Chapter 59

General Markov had been the cause of the delay in starting the battle in South America. He was making his best effort to put together a solid battle plan. Unlike the three other generals who had been sent to, what had been, Venezuela, he knew what he was doing. Why the OWG had sent four commanding officers was a mystery to him. It seemed that they wanted to make the whole thing as complicated as they could.

Nicholas Salter had randomly picked three officers to go and take charge. One of his advisers, having seen who was going, had suggested sending Markov too. The original picks were either stupid, dangerous or both. Like the ministers who had followed in their fathers' footsteps, they had joined the army because of family connections and not because they had any aptitude or love for a military life.

The three less able generals were keen to have a big glorious battle. They wanted medals, which they would actually earn, on their chests. Maybe a parade of some sort when they returned triumphant from their assignment. What an adventure this crusade to a tropical country would be.

The reality of life in a camp was soon realised. Compared to the enlisted men the generals were living in very good conditions. Compared to the luxury of their lives at home they were living in hell. General Markov had been prepared for the climate and watched with rising irritation as his colleagues tried to cope.

The first two weeks after their arrival had been spent acquiring things to make their lives easier. The cots on which they would sleep were too small. The mattresses were not thick enough. The food was not of a good enough standard. There was nowhere suitable to store their wine.

When they finally got around to thinking about the fight things became even more tense. Markov tried to curb the zeal of his fellow generals, but they wanted shock and awe. A list of the ordnance was scrutinised and they wanted to use all of it. He pointed out that they outmanned the opposition ten to one, but no one was listening.

It was three against one. Or two and a half against one. One of the generals spent most of his days drunk or sleeping it off. Markov appealed, explained and begged his fellow officers to listen to him. They looked baffled when he talked of keeping the loss of life to a minimum. They didn't care about the enemy and were fairly indifferent to the fate of their own troops.

The OWG had run out of patience. An edict was issued demanding that the prevarication end and the battle start.

Those bloody idiots had been responsible for the deaths of soldiers. Drinking wine, having an afternoon nap, insisting that indigenous animals be caught and cooked so that they could taste them, this is what his fellow generals had been doing. They strutted around in their crisply ironed uniforms with handguns on their belts. Markov doubted that any of them knew how to shoot.

He had woken up in the night and now the debate about how the battle should be fought was playing over in his mind. He realised that his hands were balled into fists as the memories haunted him.

An aide was opening a bottle of vintage wine and pouring the contents into crystal glasses. He delivered them on a silver salver to the officers who were sat in padded chairs. Having dispensed the drinks, he then went around with a plate of canapes. Markov was watching the proceedings with horror. He declined the offer of refreshments.

"Now, has everyone got a drink? Good. We have received a communication from Nicholas Salter. He wants to see this campaign brought to a conclusion as soon as possible. We need to make a plan and get on with it."

At last, Markov had thought as the General with half a brain addressed him and his two brainless colleagues.

"Has anybody got any ideas? Not you Markov, we have heard what you have to say."

The mostly drunken general was having a lucid moment and he wanted his voice heard. "It's all about a show of strength. We have plenty of troops so why don't we use them all."

Half a brain nodded sagely. "Thank you, Giles. Pierre, what do you say?"

"Why did they give us so many men if we aren't going to use them. Markov is all, a few men here and a few men there, what are the rest of them supposed to do?"

"If you have a whole loaf of bread you don't eat it all just because it is there. You only take what you need." As soon as Markov said that he knew that the analogy would be wasted on them.

He hoped that half a brain, or Patrick to give him his proper name, would try to grasp his meaning.

"So, we have these men and when, sorry, if we use them all how will they be deployed? Let's have a look at the map. Scouts have identified the main camp and the defences the opposing force have put in place. We need to take out the perimeter guard and those patrolling outside and then we can go straight in." Patrick prodded areas on the chart as he made his point.

"Do we attack at night? Take them by surprise." Pierre asked.

Giles had topped up his glass from the bottle of red wine and returned to his chair. He would not make much more of a contribution.

"If you take thousands of soldiers into a small area in the pitch dark it will be chaos." Markov stared at the two generals who were still in the conversation to make sure they understood.

"A small force at night could take out the sentries. In the morning a show of strength, masses of troops outside their compound, will see them surrender."

"What if they don't surrender?" Patrick crossed his arms and stuck out his chin.

"We outnumber them ten to one. They will not want to die. In the, very, unlikely event that they won't give in we withdraw and then undertake a small targeted attack. A hail of bullets and a few casualties will make the point."

"We did not come all this way to fire a few rounds of ammunition. This is not just a battle for an oil field. We are representing the OWG. We should put on a fine display of power and resources. No, a small foray is not how this will be played out. We will use all the men. Daylight, yes, with squadrons approaching from all sides and then an all out attack." Patrick looked at Pierre who nodded his agreement and then at Giles who raised his glass.

Markov had talked about cross fire. He had asked to be in charge of coordinating the attacks. He had desperately tried to change their minds. They were like spoiled children. Patrick and Pierre wanted to command their own men. They thought that Markov was trying to keep all of the glory for himself. Giles was past the point of being able to demand anything.

He actually wept as he saw the result of Patrick's plan. He had done what he could to mitigate the losses. He had spoken to the lower ranked officers and offered them guidance. Some had done their best, others had blindly followed the orders from above. Soldiers had died from friendly fire and that was unforgivable. To say nothing of the pointless slaughter of the opposition.

Giles, when he was sober, looked a little contrite for his part in the plan that had led to slaughter. The other two, if they felt any guilt, didn't show it. They had invented some story to make themselves look good and were now talking about the medals they would receive from the government. Pinned on by Nicholas Salter himself, they hoped.

When it was all over and they saw what had happened, the cover up had begun. No one at the top of the government was bothered. They had their oil field. The soldiers who served the OWG were totally dispensable. No wonder he woke up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat.

This was the situation into which he had been thrust by the OWG. Specifically, by Nicholas Salter. That man had sent four generals when one was all that was needed. He had picked the number 5,000 out of the ether and said that this was the amount of men that were to be sent to South America. He had not asked for advice or considered the havoc he was creating.

Salter did not care how many were killed, on either side. He wanted his big, flamboyant victory. He wanted to pin medals onto chests. He wanted his parade. He wanted the oil and everything valuable in the entire world. He had to be stopped. Markov had decided that he would do whatever it took to bring about his downfall.