- Oct 3, 2018
- 2,896
Russian army base, somewhere in Russia
It was cold and dark as the morning skies were replaced by dark overcast. Men of the Russian 73rd Battalion had returned from their afternoon physical. Corporal Dimitrov clad in his olive-green uniform, adorned with insignias of the 73rd, he stood amidst rows of poorly arranged weaponry and supplies. As the he checked each item in the armory, his mind wandered, and he muttered to himself under his breath.
"Why do I always have to do this?" he grumbled quietly, "It's like they think I'm some kind of inventory wizard…” they always leave it as a freaking mess..ugh” He paused, straightening up to stretch his tired muscles before continuing his work.
Dimitrov inspected each rifle, sidearm, and ammunition crate, making sure the inventory aligned with the weapons on hand. He was annoyed that these new reforms were making his life so tedious.
"I bet those officers are lounging around in their cushy offices right now, sipping coffee while I'm stuck in here, counting bullets." He said with a resigned sigh. He returned to the task at hand, his thoughts drifting once more to the distant comforts of something warm.
Occasionally, a soft curse escaped his lips as he discovered discrepancies in the inventory, prompting him to correct them with diligent care. Amidst the monotony of the task, he found solace in the rhythm of his own thoughts, using the time to imagine himself with a beautiful lady. The thought alone gave him warmth in this frozen hell hole.
Amidst the clatter of metal and the hum and flickering of old lights over him, Dimitrov mouthed blyat….
He double checked his list…before looking up and realizing with concern what he had uncovered. He began pacing around the armory…the trickle of sweats began to drop as the humming of old lights intensified above him.
He looked around the armory for a third…then a fourth time…before realizing it was impossible to have been misplaced. He looked back at his list…rifles 2,500-3,200 were missing…all gone…swiped from the armory.
As he began to look around he noticed it wasn’t just rifles. Grenades…body armor plates…explosives…all gone. He radio’d his commanding office to come over…he was unsure about what to do.
Back in the Officers Room, Captain Viktor Yelizarov let out a long puff from his cigar. He and the other officers were relaxing after a day of mostly calm. Despite the cold winds brewing, unusual for this time of year, the Officers sat rather comfortably. Playing Durak as they puffed their cigars and relaxed.
Almost like a thud of thunder hitting the ground the Radio of Yelizarov buzzed alive startling the eased officers. Yelizarov picked up his radio and raised the volume. “This is Captain Yelizarov, identify yourself, soldier,” Yelizarov said with a hint of annoyance.
The radio lit up as Corporal Dimitrov responded. “Sir. This is Corporal Dimitrov, 73rd Motor Infantry Battalion Sir. There is an issue at the armory Sir. A big issue Sir. Please come.” Captain Viktor Yelizarov sighed. “Yelizarov affirms. Coming down.” He said as he grabbed his sidearm, strapping it to his holster. He took one last puff of his cigar before putting it out and walking out.
Colonel Chernakov nodded as Viktor left the room. “Have fun down there” he said demaningly as he placed down another card, winning the game. He smiled as he took the pot of money and smelled it menacingly.
Captain Yelizarov came down to see what the issue was as he walked past a number of non-commissioned officers doing their rounds. He stepped into the armory and saw a distressed soldier pacing the room. Before he could say anything the corporal blurted out.
“Sir I swear I don’t know what happened Sir. I just..I just walked in here and it was gone. I checked the armory logs and it was always reported…I…I don’t what to do.” The corporal blurted out rather distraught.
Viktor chuckled as he did not truly appreciate the gravity of the situation. “Relax corporal. I am sure we can figure out your little problem.” Captain said as he assumed this was some small hiccup over misplaced rifles or munitions. Dimitrov handed him the missing items list. Viktor’s mouth dropped as he saw the thousands of rifles, explosive materials, equipment, and ammunition that Dimitrov had cataloged. “Suka…” he muttered.
Several weeks later in New Caledonia
New Caledonia, Polish occupied territory
On the island of New Caledonia, the summer spirits brought a close to the tropical depressions that rummaged the island. Elsewhere in the Pacific, the summer brought a different reality. The monsoon season would plague the wider Indo-Pacific as it had for centuries.
On the island nation of New Caledonia which had in recent months faced trials and tribulations, the ongoing presence of occupiers brought neither respite nor change. To the island nation, the transfer of the white man who came to their island yet again were no different than their former occupiers. At least they could delude themselves into believing that under republican France they too had equal ownership over their future.
No self-anointed despot would rule the New Caledodnians. Despite their differences with the invasive European settlers who rummaged the Island, the native Kanaky people forged an alliance with the soldiers and settlers who formed the Caledonian resistance. While the Thai were here the Caledonians used the opportunity to build up their capabilities. The burning image of the Thai Flag planted on their shared homeland fueled an inner rage that could not be contained.
For months the resistance built up its arsenal, stealing from former French bases neither the Polish nor the Thai seemed to care for. Contacts were made with foreign arms dealers allowing them to acquire explosive-making equipment, armored plates, and armored piercing ammunition. The element of surprise was their benefit.
As the Guyanese were repulsed by continued Canadian raids due to their premature and amature activties the Caledonians stuck to the shadows. They studied the Thai before they were replaced with Poles. When the Poles came they watched closely. They learned to differentiate the members of the task force and the rotations they took. With months of preparations, the Caledonian leadership believed they were sufficiently prepared for their offensive.
Time of course was of the essence. The Canadian invasion had given them breathing space from a violent crackdown by the imperialists. When news came of Australia’s sudden reemergence the leadership increasingly felt emboldened to raise the stakes in the Pacific. Thrusting the nascent power into the spotlight over a Pacific showdown, one it would hardly be able to refuse. Now, as the imperialist war machine turns its piercing eyes to the people of New Caledonia the ticking of countdown hums ever so rapidly.
At the main rebel camp in the jungles of New Caledonia, the leaders of the resistance would meet together for the first time in a while. Until now they operated as smaller cells to avoid detection, and in the event of being discovered limit the damage to a single cell group.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm orange glow over the lush landscape of the Pacific island, Jean-Marie Babtise, a distinguished French colonel, serving for the Republican army, sat in command tent puffing a cigar. He sat across Charlotte Duchamp, an intelligence officer in the army, and Antoine Kombouaré, an indigenous Kanak officer apart of the garrison.
These three together make up a significant chunk of the resistance cells. Duchamp herself rather apprehensive of the meeting, feeling it unnecessary, calmed herself with a cigar that Jean-Marie handed to her. “Relax Night Owl…tonight we rest comfortably. Tomorrow…only the outcome of our efforts will tell.” He said as he blew out a big puff of smoke from his cigar. Kombouaré chimed in as he spat out a bit of tobacco. “Tomorrow the occupiers of this land will feel the pain of generations. We will not become patrons of a new empire. Viva La France…” He said with a hint of disdain for what had become of their republic.
“Viva La France,” the other two said both holding weight over those words hence replaced with chants of fascist imperialists who had taken control over their homeland. Perhaps in this moment in a weird twist of fate, both officers finally understood Kombouaré and the indigenous community’s feelings of suffocation. When the flag of your nation is drowned in the emergence of a new collective and your values are snuffed out from existence. There was no more France to the French soldiers who swore allegiance to their Republic and that online.
As they lamented on this topic, three other men walked in, taking their seats at the table. One swacked a mosquito that had flown on his neck cursing it as he did. Jean-Louise Vidal, a scholar and prominent figure within the republican movement of France, smiled as he saw the other leaders of the resistance. “Comrades. Indeed it is a rejoiceful day. Tomorrow we will strike at the heart of our oppressors and begin the chain of events that will culminate in our total independence.” He smiled as he finished his sentence.
Next to him Jean-Christophe Tomas, a Creole settler, whose own journey had led him to confront the stark realities of France's imperialist ambitions and come to terms with his conflicting identities simply nodded. “We must break the chains of our oppression and never allow the fascist flags of imperialism to fly so freely on our island once more.”
The third man, sulking into the chair as he awaited to listen to what the other leaders had to say stayed silent. Éloi Declerc., son of Pierre Declercq, assassinated leader of the Kunyak independence movement, looked around the room as the other five leaders acknowledged his presence and set out to discuss the task at hand.
“Gentlemen…and lady,” Jean-Marie began, “the situation on our island has yet to change favorably for us. The Polish occupation has replaced the Thai and continues to perpetuate the deprivation of our right to liberty. The time to act has come and we are prepared to take the initiative to send a decisive message to the occupation and the fascists in Paris that they will not forget.” Duchamp nodded as she added to Jean-Marie’s statement. “Our sources in the occupational authority tell us that the mainland will dispatch forces to secure the Island for a long-term occupation. We can expect a far more formidable opposition should we allow the imperialists to land on the Island. We must disable the port and airport if we are to have any chance of success.” The other five nodded in agreement.
Jean-Christophe piped up at this opportunity to add, “We expect the indigenous communities on Ouvea and We to support us. It is on the main Island where I believe we will face far more potent resistance and difficulties.” Jean-Louise added on, “In my latest trip to Noumea is increased apprehension over news that the imperialists will come. Many are worried they will meet the fate of the republican government… executed on live television. They are scared…and we will be the light that offers them a new path.” Kombouaré swayed away from the idealism the two showed and got back to the plan.
“My men will be ready when ordered. We have a few hunting rifles and military firearms between us, so, our capture of the smaller islands will be manageable. We do expect light resistance from the New Caledonian gendarmerie. However, once you’ve taken control of the bases we will need to get our hands on more heavier weaponry.” He said looking at Jean-Marie, whose operatives had gotten the heavier equipment including RPG-7 and APILAS anti-tank rockets.
“Yes,” Jean-Marie acknowledged, "once we’ve taken a considerable number of facilities we will be sure to equitably transfer them amongst the other cells. Our goal is simple. The first strikes are meant to demonstrate our capabilities, not to be a full-blown effort to occupy the city. We do not have the manpower or firepower for that.”
Duchamp nodded. “My operatives have already set up for tomorrow’s operation. We’ll set the stage. We will need you two to just perform.” She said as her leg continued to tap the ground in a fidget.
Jean-Marie nodded and added, “God’s speed tomorrow. The war for our independence and severance from the tyrants of Paris will begin. While our fortunes in the here will judge us unkindly it will be history that notes the truth. That today we stood up for our rights just as our ancestors had done.”
“And true independence from all forms of colonialism including intellectually from France,” Declerc said rather dismissively. “If our plan is to work we will need to gather support from regional powers who can send a clear signal that French interference will result in a serious escalation. As we all understand from the mandate I have been given, I believe that the stars have indeed aligned for us. Canberra will be a willing partner…at least I hope.”
Jean-Marie laughed. “The Aussies only care about one thing. Their own bottom line. They are no better than the French. Today we may be aligned but if the French try hard enough, the Australians would suck their cock and dine on our roasting heads.”
Declerc interrupted him, “Better that than being assassinated and having your body dissolved in acid,” he said in reminiscence to how the French assassinated anti-colonial nationalists across the third world such as his father.
Duchamp stepped in to break up the boiling tensions. “Yes…we can agree. That none of us want a return to the previous status quo. The indigenous people have suffered long enough and will only continue to suffer under continued French occupation. Just as much as we would suffer from our loyalties to a Republic whose values we have held dear.” The others nodded as Duchamp spoke.
“Viva La Caledonia” Jean-Christophe piped up with the others joining him. With that, the group took leave to return to their base camps for tomorrow’s operation.
The following day Duchamp’s operatives waited at a nearby village where Polish peacekeepers were stationed. Perhaps it was the women or the palm trees. Whatever it was. The Poles had become complacent as they patrolled with ease throughout the Island. Polish Peacekeepers and medical staff would continue to interact with the locals to win the hearts and minds of the public.
One medical officer would find himself being aroused by a local female native. Perhaps it was the exoticism or the fact he was still a virgin, but there was something that drove this young and inexperienced officer to break away from his platoon. But for the resistance, it was not simply fate. They targeted the office, knowing he would be naive enough to fall for their trap.
In what must have felt like the beginning of a love interest Captain Mieczysław Gromek had been attempting to nurture. After many brief encounters, he was finally being let into her home. A gesture the more experienced soldiers said always led to the time of their lives. The dimly lit hut was well away from where the rest of the Polish soldiers were offering medical services or patrolling. Jazz music floated through the air, mixing with the hum of mosquitos as Captain Mieczysław Gromek was led away by a native woman. She was strikingly beautiful, with the scent of honey and berries following her. A scent that Gromek had come accustomed to on his many excursions with this woman.
“Do you mind if we spice things up?" she asked, her voice smooth and inviting. Mieczysław looked up, startled out of his reverie. "Uh, sure. I don't mind," he replied, his cheeks flushing slightly. She smiled warmly. “Great." Her laughter was light and musical. “I’ve always loved the uniform…but I’d love to see it off.” She said as she took off his helmet and put on her body. She dropped her rob. Jan blushed deeper. “Oh…oooo…” He said as he unbuttoned his blouse. Her eyes twinkled with amusement. “What are your orders, Commander”. She said with a salute as Mieczysław had his eyes glued to her glistening body. Mieczysław stammed as she came closer and put her hands on his lips. A sly smile played on her lips. “Let us see if what they say about you Poles is true.” She said as she ripped off his trousers and pushed him back on the bed.
Mieczysław’s heart pounded, unsure how to respond. As she reached out and lightly touched his arm, her touch was electrifying. As she pulled off his underwear and excited Mieczysław she would sit on top of him. “You know, Mieczysław’, I honestly liked you.” Drawing his concern. “I am sorry it had to end like this.”
Mieczysław stammered “What do you mean?!” The young native woman leaned in closer, her lips almost brushing his ear. "I hope you will not hold this against me.” Before Mieczysław could say anything two men would storm the hut and hold his naked body to the bed as one drapped his mouth with a cloth. A third man would enter the hut as the native stepped back.
The lights flashed before Mieczysław eyes as the third man brandished a machete and sliced the young man’s neck. As blood dripped and the young man choked on his own blood the last thing he would see was the majestic beauty that entrapped his soul walking away.
As Mieczysław’s lifeless body stopped squirming the two men who were restraining him would let go. The clock had started. It would not be long before the Poles would figure out what had happened. Moving quickly a Frenchmen would don the Pole’s uniform and steal a truck. Driving it some kilometers downroad to a village where the Polish armored truck was outfitted to carry explosives. They turned the vehicle into a VBEID.
At the main port resistance agents had delivered a cargo ship laced with explosives. The three cargo containers would be placed at the entrance, on the pier, and near the military docking yard. With operatives nearby ready to detonate the explosives.
The Resistance Fighter driving the vehicle had practiced his Polish and hoped that it would be enough to get passed the guards. The early morning mist clung to the jungle roads leading to the Polish military base. The continued rain that battered the Island left a unique musk that permeated the Island. Martin sat behind the wheel the Polish military truck, his mind sharply focused on the road as he drove past various Polish patrols or local sites. As he approached the base he began to realize his medical patches were still on. He didn’t even realize if he had the correct insignias and identification badges stolen from an unfortunate young officer.
The truck roared steadily as he navigated the roads. His eyes flickered to the rearview mirror as he saw Polish military jeeps speeding away in the opposite direction. He wondered if the Poles realized what had happened. The stolen uniform felt foreign on his body, a little tight around the hips. Martin’s heart pounded in his chest, a mix of adrenaline crashed against the calmness that the morning brought. He rehearsed his lines throughout the drive. Knowing that any mistakes may cost him his life and his mission. The Polish language rolled off his tongue a little roughly given his few weeks of preparation.
As he approached the base the revealing and imposing gates of the military installation stood starkly in front of him. The entrance was heavily guarded, soldiers patrolling it as well as a constant vehicle check. He took a deep breath, adjusting his expression to one of weary determination.
A guard approached the vehicle and asked the Frenchman "Identification and purpose of visit," the guard demanded in Polish” Martin handed over the forged documents, keeping his movements controlled. "Mieczysław Gromek returning from a medical mission," he replied, his Polish accent decent enough. "I need to report directly to the hospital. We need more vaccines there were more kids than we expected.” He said a little worried as the Polish guard began to look behind the vehicle.
The guard looked at the documents before lifting his eyes back to Martin’s face. Waving the vehicle through. Martin smiled and drove the vehicle forward before the guard shouted to him to stop. Martin could see the Polish guard speak into the radio. Sensing something was off he reached to his sidearm ready to kill the Pole and ram through the base. If the Polish Guard tried to stop him he would ram through and explode at the nearest object. If he was able to enter he would find the command center and park the vehicle before detonating it.
Noumea Port
At the main port, Jacques and Henri waited for the signal to detonate the explosives. Their goal was to disable the main port, any Polish military ships nearby, and ensure the port was unusable for any French re-occupation. Jacques’ impatience grew as they passed the expected signal time. It was almost five minutes as he grew anxious wondering if the other team had failed to complete their objective. As the clock ticked Jacques grew more agitated. As his agitation grew to open frustration casing Henri to tell the operative to pipe it down their radios would start to emit a buzzing noise. A female’s voice on the other side said the magic phrase. “Fifth of November”. After hearing the phrase Henri nodded. Jacques turned back to the explosion trigger and pressed it. A loud explosion would rupture the Port and send a massive shockwave. A third operative Marcel held a vantage point and observed the damage. He turned on his radio and gave visual confirmation that the mission was a success. The explosion would level the port at -22.26781959694806, 166.43443855970838.
Elsewhere on the smaller islands, the revolutionaries swiftly stormed local council buildings, encountering minimal resistance as they seized control. French officials deemed disloyal were taken hostage and ferried away to hidden locations on speedboats, their fates uncertain.
On the main island of New Caledonia, the Polish soldiers couldn't ignore the explosions rocking the port. The blast at the military base moments earlier had thrown Polish communications into chaos. The resistance's leadership knew a direct confrontation would be futile against the well-trained Polish special forces. Instead, they relied on the element of surprise and the ensuing disarray to tip the battle in their favor. Their goal wasn't immediate victory; the Battle of New Caledonia would be a drawn-out conflict, determined over many months.
Polish soldiers would find themselves under continued harassment as they were ambushed throughout the city. Grenades would fall from rooftops and over walls targeting mobile Polish patrols. Militants armed with AK-47s and FAMAS rifles fired from a distance, while others charged forward, unleashing a hail of bullets. Concealed sharpshooters with long-range rifles suppressed Polish movements, picking off exposed soldiers.
On the roads leading to the base and into the city, hunter-killer teams—two-man squads with RPG-7s—ambushed Polish jeeps and medical vehicles. Amidst the chaos, more seasoned militants targeted the New Caledonia garrison. Jean-Marie and Jean-Christophe led a successful assault on the Gendarmerie and the Governor’s premises, capturing the governor himself.
The militants ambushed the Gendarmerie in a series of brutal skirmishes, inflicting significant casualties. Policemen who resisted found themselves outmatched and outgunned. At strategic facilities, militants overwhelmed the local defenders. Frantic calls for reinforcements went unanswered as Polish troops were continually harassed. As darkness fell, the cackling of bullets and whistling of rockets continued to rock the Island nation.
Despite their experience, Polish units struggled to regroup under continued sniper fire. Maneuvering along the roads outside the main city proved difficult due to persistent RPG attacks. Smoke billowed from destroyed Polish and New Caledonian vehicles. Resistance fighters continued to emerge onto the streets, engaging local defenders and their Polish allies. Residents cowered in fear, parents shielding their children with makeshift defenses in their homes, hoping for respite from the violence. The local residents would be in a state of perpetual fear as mothers and fathers hugged their children close in bedrooms covered by mattresses and other household belongings. They only hoped that these makeshift defenses would offer them respite from the violence.
Darkness would not bring any calm as the resistance targeted local government premises and attacked more targets. As smoke continued to bellow from blown-out buildings and blood clogged the dirt roads the Poles would be the only serious force left on the island as their New Caledonian defenders either fled or were killed.
At the main airport, a rocket attack would blow up a de-boarded aircraft and send a frenzied panic as tourists begged for a way off the Island. The resistance fighters would send trucks with armed militants to the airport to seize the premise and ensure they controlled the airfield.
Out on smaller islands more mobile five-man squads would patrol landing zones armed with small arms, RPGs, and radios. Back on New Caledonia as the militants ran out of bullets and would need to regroup the fighting would finally come to a halt as the morning dusk filled the skies.
It had been a bloody day for both the Polish forces and the New Caledonians. As the dust began to settle, the magnitude of the uprising would eventually reach foreign capitals. Panic spread as tourists near the bases scrambled to the Polish garrisons, desperately seeking refuge. Local residents, fearing for their lives, packed their belongings and fled the city, seeking safety with relatives in the countryside.
This widespread panic worked to the resistance's advantage, allowing them to slip out of the city undetected. Fresh fighters were cycled in, taking up new defensive positions in buildings across the city. Among the fleeing crowds, a few spies disguised themselves as tourists and French settlers, hoping to infiltrate the Polish bases under the guise of seeking protection.
The day’s chaos provided the perfect cover for the resistance to regroup and strengthen their hold, ensuring the battle for New Caledonia was far from over. As the dark smoked covered the morning skies the Battle of New Caledonia was just beginning.
The resistance fighters returned to the jungle as they prepared to wait and see how the Polish reacted. Their hope. The Poles would collect their dead and withdraw. Their expectation. As morning lit up the island and hunter-killer teams continued to harass any lone Polish vehicle, the resistance leaders would regroup. Courries carried letters as well as better weapons to other cells. In the city a young operative watched a computer screen as a video was slowly uploaded throughout early morning. Eventually sent out to the world. In Canberra, the last flight from New Caledonia would land before news reached of what had happened in New Caledonia. It would still be a quiet news cycle as news would barely break out from the island. However, once the video was uploaded and photos flocked the internet it was likely the world news would narrow in on the quiet Island nation of New Caledonia.
Alexander ManBear
