, fifteen figures, maybe more. They were scattered at unnatural angles near the edge of the battlefield. One looked like they’d crawled ten meters before collapsing. Another had fallen backwards, arms out, shirt soaked and stuck to the dirt. Two were huddled together, one shielding the other.

“Yemin ederim” Eldemir muttered.

Eralp muted his mic and turned to him. “There are weapons scattered around them all."

“Confirm they had weapons?” Eldemir asked, his voice tighter now.

He scanned. “There are weapons but...can't confirm who they belonged to."

Another operator entered from outside, wiping the sweat off his neck. "Sir, General Staff are requesting an update on the situation. Corps Commander says that the incident needs to be sent up the chain."

Eldemir exhaled, slow. “Tell them we've confirmed fifteen fatalities. Three wounded being treated here. We suspect a YPG attack across the border on Turkmen and Turkish nationals in the area. Any update on them” He asked the soldier.

“Yes, sir. They're being stabilized. Nilay say they won’t die tonight. She did one hell of a job.”

“But fifteen others did.” He stared at the screen, having the footage bookmarked and beginning to logging the exact GPS coordinates for a reaction units. “We’ll need body retrieval teams, scene preservation—whoever did this may have fled south. Want me to check the route to the Syrian Army lines?”

Eldemir didn’t answer immediately. Then he shook his head. "We've been there longer than necessary. Bring the drone back and have second company prepare to move out." Eldemir stepped away from the screen and keyed his radio as the drone operators turned back to Turkish lines following a 2km incursion into Syria.

ManBear

 

[Jay]

The border smelled of diesel and dust, a chill wind sweeping over the checkpoint as the Kirpis idled in staggered column formation, engines humming low beneath the tension that hung like static in the air. The sky was still dark, navy blue giving way to a dull pre-dawn horizon. Overhead, the rhythmic pulse of a Bayraktar drone could barely be heard as they circled the area of operation.

Lieutenant Eldemir Onay stood at the head of the table, flanked by a whiteboard cluttered with drone imagery and terrain maps. His right hand held a red grease pencil; his left clenched the edge of the metal table, knuckles taut.

A map of the Syrian border sector flickered on the wall-mounted screen, fed directly from the TB2 drone feed.

Onay drew a circle on the projection with the marker.

“Zero-three-forty, our border post received three Turkish nationals coming out of the valley here, near the Khatar ridge. Civilians. Badly injured. They crossed on foot thankfully made it to our position.”

He looked up, eyes scanning the room.

“They’re saying a small YPG unit ambushed them and killed their fellow travellers. He tapped the screen.

“At zero-four-hundred, a TB2 flying overwatch confirmed the bodies. Fifteen in total. Possibly more.”

Tural leaned forward, frowning. “Are we greenlit for the border crossing?”

Onay shook his head. “Not officially. Command has not granted cross-border authority. General Ergun of 2nd Army is pressing for air authorization, but it’s bogged down. Ankara wants 'to ' before escalation. Until then, we move under platoon initiative. That means we go alone.”

Murmurs passed between the squad leaders. Bayrak spoke first.

“ROE?”

Onay nodded. “Strict. No engagement unless fired upon. This is an extraction under humanitarian grounds, we are not hunting. But we’re stepping into contested terrain, and the border’s been hot for weeks. Assume overwatch positions are active, assume we’re being watched the moment we cross.”

Lieutenant Kerem Altun stood up before his platoon,

"They're ours," he said flatly. "We don’t know how they got caught behind the line. Doesn’t matter. They’re Turkish citizens. Let's bring their bodies home so they can be buried with dignity."

Serhat “Fırtına” Başer tilted his head, tone clipped. “Air support?”

“The TB2 stays with us. It’s armed with two Hellfires. Rules of engagement for it are tight — only defensive fire permitted unless confirmed hostile buildup. Best we’ve got otherwise is a Turkish Army Apache on the tarmac at Silopi, standing by. It’s not on-mission but the pilot owes someone favors. That’s it.”

A moment of silence. Then Kaan Aydıner spoke.

“No armor beyond the Kirpis?”

Onay nodded. “Correct. We’re rolling Five MRAPs.”

Onay walked around the table and placed a hand on the map. “This mission’s clean. Fast. In and out."

He looked at each man now, gaze steady.

“You all know what this is. This is us doing what Command won’t. If we lose one man out there, it’ll be used against us politically, but if we leave those people behind, then we don't deserve to wear this uniform and stand in front of the flag.”

Another pause. Then Altun looked at everyone. “Mount up. Final weapons check. We roll in twenty.”

The squad leaders stood and nodded, moving out Onay remained behind a second longer, watching the drone feed flicker across the screen, thermal figures had long left the valley, small and fading in the cold.

A murmur passed through the men. They all nodded as they went to brief their squads. No one asked why the civilians were there as their soldiers got ready knowing the risks.

Corporal Şahin looked up from the feed on the tablet mounted inside the MRAP. "Command's sitting on it. They won’t greenlight the extraction. They're saying cross-border authority has to go through Ministry channels."

Kerem’s gaze didn’t waver. "We're not here because of them. We're here because they’re there. We move in five."

The Kirpi convoy rolled through the wire gap at a crawl, one by one, turrets manned, guns silent. The second last vehicle was empty save for a lone driver and encrypted comms gear on silent receive. No chatter. Just the sound of tires on gravel and the low moan of steel as the armored hulls creaked under weight and motion.

Just a few kilometers in, the war revealed itself not with gunfire, but with stillness. A silence too heavy, too absolute, the kind left behind when people flee, or are made to flee. The kind that came after screaming. Dust hung in the air like it didn’t know where else to go. On the side of the road, a donkey cart lay overturned in the ditch, half-covered in soot, one wheel spinning slowly in the wind.

Inside the lead MRAP, Private Enes Özdemir gripped his rifle tightly. His palms were damp under his gloves, and his throat felt tight. The landscape beyond the thick ballistic glass was foreign and too quiet, low stone buildings, half-collapsed, burnt-out shells of tractors, and a lone electrical wire that sagged like a noose across the road.

Even nature seemed subdued here. The birdsong had faded. No dogs barked. The wind carried only the soft creak of warped sheet metal and the occasional rattle of loose glass in empty window frames. Every house they passed looked like it had been caught mid-collapse, half-standing like drunks leaning against time.

Smoke coiled up from behind a jagged outcrop, thin and uncertain. Nearby, a small grove of citrus trees formed a protective barrier, but its fruits were full of mold and unattended.

The village signs had no names anymore. Just pockmarked concrete and spray paint, slogans in Kurdish, some crossed out, some fresh. Children’s toys lay in roadside ditches. Dust blew like ghosts across the fields.

And yet behind them, just over the hills, their homes still lived. Villages with morning bread deliveries, farmers stretching under the rising sun, minarets echoing the Fajr call in clean, unbroken cadence. That line, that invisible border, had become a chasm. Peace on one side. Ash on the other.

Ahead, the valley narrowed. They passed what had once been a schoolhouse, now gutted by bullet holes and blown-out chunks. Enes swallowed hard. "They won’t be far," he whispered, more to himself than anyone. "The YPG."

Kerem’s voice came over the intercom, clipped but calm. "We’re close. Two hundred meters to contact. Dismount at my mark. Watch your fires. No returns unless fired upon."

"This used to be tobacco country," Sergeant Yakup muttered from the turret. "My uncle had land here before the fighting."

No one responded as they felt their stomach churn as they got closer to the site.

The Kirpis formed a protective arc. Doors slammed open, boots hit dirt, weapons trained outward. Kerem advanced first, rifle low. He looked at the drone footage and told his men to begin loading up the bodies.

The wind shifted, curling low over the valley floor where the firefight had died many hours before. The sharp, acrid scent of gunpowder had thinned. Altun couldn't help but notice...the casings left behind were from Western weapons. They weren't the regular AK and SVD rounds he was used to finding.

Lieutenant Altun knelt beside the first body. He didn’t speak. His gloves moved gently, checking for a pulse that wasn’t there, then brushing away dust from the young man's face.

No uniform. no identification,, just a blood-stained shirt and a body that could have belonged to any village on either side of the border. His hair was matted with soot, his jaw slack, eyes half-lidded in a blank stare toward the sky.

Another soldier, Private Enes Özdemir, came up behind him. “Sir… we’re finding more. Scattered along the the area. At least twelve.”

Altun didn’t look up. “Any survivors?”

Enes shook his head.

Altun nodded. "Load them up and let's get out of this place...we've already been here too long."

The platoon worked in coordination as they removed the dead. Loading the now twenty-two bodies onto the back of two MRAPS.

Enes looked at the bodies. "It is horrible...who could do such a thing?"

Corporal Başer, arms streaked with dust and dried blood, gave a tired shrug. “Doesn’t matter now.”

Sergeant Öztürk unfolded a body bag, he paused before zipping it shut. “They could be Turkish,” he murmured. “Or Kurdish.”

Bayrak glanced over at him. “Maybe it never should have.”

Behind them, the Kirpi’s rear hatch hung open as soldiers gently loaded the bodies one by one. They laid them down with care, each in a bag. Some had Turkish IDs, some had none.

Lieutenant Altun stood near the ridge, looking out across the quiet valley. His radio crackled softly with static, but he ignored it. Down below, the drone hovered silently overhead. He took in the sight for a moment."

As the soldiers continued their quiet work, the sun burned through the haze, revealing the jagged shadow of a distant minaret and scattered villages. Altun wondered if life still existed here or if the YPG had driven the villagers out.

He didn't doubt this would be the last time he would be in this wretched place. He turned back to the sound of heavy boots crunching over gravel and scorched earth.

The final body bag was zipped shut and lifted into the vehicle. Lieutenant Altun stood at the rear of the last Kirpi, watching his men hoist the dead into the vehicle’s steel compartment. The interior was padded with wool blankets, the only soft things they had.

He climbed up into the lead vehicle, gave a final sweep of the ridge through the armored glass, and tapped the radio. “All units, form up. Five-minutes. We move.”

The convoy rolled through the broken countryside in staggered formation, slow and steady. The Turkish flag on each vehicle fluttered in the crosswind, faint but present.

In the distance, the border wall loomed, steel and concrete stacked like a dam holding back a rising tide. Turkish watchtowers gleamed in the sun. Safety.

Crossing the final 100 meters, Altun finally allowed himself to breathe. The convoy passed through the gate under a series of tense stares from the base guards. No questions yet. Just clipped salutes, wary glances at the dust-caked MRAPs and the covered shapes in the rear.

Lieutenant Onay stood by a row of Hesco barriers, arms crossed, watching the convoy roll back in, walking forward. “Casualties?” He asked earnestly, seeing the men unload the bodies with the help of the rest of the company.

Altun shook his head. “None. No contact. No enemy movement. Extraction clean.” He paused. “We brought back… everyone we could find.”

Onay looked past him at the rear hatches. A soldier was lighting a cigarette with shaking hands, eyes fixed on the body bags being unloaded. “Find any documents?” Onay asked.

“Mixed. Some had Turkish IDs. A few had none. Some looked Kurdish. Couldn't tell in all honesty." He said with a sigh of defeat, hoping they had gotten all the bodies. A long silence hung between them.

Altun looked at Onay. "Do we file a report?” He asked.

Onay turned to him slowly, shaking his head. “If we file a report, the entire platoon gets dragged in for unauthorized incursion. At best, we’re detained. At worst, we're sent to some black site, 'training reassignment' camps, off-book. You’ve heard the rumors.”

Altun looked down, jaw tightening as he nodded.

Onay stepped closer, rested a hand on his shoulder. “We hand the bodies over to the forensic unit at Silopi. Quietly. Let the Ministry deal with the truth when it starts leaking on its own.”

Onay squeezed once, firm.

“You did a good thing today, Kerem. You saved the dead from being forgotten. Their mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, sons, and daughters will keep you in their prayers, thanking the unknown that brought their loved ones home.”

Then he turned and walked away without another word.

Altun stood alone for a moment, the sounds of the base, radios, boots, and distant rotors escaped him for a moment a he looked toward the MRAPs, where his men were still unloading the last of the bags. One soldier had laid a Turkish flag gently across a makeshift stretcher as others looked on.

ManBear