Chapter 1372
Commoners
Chapter 1372 Commoners
Soldiers from the government army's special operations company opened fire.
PKM machine gun, AK-47 rifle, RPG rocket launcher...
The firepower instantly enveloped that group of people.
The first dozen or so people fell down instantly.
There were civilians and armed militants.
Blood splattered on the ruins, and screams pierced the morning air.
"Cease fire! Cease fire!"
Mahmoud shouted into the radio channel: "Civilians!"
But it was too late.
The gunfire was so intense that his voice was drowned out.
Moreover, once the fire starts, it's very difficult to stop.
Government soldiers continued firing when they saw people fall and others still moving.
Civilians began to scatter and flee, but bullets were flying from all directions.
A woman holding a child was hit by machine gun fire, and both of them fell to the ground. An elderly man raised his hands in surrender, but was shot in the chest.
The children cried out for their parents, but their parents were probably already dead.
Finally, someone realized that there were innocent civilians in front of them.
"Cease fire! There are civilians!"
The commander of the government army's special forces company hurriedly stopped his soldiers from firing.
The gunfire gradually subsided.
But the 1515 militants seized the opportunity and began to fight back, blending in with the civilians.
They used civilians as cover to fire at government army positions.
Several bullets struck the walls of the textile factory, one of which pierced a window and hit a mercenary in the shoulder.
"We can't fire! We're being suppressed!" the government army platoon leader shouted over the radio. "We need reinforcements!"
Mahmoud was so anxious he was gritting his teeth.
They killed civilians, but now they are hesitant to act, and are completely suppressed by the 1515 militants, with casualties rising rapidly.
"Sniper team!" Mahmoud ordered. "Clear out the militants, but only engage confirmed targets. Absolutely no civilians must be injured."
Two sniper teams from the mercenary battalion moved quickly.
They weren't using ordinary sniper rifles, but rather .338 Lapua Magnum precision international AXMC rifles with an effective range of 1,500 meters.
bah—
First shot.
A gunman, 1515, who was hiding behind a woman, was shot in the head and fell down.
bah—
Second shot.
Another rocket launcher operator, who was using children as cover, was hit in the chest.
Snipers are cautious and only shoot at the most threatening targets.
But the battlefield was too chaotic, with civilians and militants mixed together, making it impossible to distinguish them in many cases.
Moreover, people in 1515 are also studying.
They knew there was a sniper when they saw their comrade being accurately shot down.
As a result, they became even closer to the common people, even grabbing them and using them as shields.
The government forces have suffered heavy casualties.
Of the thirty-two men in the platoon, twelve had already fallen, and the rest were suppressed by the firepower and unable to raise their heads.
"Retreat!" The platoon leader finally gave the order: "Retreat to the textile factory!"
The survivors began to retreat, but the retreat became even more dangerous.
They were exposed in the open and became easy targets.
Four more people were hit during the retreat.
In the end, only sixteen people were evacuated from the textile factory, six of whom were wounded.
The civilian population also suffered heavy casualties.
The remaining government soldiers either hid back in the basement or lay motionless in the ruins.
The first contact on the southern front ended in failure.
Mahmoud's face turned ashen.
He stared at the scene in the observation mirror, his molars grinding together in pain.
Corpses littered the ground, blood flowed freely, and buildings burned.
The bodies of civilians and soldiers were mixed together, making it impossible to tell who was who.
"Reporting to command." He reported to his superiors via encrypted radio: "On the southern front, we encountered civilian human shields. The government special forces platoon misjudged the situation and opened fire, resulting in numerous civilian casualties. Our losses: 16 government soldiers killed and 10 wounded; estimated civilian casualties are over 100. Requesting further instructions."
He paused, then added, "I suggest changing tactics. A direct assault would result in more civilian casualties."
There was a few seconds of silence on the radio.
Then came Song Heping's voice, frighteningly calm: "Command received. Suspend the attack on the southern front and switch to surveillance and blocking. Repeat, suspend the attack. I will coordinate other directions."
"clear."
Mahmoud put down the radio and leaned against the broken wall.
He stared at the hellish scene outside, his fists clenched so tightly that his nails dug into his flesh.
War is dirtier and more brutal than he imagined.
In the underground command post in downtown Tikrit.
Abu Omar Zarqawi—this is not his real name, but he likes the name; it is the name of his spiritual mentor.
Sitting in the dimly lit basement, listening to the explosions overhead.
He was the supreme commander in Tikrit in 1515, responsible for the defense of the city.
Two years ago, he and his accomplices conquered this place, massacred all the "infidels" who refused to convert, and turned it into a major town of the "Caliphate" in northwestern Iligo.
Now, retribution has come.
"On the eastern front, enemy tanks have entered the city and are clearing out the surrounding streets."
One of his men reported to him, his voice trembling.
"On the western front, the first breakout attempt failed, resulting in the loss of over two hundred men. On the northern front, the Kolds have established a bridgehead and are advancing towards the city center. On the southern front... the southern front is temporarily quiet, but our human shield tactics have worked, and the enemy has halted their attack."
Zarqawi sneered.
Meat shield tactics?
That was his trump card, which he had prepared long ago.
He knew that these "Crusaders" and their lackeys dared not massacre civilians, so he would use the blood of civilians to keep them occupied.
“How many of us do we have?” he asked.
“We have about 10,000 men capable of fighting,” his subordinate said. “But we have plenty of ammunition, a complete tunnel system, and snipers and IEDs in every block. We can hold out for at least a month.”
“A month?” Zarqawi shook his head. “We don’t have a month. The outside army has tanks, artillery, and planes. We only have rifles and rocket launchers.”
He stood up and walked to the map.
On the map, Tikrit is surrounded by four red lines, which represent the directions of enemy attack.
"Notify all units," Zarqawi ordered. "Execute the 'trial by fire' plan."
His subordinate's expression changed instantly.
"Commander, that plan..."
“Execute orders.” Zarqawi’s voice was icy. “Since they want to take back this city, then give them a grave. Bury all the explosives, prepare all the poison gas. If we are to die, then let the whole city go down with us.”
"That commoner..."
"Civilians?" Zarqawi laughed, a twisted smile, his face contorted with rage. "They are God's test. If they die in jihad, it is their honor. If they don't... then they are traitors, they deserve to die."
He looked at his watch.
The time was 6:40.
It was already daylight, but the basement remained dark.
Only one emergency light on the table illuminated the red lines on the map that represented death.
“And another one!” Zarqawi added, “Organize a second breakout. This time, we won’t go through the western front, but the southern front. We’ll use civilians to clear the way, blending in with them to break through. As many as we can get through.”
"There are snipers on the southern front..."
"Then use more civilians."
Zarqawi waved his hand impatiently and said, “Go and grab them. From the basements, the air-raid shelters, the ruins, grab everyone who can still walk. The old, women, children, it doesn’t matter. Let them go first, and our men will follow behind, or put them in our vehicles. Tell the fighters that this is for jihad, for Allah.”
The subordinate bowed his head and replied, "Yes, sir."
He turned and left, his footsteps echoing in the underground corridor.
Zarqawi stood alone in front of the map, his fingers tracing the outline of Tikrit.
This city was once his glory, and now it is about to become his grave.
But he has no regrets.
When he came here two years ago, he was just an ordinary religious student.
Now, he is a general in the "Caliphate," commanding thousands of soldiers and controlling a city.
Even if I were to die today, it would be worth it.
Another explosion came from overhead, closer and louder.
Dust fell from the ceiling.
Zarqawi picked up the Quran from the table, turned to a familiar chapter, and began to read it aloud in a low voice.
This was his final moment; he was going to die as a warrior.
Joint Operations Command, Hurmatu Direction.
Song Heping looked at the reports from various fronts on the screen.
Progress on the eastern front is going well; Samir's 10th Division has penetrated three kilometers into the city and is clearing out the industrial zone.
The western front successfully repelled the first breakout attempt, but suffered heavy casualties.
A bridgehead was established on the northern front, but progress in urban warfare was slow, and every hundred meters of advance came at a cost.
Southern route...
The southern route was a disaster.
He watched the images transmitted back by the drone—
The area around the city hall square was littered with corpses.
The bodies of civilians, government soldiers, and militants were mixed together and indistinguishable.
Some survivors hid in the ruins, too afraid to move.
"What is the estimated number of civilian casualties?" he asked.
The intelligence officer pulled up the data analysis: "Based on thermal and visible light images, at least 120 civilians have died, possibly more. There are also a large number of wounded."
Song Heping closed his eyes.
This wasn't the first time he had faced this situation.
War is always like this; it is the civilians who suffer the most.
But every time I face it, I still feel that cold sense of powerlessness.
"Old squad leader," Jiang Feng said in a low voice, "1515 is organizing a second wave of civilian human shields. They're driving more people out of the underground bunkers, this time from the south, probably trying to break through in the chaos."
On the screen, drone footage showed groups of civilians being driven out of basements by armed men and concentrated on several main streets.
There were many people, at least nearly a thousand.
Militants were mixed in with civilians, pointing guns at their backs.
"Southern troops requesting instructions." The communications officer turned around and asked, "Is it permissible to open fire?"
Song Heping remained silent.
He knows what the right military decision is.
Open fire and eliminate anyone attempting to break out, including militants and civilians.
Because if these people were to successfully break through, it would mean the failure of the entire operation.
Moreover, if they don't open fire, the troops on the southern front will be slaughtered.
But that involved hundreds of lives.
Most of them are innocent.
"Old Squad Leader" Jiang Feng's voice was even lower: "If we let them break through, the pressure on Nassin on the western front will be even greater. Moreover, if these people escape, they will pose a threat to other surrounding villages and towns."
Song Heping opened his eyes.
He looked at the screen, at the civilians trembling under the guns, and at the armed men hiding behind them.
"Order the southern troops," he said, emphasizing each word, "that when civilian human shields get within 100 meters, use non-lethal weapons first—tear gas, stun grenades, whatever you have. At the same time, snipers should precisely eliminate the militants mixed in with the civilians and launch an assault on them while the chaos continues."
"But what if we fail?" Jiang Feng asked.
“Then…” Song Heping paused, “then let them go.”
"what?"
“Let them break through.” Song Heping repeated: “But after they leave the city, use artillery fire to cover that area, establish a barrier zone, and prevent the subsequent 1515 members from escaping.”
Jiang Feng understood.
This is a compromise made out of necessity.
Release the civilians and militants at the forefront of the breakout force, but use artillery fire to block the following troops while simultaneously killing militants. Civilians may be injured or killed, but fewer than if they were directly shot.
"1515 might use civilians as shields to charge through the artillery fire zone together," Jiang Feng pointed out.
“Then we have to gamble,” Song Heping said. “Gamble that civilians will scatter and flee, gamble that the militants won’t dare to linger in open areas. Also, ask Mahmoud what his sniper team is doing!!”
It wasn't a good plan, but it was the best plan he could think of.
He also knew that he had presented Mahmoud with a nearly impossible problem.
But there is no other way.
Letting go of a small portion of the 1515 members was already the limit of what I could compromise on.
“In addition,” he added, “notify Nassin on the western front to prepare to intercept the breakout forces. But again, prioritize distinguishing between civilians and militants.”
"clear."
The order has been issued.
Song Heping walked to the window and looked north towards Tikrit.
The city was burning, and billowing black smoke obscured the rising sun.
Regardless of the outcome, many people will die in this war.
Many innocent people.
He hoped that after today, most of the civilians in Tikrit would survive and have a new beginning.
But hope is the most luxurious thing in war.
When Saddam Hussein fell from power, those people who excitedly took to the streets to celebrate and welcome the "kingly army" probably never imagined how much blood would be shed to regain peace.
He glanced at his watch: seven o'clock sharp.
The final assault has been underway for an hour.
The battle has only just entered its most brutal phase.
Tikrit South District, 7:10 AM.
Mahmoud watched as the group surged in from the end of the street.
The civilians walked in front, numbering about three hundred, in a loosely arranged line.
An elderly man leaned on a cane, a woman carried a child, and a young man helped the wounded. Their faces were filled with fear and numbness; some cried, some prayed, and some just walked forward blankly.
Behind them were armed men, about a hundred in number.
They mingled with the civilians, but Mahmoud could clearly distinguish them through his binoculars: those with guns and those without.
Distance: 500 meters.
"Prepare non-lethal weapons," Mahmoud ordered.
Mercenaries and government soldiers pulled out tear gas launchers, as well as some stun grenades.
These items were originally intended to control riots, but now they are being used to disperse civilians.
Four hundred meters.
Mahmoud could now see the faces of the civilians in the front row.
An old woman, probably over seventy years old, walked with a limp.
A young mother is holding her baby, who is crying.
A boy, perhaps only fifteen years old, injured his left leg and used a wooden stick as a crutch.
Three hundred meters.
Two hundred meters.
One hundred meters.
"emission."
Dozens of tear gas canisters were fired and landed about 20 meters in front of the crowd.
The smoke exploded, and white, irritating gases drifted towards the crowd on the wind.
Chaos broke out in the crowd. Civilians coughed, teared, and turned to run.
But the militants behind them opened fire, bullets hitting the feet of the fleeing men and forcing them to keep going.
Mahmoud could hear his teeth grinding together.
It seems that these so-called non-lethal weapons had limited effect; although the crowd was in chaos, it did not break apart.
Moreover, the militants were mixed in with the crowd, making it difficult for snipers to aim.
“Commander,” he said over the radio, “dispersal failed. The crowd continues to advance, about 100 meters away.”
The command center's response was brief: "Let them through. Artillery fire is ready."
Mahmoud understood.
He ordered, "Everyone, take cover. Let them pass."
Mercenaries and government soldiers retreated deep into the building, observing the street outside through windows and firing ports.
The crowd surged through the blockade they controlled, fleeing south for their lives.
The civilians stumbled and fell, some were trampled by those behind them.
The militants followed closely behind, their guns always pointed at the civilians' backs.
Mahmoud saw an armed man grab an elderly man who had fallen and smash his head with the butt of a rifle to force him to stand up.
Another militant snatched a child from a woman's arms and used the child as a shield.
brute!
Mahmoud cursed inwardly, but his finger did not pull the trigger.
The crowd passed through the textile factory area and continued south, heading out of the city.
Mahmoud watched them walk away, then checked his watch: 7:15.
"Countdown to shelling!" came the artillery observer's voice over the radio. "Ten, nine, eight..."
The crowd had run 400 meters and was about to enter an open area.
"...Three, two, one. Fire!"
The artillery groups on the eastern front opened fire.
This time it wasn't a high-explosive shell or a thermobaric shell, but a time-delay fuse shell.
The shells fly through the air, and the timing is precisely calculated.
The first salvo of shells landed.
But it didn't explode in the air; instead, it burrowed into the ground.
The delayed fuse was activated, and the shell exploded deep underground.
The earth is shaking.
Even from 500 meters away, Mahmoud could feel the ground shaking.
Around the explosion site, the ground bulged, cracked, and then collapsed, forming a huge crater.
This time, the people who had just escaped the blockade completely collapsed.
After all, the psychological pressure that artillery fire puts on non-military personnel is unimaginable; no civilian can remain unbroken after seeing artillery fire exploding nearby.
The civilians began to scatter and flee, no longer obeying the militants' commands.
They screamed and cried as they ran in all directions.
The militants tried to stop them, shooting and killing some of the fleeing men, but many more escaped.
The shelling continued.
Second round, third round...
Shells exploded around the crowd, blocking all major escape routes.
The melee began.
The fleeing civilians, the militants trying to regain control of the civilians, and the militants who simply gave up control and began to flee for their lives were all mixed together.
Gunshots, explosions, and screams intertwined to create a symphony of hell.
Mahmoud observed that some militants were attempting to use scattered civilians as human shields in an attempt to break through the area under artillery fire.
But as soon as they entered open ground, they were accurately shot and killed by snipers.
Other militants threw down their weapons, took off their coats, and tried to blend in with the civilians to escape.
However, when drones monitor from high altitudes, thermal imaging can clearly distinguish who has just fired a shot and who hasn't.
massacre.
This is a one-sided massacre.
The shelling lasted for ten minutes.
When the cannon fire stopped, the open ground outside the south city was littered with corpses and wounded.
Of the more than 500 people in the group, probably less than 100 survived and made it into the distant woods.
The 1515 unit, which attempted to break out, was blocked by artillery fire and forced to retreat back into the city.
Mahmoud stepped out of his bunker and onto the battlefield.
The first thing I saw was a dead young mother, still holding her child, but neither of them was breathing.
The child's eyes were open, looking at the sky.
Next to him was an old man whose legs had been blown off and who was still bleeding, but he was beyond saving.
He looked at Mahmoud, his lips moving as if he were saying something, but no sound came out.
Further away, there was the body of an armed man, still clutching a gun, but half his head was gone.
Blood, entrails, and severed limbs were everywhere.
Mahmoud squatted down and closed his eyes.
This wasn't the first time he'd seen this sight, but he'd have nightmares about it every time.
"Sir," a team member approached, his voice low, "survivors have been found."
Mahmoud looked up: "Bring it here."
The girl was brought in.
She was very thin, her face was dirty, and she was wearing a tattered floral dress.
She looked around at everything, neither crying nor making a fuss, but just tightly hugging a tattered rag doll.
"What is your name?" Mahmoud asked in Arabic.
The girl didn't speak.
"where is your family?"
The girl pointed to a corpse not far away.
It was a woman, possibly her mother, who had been shot in the chest and was already dead.
Mahmoud took a deep breath: "Take her to the aid station. Notify command that we need more medical teams here."
"Yes."
The girl was taken away numbly, still clutching her rag doll, without looking back.
Mahmoud stood there, looking at the land that had just experienced a massacre.
The sun had already risen, and its rays shone on the pool of blood, reflecting a blinding light.
The war continues.
Tikrit East District, 7:30 AM.
Samir stood on the turret of a T-72 tank, looking at the street ahead.
His 10th Mechanized Division had penetrated five kilometers into the city and occupied most of the industrial area.
But the closer they got to the city center, the fiercer the resistance became.
1515 deployed layers of defenses here.
The streets were blocked off by roadblocks, snipers and anti-tank teams were lying in ambush in the buildings, and suicide bombers could emerge from underground at any moment.
"Third Armored Company reporting." A voice came through the radio: "Concrete roadblock spotted at the crossroads ahead. Requesting engineer support."
"Approved." Samir ordered, "Sappers, advance and blow up the roadblocks. Tanks, provide fire support."
Three BMP-2 infantry fighting vehicles drove forward, each followed by an engineer platoon. The tanks' main guns were aimed at suspicious windows, ready to fire at any moment.
The engineers jumped out of the vehicle and quickly approached the roadblock. It was a reinforced concrete obstacle, three meters high and two meters thick, which would be difficult for ordinary artillery shells to penetrate.
They placed the explosives, set the fuse, and then withdrew.
"Detonate!"
The explosion was deafening. A five-meter-wide gap was blasted in the roadblock, sending concrete debris flying everywhere.
"Tank platoon, advance!"
Four T-72 tanks rushed through the gap, their turrets swishing left and right as they searched for targets.
Sure enough, an anti-tank team was lying in ambush behind the roadblock.
Two RPG rockets flew out of a second-floor window of the building on the right.
The first shot missed and hit the track of a tank.
The tracks broke, paralyzing the tank, but the crew members were still alive and crawled out of the hatch.
The second shot went straight for the turret of the lead tank.
But the tank commander reacted quickly, ordering the firing of smoke grenades, while the gunner used a coaxial machine gun to sweep the window.
Smoke obscured visibility, a hail of bullets threw the enemy into a panic, RPG shooters missed their targets, and rockets flew over the tanks.
"Kill them!" Samir roared.
Asking for a monthly ticket!
(End of this chapter)