Irregulaire

“Name?”

Alvis, Michael G., sir.

“Date of Birth?”

May 31st, 1992.

“Look, kid. I gotta tell you. This isn’t gonna be fun,”

Yes, sir, I know..

-----------------

Grieland was once part of Marronia, our northern neighbor, before we decided to split up. Back in the 1980’s, we had a civil war which then had an impact on how we came to be. It was short, but effective. We disagreed with them about a few things and fought for it. With UN assistance, we established independence from Marronia in 1986. 

Tension never ceased, however. Our respective diplomatic representatives even once got caught in a fistfight. Last I heard, we found oil reserves under our territory to the southeast, beneath the ocean floors of Bakers Island. The word is that Marronia will try to claim it as theirs. We took it as mere rumors. Until, on 31st of March, they invaded.

A portion of our population were of Marren origin; which would mean that they have immediate families in the regions that are still within Marronian Territory. This would prove to be a little hassle, as the military viewed them as potential guerillas aiding Marren Invaders. Speculations floated around whether or not this could happen, and it eventually showed. 

There were quite a lot of people showing support for Marronia. Generally these people were either of Marren descent, claiming Grieland as an illegitimate country, or both. Some of them formed a group called the White Sword, whose members poured onto the streets in mid-April—barely two months before the invasion. Some people would speculate that they were actually plain-clothed Marren soldiers who infiltrated our borders. 

Not long after we were invaded, the White Sword turned into insurgents—or Liberators, as they advertised themselves as. Armed with anything they could’ve found, they started opening fire at military outposts as early as May 15th. It was on a Monday morning that some news broke out; several soldiers were killed in skirmishes with these groups. 

Chirping birds were made fleeing by loud bangs out of automatic weapons and machine guns just a few days later. Big, crowded cities well within our borders like Jacktown, Haier, Sauerchar, and Goodwill were under attack by armed fighters, and the Army responded. These skirmishes happened most frequently in Seedland Provinces, but were a bit bigger in Cleavess, where the opposition already took half the province by late August. As it turned out, some of our own armed forces personnel had switched sides, increasing their odds against us by providing technical support and sensitive information.

They basically pounded us up inside and out. ANM—Armee Nationale Marronia—invaded, while the White Sword Liberators—WSL or Weasels as we called them—wreaked havoc from the inside. If the Weasels were a professional army, we’d be dead by now. These two happened almost simultaneously, with the Weasels starting to open fire on civilians and law enforcement alike only two days after the start of the invasion. The Army got pretty busy that week. 

But here in Crawford—a small town just south of the city of Haier—things were a little more interesting. Crawford had got the best defense anyone around here can offer—the Grier Navy Headquarters. These bases proved to be one tough nut to crack. Problem is, there is this big airport lying right in-between our city borders with Haier. The Navy has an air base operating in conjunction with that airport, and airports are usually a target of high value. 

The Marines and the Navy ground personnel were sucked into the fight defending the airport, and the rest of our forces were spread thin on urban combat. Don’t get me wrong, these men fought hard. But, there were concerns about the Marine’s ability to defend the airport against the relentless Weasels and the ANM.

My parents moved out of town when things got sour, right around the middle of April. They moved out to Windfeld, my father’s birthplace. That town was relatively safe at that time. They told me they’d stay there until things get better—or worse. I was still in Melville at that time—I was just getting out of college, for God’s sake—and they wanted to take me with them. I didn’t want to come, telling them I stayed with some friends. I maintained contact with several folks I know, especially old friends outside Melville, to keep me fed about current events. Until one day somehow, I was moved to go home to that abandoned house—and there was a little surprise for me there. 

In Crawford and other smaller cities, the Weasels have gone haywire. They were supposed to fight the army alongside the invading force, but they decided to mess around; looting, terrorizing, harassing locals, you have it. My neighborhood was no exception, and they had wanted to fight back.

As things got worse, the military had these ideas of arming the civilians by forming their own security wing. They wanted them to be able to protect themselves, repelling any harassment from the Weasels. They formed small, local pockets of militia called the Civil Defense (or CivDef in short), using the army’s outdated weapons at first, then looting any Weasel member they managed to eliminate. 

My neighbors joined; I didn’t. But I did feel like I needed to be able to defend myself. I found a .38 and some ammo my dad had left at home and I started carrying it. A few days later, there was an ambush set up by the CivDefs, and I volunteered to help even when I wasn’t one of them.

Pulling the trigger was quite hard as I was shaking. Had to do it with both hands to make it steadier. My palms also got wet from being nervous. “BANG!” I let out a shot. He fell on his butt. I pulled the trigger again on double action. “BANG!”, and there he was, like having a little seizure that stops after just 2 seconds. That was it. I killed a man. I finally got to taste blood. 

A short firefight ensued. We managed to kill three more of them, fending off the low level Weasels from our neighborhood with just old rifles and a handgun. I figured those were low level fighters, as they were pretty disorganized—and there were only like seven of them. They’d been harrassing my neighborhood a few times before. Once we took up arms, they couldn’t stand a chance. The CivDefs then took their weapons and ammo, putting them for our own use against their previous owners. 

I could hear pops and bangs every night, making sleep a little harder. Eerie, sometimes. It was kilometers away, but it felt like mere 50 yards. I’m telling you, though, when you started to get the hang of it, it began to sound like those podcasts that can bring you down to sleep. If that happens to you, then you start to not care. It’s actually kind of good to feel that way, as it leaves no burden. But not to be careless, still. 

Within those days, I joined several anti-raid ambushes afterwards and scored a handful more kills myself. As it started growing on me, killing suddenly feels… not wrong. If a kill makes me uneasy about it, the distant battle sound calms me down every night. Sometimes, I wonder how Mom and Pop were doing just before falling asleep. I was out of their sight, but probably not out of their mind; at least hopefully. 

--- 

Two weeks later, I went back to Melville; and—along with several friends I contacted beforehand—volunteered to join a newly formed irregular force. They needed the manpower, so the military authorized it. In its wisdom, the military made the paramilitary to do rear duties, such as guards or drivers. All branches, land, sea, and air, opened recruitment for these new positions—and of all the service branches, we chose the Marines. They’d station us in Crawford after this, no doubt, as the battle for the air base was still raging.

They put all eleven of us in the same squad, a practice not unheard of in the military. They trained us, gave us weapons—older AG-1s, AG-2s and M16A1s, mostly—and old PASGT vests, made us attend classes, and everything. They didn’t give us uniforms aside from the vest and forest green patrol caps, however. We were just told to wear anything ranging between dark tan and olive green.

A month later, a Marine Major put out a request for a squad of the Irregular Reserves to be placed at his outpost back in Crawford. As luck would have it, we were the ones chosen. They gave us 6 hours to prepare, so we had time, though not much. 

The officer who gave us the order to move out had told us the Major had left us a message: assign combat roles, something we’ve learned during training but never applied. It would make sense, since the Major’s compound is supposedly a little protruding beyond our own lines. However, the word was that opposing forces were quite far from where the Major’s compound is located, so we’re safe. 

October 15th, 2014

---