05-31-2015, 11:29 AM
Kenema, Sierra Leone
The Sierra Leonean military had never been able to develop a positive public image in the decades since the disastrous civil war of the early 21st Century. Between the long-floundering economy (leading to low pay, quality of training, and equipment issues, corruption and discipline issues), and the seemingly blatant subservience and kowtowing by the government to foreign powers and companies, the military had often been seen as untrustworthy at best and a nest of vipers waiting to strike, at worst.
Sadly, it was the later that had proven itself the most true. General Katlego's attempted coup, and the declaration of military rule by General Wallace-Johnson, what little positive ground the military had gained was lost.
Lieutenant-Colonel Ndidi Daugherty had held command of the 17th Rifle Battalion for only a year, and had fought and clawed for every dollar he could get to see his undermanned unit properly equipped and trained. By the standards of the Sierra Leonean military, discipline had been strictly enforced and the battalion's training had been intense. In another African military, the Lieutenant-Colonel would have been seen as an excellent leader, but to either General Wallace-Johnson or Katlego, he had been seen as a threat to their reputations.
Although he had never been able to prove it, it was obvious that the military commanders had been actively sabotaging his efforts, sending him the worst, most untrustworthy soldiers they could find. His equipment was out of date even by African standards, and there had never been enough mechanics or support staff to keep them running. The only two operational trucks in the battalion had been purchased by the Lieutenant-Colonel himself, a move which had put him into debt and led to his wife leaving him.
General Katlego's plan for the coup had been brilliant, and had nearly succeeded in taking the garrison of Kenema out from under him. Sympathisers to the Temne uprising among his troops had almost taken the battalion headquarters that first day. He had lost half of his officers and senior staff, either by enemy action or because they had proven to be the enemy themselves. But when the dust had settled, the 17th Rifle Battalion had remained loyal to himself and their oaths.
Since the uprising, they had taken to the task of safe-guarding the city of Kenema and the outlying communities. Lieutenant-Colonel Daugherty had raised civilian militias, most self armed and led, and had done what he could to keep the violence at bay.
Reports of rogue military units burning villages, of bandits and gangs staking out their own territories and declaring independence, of the Liberian military build-up on the border, and of the continuing violence in the rest of the country meant that Daugherty's command and resources were constantly spread too thin.
Exhaustion and lack of supplies, and worse the lack of pay, had led to a rapidly souring state of discipline among his men. And then the desertions had started. He had had to cease all patrols, as reports had come in of his own men attacking villages their militias. The few attacks that had been reported had had few surviving witnesses; always at night, men in uniforms with the insignia of the 17th Rifle Battalion. Taking the civilian militias by surprise. There were never any prisoners taken, no quarter given.
Rape, kidnapping, blatant destruction of public property and resources. Stores burned, wells destroyed. Communities that had yet to be attacked pressured him for more aid. He had been forced to garrison his own troops in the outlying communities, and hoped that the deserters wouldn't prove so bold as to strike the under-garrisoned city.
A mistake, as it had turned out.
Lieutenant-Colonel Daugherty sat on the steps of his battalion headquarters, located immediately adjacent to the Kemena regional airport, and glared at the three men that stood before him. What little garrison that had remained in the city was likely already dead, and his recall of his men in the outlying communities had never gone out; the radio tower had been one of the first things hit, the wreckage of the tower laying sprawled across the parade square grounds behind the men.
They wore his uniforms, the unit insignia clearly of the 17th, but the men beneath those clothes were strangers to him. Hell, he doubted they were even Sierra Leonean. Even with what pride he had had in his men, what little that remained in his country's military, he had always known they were third-rate at best. These men had far outstripped anything his army was capable of. They were professionals.
Their leader grinned sardonically at Lieutenant-Colonel Daugherty, and glanced down at the dead man at his feet. One of the strangers, the impostors. Daugherty had taken three himself, probably their most grievous causalities of the entire raid on Kenema. "It's too bad, mate. Hell, at least you died with your boots on, aye?"
South African, by his accent.
Daugherty spat at the man's feet, the gesture proving more pathetic then he had hoped as it brought on a surge of wet coughs, blood bubbling from his lips and the two holes in his chest, staining his uniform. He had been wearing a vest of course, but it had done nothing. The Kevlar plates were old, long past their expiration. Likely riddled with micro-fractures and degraded by years of sweat.
The three men laughed, then their leader calmly shot Daugherty in the chest again, pitching the dying man back on the steps. He stared up at the evening sky, the first few stars poking through the thickening clouds of smoke above. An errant thought, of whether his dear ex-wife was staring at those same stars. She was in Freetown, last he had heard, but it had been months since they had spoken.
The three men turned as a jeep pulled up, their voices growing muffled and distant as his vision faded. "That ought to be enough lads. This'll be enough to make 'em look good when they roll in and 'save the day.'"
The group laughed and climbed into the jeep, which then rolled off into the night.
The Sierra Leonean military had never been able to develop a positive public image in the decades since the disastrous civil war of the early 21st Century. Between the long-floundering economy (leading to low pay, quality of training, and equipment issues, corruption and discipline issues), and the seemingly blatant subservience and kowtowing by the government to foreign powers and companies, the military had often been seen as untrustworthy at best and a nest of vipers waiting to strike, at worst.
Sadly, it was the later that had proven itself the most true. General Katlego's attempted coup, and the declaration of military rule by General Wallace-Johnson, what little positive ground the military had gained was lost.
Lieutenant-Colonel Ndidi Daugherty had held command of the 17th Rifle Battalion for only a year, and had fought and clawed for every dollar he could get to see his undermanned unit properly equipped and trained. By the standards of the Sierra Leonean military, discipline had been strictly enforced and the battalion's training had been intense. In another African military, the Lieutenant-Colonel would have been seen as an excellent leader, but to either General Wallace-Johnson or Katlego, he had been seen as a threat to their reputations.
Although he had never been able to prove it, it was obvious that the military commanders had been actively sabotaging his efforts, sending him the worst, most untrustworthy soldiers they could find. His equipment was out of date even by African standards, and there had never been enough mechanics or support staff to keep them running. The only two operational trucks in the battalion had been purchased by the Lieutenant-Colonel himself, a move which had put him into debt and led to his wife leaving him.
General Katlego's plan for the coup had been brilliant, and had nearly succeeded in taking the garrison of Kenema out from under him. Sympathisers to the Temne uprising among his troops had almost taken the battalion headquarters that first day. He had lost half of his officers and senior staff, either by enemy action or because they had proven to be the enemy themselves. But when the dust had settled, the 17th Rifle Battalion had remained loyal to himself and their oaths.
Since the uprising, they had taken to the task of safe-guarding the city of Kenema and the outlying communities. Lieutenant-Colonel Daugherty had raised civilian militias, most self armed and led, and had done what he could to keep the violence at bay.
Reports of rogue military units burning villages, of bandits and gangs staking out their own territories and declaring independence, of the Liberian military build-up on the border, and of the continuing violence in the rest of the country meant that Daugherty's command and resources were constantly spread too thin.
Exhaustion and lack of supplies, and worse the lack of pay, had led to a rapidly souring state of discipline among his men. And then the desertions had started. He had had to cease all patrols, as reports had come in of his own men attacking villages their militias. The few attacks that had been reported had had few surviving witnesses; always at night, men in uniforms with the insignia of the 17th Rifle Battalion. Taking the civilian militias by surprise. There were never any prisoners taken, no quarter given.
Rape, kidnapping, blatant destruction of public property and resources. Stores burned, wells destroyed. Communities that had yet to be attacked pressured him for more aid. He had been forced to garrison his own troops in the outlying communities, and hoped that the deserters wouldn't prove so bold as to strike the under-garrisoned city.
A mistake, as it had turned out.
Lieutenant-Colonel Daugherty sat on the steps of his battalion headquarters, located immediately adjacent to the Kemena regional airport, and glared at the three men that stood before him. What little garrison that had remained in the city was likely already dead, and his recall of his men in the outlying communities had never gone out; the radio tower had been one of the first things hit, the wreckage of the tower laying sprawled across the parade square grounds behind the men.
They wore his uniforms, the unit insignia clearly of the 17th, but the men beneath those clothes were strangers to him. Hell, he doubted they were even Sierra Leonean. Even with what pride he had had in his men, what little that remained in his country's military, he had always known they were third-rate at best. These men had far outstripped anything his army was capable of. They were professionals.
Their leader grinned sardonically at Lieutenant-Colonel Daugherty, and glanced down at the dead man at his feet. One of the strangers, the impostors. Daugherty had taken three himself, probably their most grievous causalities of the entire raid on Kenema. "It's too bad, mate. Hell, at least you died with your boots on, aye?"
South African, by his accent.
Daugherty spat at the man's feet, the gesture proving more pathetic then he had hoped as it brought on a surge of wet coughs, blood bubbling from his lips and the two holes in his chest, staining his uniform. He had been wearing a vest of course, but it had done nothing. The Kevlar plates were old, long past their expiration. Likely riddled with micro-fractures and degraded by years of sweat.
The three men laughed, then their leader calmly shot Daugherty in the chest again, pitching the dying man back on the steps. He stared up at the evening sky, the first few stars poking through the thickening clouds of smoke above. An errant thought, of whether his dear ex-wife was staring at those same stars. She was in Freetown, last he had heard, but it had been months since they had spoken.
The three men turned as a jeep pulled up, their voices growing muffled and distant as his vision faded. "That ought to be enough lads. This'll be enough to make 'em look good when they roll in and 'save the day.'"
The group laughed and climbed into the jeep, which then rolled off into the night.