George Bush’S Great America [EN]: Chapter 282

The Great America of George W. Bush – Episode 281 (282/377)

< Episode 281 >

“God damn it!”

Remon had miraculously survived. He was in no condition to search for his fellow soldiers. His only solace was that he’d managed to duck just in time, escaping the second barrage.

Unlike the old days when artillery fire could miss by over 100 meters, modern artillery boasted accuracy within a 1-meter radius. That’s what artillery meant in modern warfare. Soon, that 1 meter would shrink to 1 centimeter. In this instance, once he was far enough from the target, this high accuracy actually saved Remon.

Although the Western Iraqi rebels likely understood this, shelling the barracks area had limitations. First, it was a major city and capital with a civilian population. Second, they lacked the resources for a concentrated attack. Because they had to strike multiple locations simultaneously, their firepower was dispersed, preventing them from generating sufficient force.

But even that dispersed fire was devastating. From the receiving end, it was a scene of shock and horror.

‘I should have realized something was strange when the Western Iraqi army requested so many self-propelled guns and howitzers. Idiots.’

Of course, Remon included himself in that assessment. He was about to be promoted to sergeant for being called a hero, but even if Remon, a mere corporal, had known this in advance, he couldn’t have changed anything. But at least he wouldn’t have been stupid enough to remain inside the burning barracks.

“Fabien! Is our squad okay?”

Fabien, sitting on the ground, coughed, looked around, and answered, “I don’t know. I only know about the guys who were with me in the lounge.”

Most of the people in the lounge were from other squads. Even as he spoke, survivors crawled out of the burning barracks, some missing limbs.

He recognized familiar faces among them, watching them collapse while trying to escape or getting hit by the second shelling and simply disappearing.

“Damn it. Let’s gather the survivors and move to a safer location.”

Remon tried to ignore the injured who vanished in the shelling. More importantly, they were all soldiers, and no officers were present. That meant Sergeant Remon was the highest-ranking person. A sergeant in charge of a mixed unit!

‘Damn it. Looks like everyone else is dead.’

The remaining soldiers were a ragtag group, lacking weapons and proper uniforms. The soldiers of an army ranked among the top five in the world looked like a band of brigands.

The unit, which had numbered close to a thousand, now consisted of only 12 people with all their limbs intact. Even then, three had burst eardrums from the explosions and were bleeding profusely.

To make matters worse, the 12 survivors were of different races and spoke different languages. This barracks was known as the vanguard of the European Integrated Forces. They were attempting to forcibly unify the armies of the European Integrated Forces by throwing them together.

If you wondered why this integration wasn’t happening back home, it was the result of complex political reasons and pressures.

Still, the official reason was:

“If the environment is unfamiliar, Europeans will naturally band together? You damn racist bastards. What a load of crap. What kind of integrated forces are you talking about when you can’t even unify the languages?”

They were unarmed, but even with full equipment, communication would be a nightmare. The higher-ups were ambitiously developing a next-generation modular small arms program to unify all infantry equipment, but who cared?

The important thing wasn’t the effort being made, but whether it was actually implemented in the field.

“Sergeant, we’re being watched.”

“Yeah, I’m a sergeant. Who cares if a sergeant makes reckless remarks? Especially since three of them are deaf. Besides, they wouldn’t understand even if I babbled in French, would they?”

And to some extent, it was true. Unless they had specific tasks requiring communication like Remon, they didn’t bother learning other languages. Some were interested in learning, but at best, they only knew English.

“Well… Sergeant Remon isn’t just any sergeant. Besides, isn’t your promotion to First Sergeant already promised?”

“That’s none of my business.”

It was too late for Remon’s position to be affected by their complaints. If he died now, his position would be gone, and he’d go to heaven, but Remon had no intention of dying here, at least.

“What do we do now?”

Fabien asked anxiously. He wore a military-colored tank top and pants, with black slippers. He had nothing but the salt from his body, so his anxiety was understandable.

“Well, we definitely can’t defend the barracks as originally planned.”

Remon’s squad was initially assigned to defend a corner of the barracks in case of war, but the newly formed squad was shattered before they could do anything. Even if Remon tried to act alone, the situation was too dire.

“We need to reorganize the squad and contact other units.”

“Reorganize the squad, sure, but a change of mission? Weren’t we told to follow our training?”

“Let’s make an exception. If you want to fight the Western Iraqi rebels who will be rushing into the barracks where every outpost has been destroyed, go ahead and do as you please.”

Still, he couldn’t just run away. That would be desertion. Going to the assembly point where other companies were gathering wouldn’t be a bad idea. At least he’d be assigned to another operation, avoiding desertion.

But was that the right choice? Although they were called Western Iraqi rebels, they were actually Western Iraqi regular soldiers – the same soldiers they had worked with. They would know the assembly points of the European Integrated Forces. What if they were ambushing? That was highly likely. They must be ambushing or already occupying those points. This was their home ground, after all.

While Remon racked his brain for the best course of action, Fabien handed him something.

“Sergeant, take this.”

It was long and made of steel. Ivory surrounded the steel, and gold leaf created elegant patterns. It was a Middle Eastern sword called a shamshir [a curved saber], clearly a decorative item lacking practicality.

“A sword?”

When he slightly pulled it from its scabbard, the blade was sharp. But it showed no signs of wear, as if it had never been used, and gun oil-like sword oil was evenly applied.

“Well, it was lying at my feet. Maybe it belonged to some soldier. A souvenir. And surprisingly, it’s our only means of defense. As you can see, the armory is on fire.”

At that moment, a huge explosion erupted from the armory, struck by the second shelling, forming a small mushroom cloud.

“Yeah. Great weapon if you can only stab people to death. I’d be grateful for a bayonet the size of my palm, but a sword! Seriously!”

Remon’s sarcasm reflected the dire situation. He didn’t expect Claymores [anti-personnel mines] or anti-tank weapons, but he’d be happy with a rifle. Instead, he had a sword! A Middle Eastern sword with an anachronistic medieval design!

“But that guy is fully armed.”

The person Remon pointed to was the only soldier wearing a uniform and combat boots, holding a rifle. Judging by his equipment, he was German, and he was babbling incoherently.

Since Remon’s job required it, he knew some German, but most of what the soldier said was difficult to understand.

“What? Calm down and speak slowly. Damn it, I haven’t studied German for very long.”

The German soldier stopped talking and threw his G36 [German assault rifle] on the ground, exclaiming that it was a useless piece of junk.

“Ah, it’s outdated?”

The German army was working to improve the G36 and was already supplying the improved version to the front lines. The problem was that the supply was ‘in progress.’ The G36’s performance in actual combat was terrible, while the heavily criticized L85A2 [British assault rifle] received favorable reviews.

“Still, bullets come out, so why treat it so badly?”

When Remon picked it up and stuttered in German, the soldier laughed absurdly, saying that ‘it has been exposed to fire and will go off like a MAC [machine pistol] now.’

“I knew there was a heat problem, but is it that bad?”

Remon, thinking it was an exaggeration, was about to ask more, but he realized he was wasting time and decided to move. Moving like this was close to desertion, but desertion was better than dying like a dog.

Regaining his senses, he saw transport and combat helicopters falling from the sky. The next-generation anti-aircraft system and air superiority were the culmination of the European Integrated Forces’ efforts.

It was virtually impossible to enter Western Iraqi airspace with air power alone. He knew it in theory but now understood it viscerally, which was absurd.

“It’s like a swarm of bees facing insecticide.”

That was his honest impression. Western Iraq’s air defense system was a next-generation system based on the navy’s close-in weapon system, CIWS [a rapid-firing gun system for defense against missiles and aircraft]. As the first generation, it would have loopholes, but at this point, it was nearly invincible.

Since the situation was like this, the air force had either fallen or was unable to move and was under attack. The army, as he could see, was crushed in the initial surprise attack. He didn’t know much about the navy. The only consolation was that the situation would improve when the main force arrived.

“What are we really going to do now?”

Nothing was certain in this land. Everything was vague, and Remon felt the weight of his choices, knowing they could cripple or kill the 12 survivors.

What was the purpose of the operation? Escape from Iraq? Contact the main force? Guerrilla warfare or facility destruction against the Western Iraqi rebels?

“Okay…”

One thing was certain in Remon’s mind: he had to turn these beggars into soldiers, at least a little.

Remon threw away the scabbard and drew his sword, looking like a desert bandit. And what he was about to do was similar to banditry anyway.

“We’re going to do what we do best.”

Elan is leaving.