----------------------------------------- May 20th, Siege of Mombasa ----------------------------------------- "Enemy amassing for another attack along the causeway, sah." Stated a lookout perched in a battered window that was missing all of its glass. The man was surveying the Communist forces through binoculars as they began to move into position for another desperate attack across the narrow earthen bridge. The sound of gunfire intensified even as he spoke and the Red Flag began to move forwards in fits as the man carrying it ran from cover to cover. Behind the flag he could see a small motorbike and side car race up to the assembled Communist troops to drop off the Communist Commander. Another white man joined him in the window. Both wore green fatigues, shorts, high ankled boots, and were sun burnt to an almost painful degree already despite the bush caps they wore. There was no sign of rank on either of them, though a winged dagger patch was sewn onto their shoulders. They were in one of the houses that had been least affected by the fighting, a hundred yards or so from the main fighting line. They were the First Rhodesian Volunteers ("FRV"). A small unit of men forged into steel by the war with Portugal, the Bush War with the local tribes, and now the War with Communism. War was their life and none of them would have known what to do if peace ever came. Thankfully, there was always another war. "Mortars! Target the causeway." Shouted the second white man. Dane Peralta was an experienced career army officer who had retired when the Bush War came to a close and taken a number of men with him to form the FRV. There was a shouted affirmative from the courtyard behind him and a moment later two "whumps" sounded as the small hand carried mortars spat their projectiles into the air. They were impossible to follow in flight but the explosions of dirt they caused could not be ignored as black bodies tumbled through the air. The Tribesmen were brave, there was no doubting their fearlessness. The whites who opposed them were equally brave, though out numbered and dwindling in numbers. Both sides suffered from a lack of unity in their chain of command. Nominally each side had a leader, and while the Communists suffered Tribal divisions, the White defenders often failed to support each other properly. Many of them were simply terrified local farmers and only the superiority of their weapons had prevented them from being overrun completely. "Suicide bomb." The lookout said, pointing now to where some mad bastard was running forward with an artillery shell dangling around his neck. You almost had to admire the man. This was why the city was going to fall. The defenders did not have the same fanatical belief as their enemy. Still, they could make them bleed red for it. "Follow me!" Peralta called out to his men, the majority of whom were squatting around several buckets of water refilling their canteens. All of them were big men, built for war, and none hesitated as they picked up their weapons and hurried after him. Out into the dusty streets they went, black boots turning up a cloud of particles as they hurried towards the barricade. A trickle of wounded passed them in the opposite direction, heading for what passed for a hospital. Some of the wounded shouted encouragement, others simply staggered on, a couple passed spare ammunition and grenades to the Rhodesians. The explosion of the suicide bomb shook the ground they walked on, bricks toppling from already wrecked buildings, and the sound of gunfire seemed to die away entirely ahead of them. The makeshift artillery might have done the trick. "On the run!' Peralta roared out and his men gave a cheer as they surged around the corner of the last house and straight into the dust cloud that was rolling away from the Causeway. It was a choking mass and the Rhodesians pulled their bandanas up over their mouths and noses, squinting into the dust. At least identifying the enemy would be easy, any black man would die. The sound of the explosion echoed in the streets even as the first of the enemy came charging through the dust, eyes wide with confusion and terror. The Communists had penetrated the barricades and bitter hand to hand fighting began to appear out of the gloom. Peralta shot the first man in the chest, then again in the head as he passed over him. Around him the Rhodesians gave a savage cheer and hurried into the chaos. Quantity had a quality all of their own, this was true, but the smoke, dust, and chaos rendered any effectual use of those numbers useless as communication broke down. Small pockets of Communists were able to penetrate the barricade, only to find themselves with enemies on three sides and the slaughter commenced. The Rhodesians fought in disciplined squads of four, each maintaining a visual link with their neighbour as they fought their way into the barricades. Rifles and pistols cracked even as bayonets went forward and were bloodied. The Rhodesians had adopted the Nepalese Kukri during the Great War and now they used it with brutal efficiency in the close confines of the barricades. Men died in the dust, the cloud shifting ever so slowly with the weak ocean breeze that pushed at it. Men died screaming any of a dozen languages and as they died their blood ran together, black and white, the same in the end. It was sacrilegious. The pressure of the enemy attack suddenly began to ease and then vanish all together as the black fighters retreated through the barricades, the whites in pursuit. The sound of gunfire swelled again as white defenders retook their abandoned machine guns and opened fire on the retreating enemy. More Communists died in that short run across open ground then had been killed in the fighting amongst the barricades. The Red Flag went with them. The Rhodesians suffered only one casualty, Dane Peralta. He took a bullet to the chest and died as blood bubbled from his lips, still firing into the Communists as they turned to run. He collapsed only when his heart stopped beating. His men dragged his body back into the city as newly arrived reinforcements hurried to man the barricades. The decision was made that night as the Rhodesians crouched around Peraltas body. They were leaving.