Kelly the Mad
Congolese Empire
- Oct 28, 2020
- 1,083
Deep in the Congolese jungle in the province of Équateur, Captain Noir dove behind a rotting log, crawling through the leaf and debris as automatic fire raked the air above him. Occasionally, a round would strike into a tree or the dirt, thwacking out a shaky rhythm. His company of 240 men, not yet in the government's system, had been sent in over a month ago to chase down a shattered regiment of the DRC. After weeks of harassment, the fleeing Republicans had turned at a densely wooded area and ambushed his troops. So far, he would guess at least forty of his own were dead. They didn't know how many were left of the enemy, but it couldn't be that many.
He pushed his gun barrel over the top of the log, blindly firing from cover. In return, he heard a distressed call and a loud thud. Dropping his gun back down, he smiled. That's one less to worry about. Looking back, his personal squad was stretched out in the area, taking potshots from behind trees. It would take a while, but he was sure his soldiers could take them out in due time. Then, a thud on the ground a foot away from his face. A frag grenade in perfect view. He froze.
---
An explosion caught Sergeant Corriveau off guard- startlingly close, it sent him into a daze. Upon regaining his grasp on reality, he peeked around the tree he was taking cover behind: There was a shallow crater in the ground, the dirt-stained a particularly dark color by a viscous liquid. He turned away before he saw the origin.
Just ahead of them was a small clearing, perhaps ten feet in diameter, but enough to make it a hell to cross. The Republicans were set up just across from it, likely in shallow trenches or some similar reinforcement. Luckily, he was equipped just for this situation. Dropping his heavy pack to the ground, he shuffled through its contents: AP mines, rations, spare ammunition, a bottle of booze, frag grenades, and finally, his personal saving grace: A repurposed metal tube three feet long, and a bundle of improvised explosives. Using a bipod system, he planted the weapon into the ground. Sliding in one of the explosives, it made contact with the bottom of the firing chamber, shooting out into the trees and disappearing before quickly reasserting its presence with a resounding boom through the trees.
Screams followed, but not before another explosive was sent into the foes. He had designed the hand-mortar himself, taking the tube from a scrap pile and designing his own shells. It had gone through extensive use, but never to the effect, he was seeing now. He loosed a third, but this one caught in a tangle of vines and toppled to the floor, going off next to friendly forces.
He grimaced but loaded another shell in regardless. After he had exhausted his ammunition, he looked around him. The bodies splayed across the dirt outnumbered those still fighting. However, his mortar had managed to bring a pause to the Republican's unrelenting fire- and he seized that opportunity.
“Everyone, rally on me! Charge!” Without waiting any longer, he took up his rifle again and ran out from the cover of the trees with a tremendous scream. He plunged through the foliage, his rifle at his hip, quickly scanning as he ran. From behind him, a chorus of shouts and yells and screams joined him, dozens of men ready for war. They passed into and out of the clearing, and upon reentering the jungle all melted into chaos.
On his right, a Republican sat crouched against the back of a tree. A quick burst took care of him. Dead ahead he nearly slammed into another, ramming his bayonet into the man's chest in the last second, firing a round in for safety. Spinning around, a stream of blood whipping off his blade, he fired sideways through the Republicans loose lines, tearing down maybe five more before moving on. The bodies he passed over had great variety: some were old, some young, some wore official uniforms, others civilian clothing, or nearly nothing at all.
He pushed forward, felling his enemies as he felt no other could. His pride grew, as did his aggression. Then, he stopped dead in his tracks. He stared down at a young boy, maybe eight or nine, struggling to lift a rifle from a dead corpse. Instinctively, he raised his gun, but his finger would not find the trigger. The boy turned, his eyes wild, and braced the gun against his stomach. From behind him, a burst of rounds sounded out, and the kid fell to the ground dead.
Through all of this killing, Noir had not questioned a thing. He had always been in the right. Now, he lost his stomach. He keeled over a tree, throwing his lunch up, tears welling in his eyes. Around him, men carried on, chasing the Republicans out of the area. A medic came up to him, asking if he was hit. Noir’s head spun around in circles. How had he failed to defend himself? Who could have shot that child? Would he of done that for one of his comrades? What was wrong with him? What was wrong with the world?
“I’m fine, move on..” he mumbled, before collapsing into a faint.
He pushed his gun barrel over the top of the log, blindly firing from cover. In return, he heard a distressed call and a loud thud. Dropping his gun back down, he smiled. That's one less to worry about. Looking back, his personal squad was stretched out in the area, taking potshots from behind trees. It would take a while, but he was sure his soldiers could take them out in due time. Then, a thud on the ground a foot away from his face. A frag grenade in perfect view. He froze.
---
An explosion caught Sergeant Corriveau off guard- startlingly close, it sent him into a daze. Upon regaining his grasp on reality, he peeked around the tree he was taking cover behind: There was a shallow crater in the ground, the dirt-stained a particularly dark color by a viscous liquid. He turned away before he saw the origin.
Just ahead of them was a small clearing, perhaps ten feet in diameter, but enough to make it a hell to cross. The Republicans were set up just across from it, likely in shallow trenches or some similar reinforcement. Luckily, he was equipped just for this situation. Dropping his heavy pack to the ground, he shuffled through its contents: AP mines, rations, spare ammunition, a bottle of booze, frag grenades, and finally, his personal saving grace: A repurposed metal tube three feet long, and a bundle of improvised explosives. Using a bipod system, he planted the weapon into the ground. Sliding in one of the explosives, it made contact with the bottom of the firing chamber, shooting out into the trees and disappearing before quickly reasserting its presence with a resounding boom through the trees.
Screams followed, but not before another explosive was sent into the foes. He had designed the hand-mortar himself, taking the tube from a scrap pile and designing his own shells. It had gone through extensive use, but never to the effect, he was seeing now. He loosed a third, but this one caught in a tangle of vines and toppled to the floor, going off next to friendly forces.
He grimaced but loaded another shell in regardless. After he had exhausted his ammunition, he looked around him. The bodies splayed across the dirt outnumbered those still fighting. However, his mortar had managed to bring a pause to the Republican's unrelenting fire- and he seized that opportunity.
“Everyone, rally on me! Charge!” Without waiting any longer, he took up his rifle again and ran out from the cover of the trees with a tremendous scream. He plunged through the foliage, his rifle at his hip, quickly scanning as he ran. From behind him, a chorus of shouts and yells and screams joined him, dozens of men ready for war. They passed into and out of the clearing, and upon reentering the jungle all melted into chaos.
On his right, a Republican sat crouched against the back of a tree. A quick burst took care of him. Dead ahead he nearly slammed into another, ramming his bayonet into the man's chest in the last second, firing a round in for safety. Spinning around, a stream of blood whipping off his blade, he fired sideways through the Republicans loose lines, tearing down maybe five more before moving on. The bodies he passed over had great variety: some were old, some young, some wore official uniforms, others civilian clothing, or nearly nothing at all.
He pushed forward, felling his enemies as he felt no other could. His pride grew, as did his aggression. Then, he stopped dead in his tracks. He stared down at a young boy, maybe eight or nine, struggling to lift a rifle from a dead corpse. Instinctively, he raised his gun, but his finger would not find the trigger. The boy turned, his eyes wild, and braced the gun against his stomach. From behind him, a burst of rounds sounded out, and the kid fell to the ground dead.
Through all of this killing, Noir had not questioned a thing. He had always been in the right. Now, he lost his stomach. He keeled over a tree, throwing his lunch up, tears welling in his eyes. Around him, men carried on, chasing the Republicans out of the area. A medic came up to him, asking if he was hit. Noir’s head spun around in circles. How had he failed to defend himself? Who could have shot that child? Would he of done that for one of his comrades? What was wrong with him? What was wrong with the world?
“I’m fine, move on..” he mumbled, before collapsing into a faint.
