It'll be over by Christmas: The Caicos Affair

[snip]

Excerpt from the personal journal of Sergeant-Major Matthieu Cipriani, dated 3rd July, 1914.

...we expect that combat operations may begin as early as tomorrow. Many on both sides are going to die when the shooting starts.

Received a letter from a caravan crossing the boarder. Atlacoya's final regards before we become opposite in a shooting war. With luck, it will not be our last correspondence.

[snip]

July 4th, 1914. Imperial Roman Naval Academy, outside Brest, Francia.

The rhythmic mechanical ticking of the clock never matched up with the footfalls as Amelia paced her room. The campus and town had been abuzz with news of the ultimatum delivered to the Aztec Sultanate, and its fearsome, taunting rejection. The countdown to hostilities had set the press and public alight with fever and speculation. For the first time in a generation, Rome was going to war. The die to be cast in the New World, not the old.

Amelia wished to be with her father now, to see just how far out of hand things had gotten since her visit days prior. The events in the far-off settlement of San Diego had been the spark, the vault of powder it had started alight unknown, but unstopped by those who could have doused the flames. To be cast into the fire by these powerful figures were young men on both sides. Young men with mothers, sisters, wives, lovers. Young men who would never know the feeling of growing old, lives to be halted by the bark of a rifle or explosion of a shell; the water pouring into the steel hull of a warship which would never see the surface again.

Had this come years prior, Amelia would have feared for Alonzo. That fear would have been mild, despite all the pomp and promotion of wartime glory, the singular heir of the Imperial line would very rarely, if ever, have been risked in open battle. The same could not be said of others, many of her childhood friends had siblings in the service. No family was spared service in the armed forces, no family openly wished to. Rome's military power had been a hallmark of the waxing and waning history of the nation since its mythical founding. From Carthage to Albion, Byzantium to Iberia, the history of Rome followed its military. Many men had died for that history. Men like Eugène Charpentier.

It was selfish to keep thinking of Eugène, Amelia berated herself. Many families worried for their own sons, husbands, fathers, uncles. Her own Uncle sat in command of a place likely to be hit hard when events escalated. Amelia was the Crown Princess, her worry should, no must, extend to the whole of her father's subjects. Every unknown man sent into harms way for the glory of her future throne should be though of equally. Try as she might, one man continued to bubble to the forefront. Eugène Charpentier.

In her hands were clutched a small bundle of letters, wrapped carefully in a handkerchief. Had reading worn out ink, the pages would have been clean. Amelia knew every pen stoke by heart. She knew his command proceeded well, knew there would be no talking the future Duke of Gascogne back from leading his men. She would not dream of trying. With that came fear, sizing deep in the pit of her guts, the cold trennels weaving and knotting their way around her insides removing all joy, all warmth. As she knew also that there were only so many Marines in the New World, that the Marines would be tasked with taking the islands from the Aztecs, that the Aztecs were fearsome warriors, and that Marine Lieutenants were supposed to be involved in combat. Reports from San Diego did not mark this as a point of hope.

Amelia felt helpless, and she was. Nothing she could say or do now could stop Eugène from being placed in harms way. Rationally, she knew she never would have been able to stop it. Pleasant memories of the night of her eighteenth birthday and the encounter days later only served to set the fear freshly writhing; they were simply fuel as they would likely remain just that, memories, not a forthcoming future event. The fear that she would never again see him, that he would see her, that they would never touch again, was too great to accept that it was only a possibility, not certainty. Despite all this, Amelia knew there was on place she could turn, one last effort to be made. How futile it might be made no difference now.

Amelia left her room, cloth-wrapped letters still clutched in her hand. She held her head high as she walked with purpose across the academy grounds, it would do no good for anyone to see her as worried. Finally, she arrived at her destination. Perhaps the last place anyone that knew her well would have expected her to go, the church. The old stone building reaching to the sky with a cross held aloft, its walls having heard many pleas. The interior was quite light, the beautiful stained-glass windows allowing enough natural radiance to render any electric lights unnecessary. The cavernous celling stretched high above the pews, the windows running almost up to it. Amelia was not alone; a small number of other cadets were spaced randomly around the seating. Each deep in their own prayers.

Amelia chose a seat in the pews far away from others, as much for her privacy as their own. She sat in silence, letters in her lap, the faint unintelligible whispered praying of the other occupants the faintest of backdrops. She realized she was shaking slightly as she closed her eyes to gather her thoughts. After a moment, she set the letters down on the pew and knelt on the cool stone floor. She clasped her hands in front of her and bowed her head, eyes closed and began to whisper to herself, hoping beyond hope for a sympathetic ear to hear.

Holy Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name. Please hear my words, hear my plea, hear my sadness. I fear not for myself but for others who will risk themselves to undertake sworn duties. I ask for you to help them and their loved ones find peace should they fall, for you strength should they be injured, your understanding should they waver in their own faith in this era of crisis. Welcome the fallen into your Kingdom, forgive them of any transgression. I ask this as your inconsistent subject, do not let my faults, my failings, my doubts reflect upon them. Please help them all, us all. Amen.

Amelia breathed deeply though her nose in an attempt to calm herself. She waited, expecting nothing but faintly hoping for any sort of answer, even a no. Nothing came but the silence of the stone. Amelia opened her eyes, raising her head to meet the large stained-glass windows. Depicted upon the nearest one, a scene of the Crucifixion sparkled with multicolored light. Amelia contemplated the image, the detail captured in the glass quite fine. Normally this would have ended Amelia's stay at any church, but today was different. There was nothing more to do, nothing to help, nothing to fix. Just thoughts, however ineffective, were all that was left. She returned her eyes to the floor and closed them, allowing her mind to wonder. It wrapped itself around precious memories, and for the first time in days, refused to let those memories evolve to fears.



July 6th, The Caicos.

Eugène Charpentier was surrounded by blood and screaming men. Bullets snapped by overhead, machine guns barked with unreal precision. The thunderous sound of the IRS Imperito sending another pair of massive shells into the island blotted out all else for a moment, the tearing sound ending with a tremendous explosion. The smell of burned powder and charred flesh filled the air. Truly this was mankind's best approximation of hell.

Eugène examined the condition of his men, mostly dirtied some bloodied a few mercifully gone from this place in sprit. The remainder hunkered behind the available cover, some men he did not recognize. Acquired from other fallen officers, the kit bashed group now had one leader. It was up to him to order these men forward to the objective, and for him to lead them. One last stolen glance around the overturned cart was all he needed. Nodding to the grizzled Sargent Major next to him, the rest of the men quickly readied themselves. Eugène stole a moment for one, perhaps final, thought before shouting the command to advance.

Forgive me Amelia.

"Forward men, for the Emperor!"

Eugène broke cover along with his men. A machine gun barked as the Roman Marines moved. Wet thunks followed.

[TacCovert4]

Northern Hidalgo Province, on the "Texas" border:  July 7th, 1914, 0400hrs.


General de Corps Zuma sat astride his black stallion in the predawn gloom.  In front of him was the vast plain of Novus Francia....or Texas as his own troopers called it.  Unlike along the Rio Grande, no great fortifications, no continuous trench lines greeted him.  Here was the Great Plains, the wide open center of the continent, untamed and open for maneuver.  And maneuver he had been ordered to do.  The Snake Warriors, thousands upon thousands strong, had been assembled as the vanguard of twin columns of Jaguar Warriors, a spear pointed at the heart of the Roman colonies, if only they could outride the inevitable response.


In the months of preparations, he had drawn plans for this campaign, both as an opening move to an offensive that could preclude the suicidally dangerous river crossing under fire, and a spoiling attack to prevent the Romans from committing to their own push across the Rio.  Word had come yesterday that Rome had begun its assault on the Caicos, and saying a prayer for the defenders there and the hell they would surely endure with Allah's help, General Zuma had ordered the Army to action.


Any large force takes time to move, but his two corps attacking force had been hand picked and were professionals to a man, or woman.  Long service troops mixed with well trained but inexperienced troops, and only faster horse-drawn wagons and trucks had been assembled for this force.  Even on the defense, Zuma knew that out on the open plain the battle would rely upon initiative and small and medium sized units fighting independently, something not suited to lesser soldiers.


Out in front, he could see the sign, "Entering Novus Francia" in both Latin and Aztec as well as some local trade languages.  He smiled.  His serpent was coiled, and before the sun rose in the east it would strike.  "Soldiers of Allah, today we ride for our people, and for the Sultan!  We ride to make these Romans pay for their crimes upon our lands and our honor!  We ride so that those back home may live free from their oppression!"  Drawing his scimitar, he held it high as he began the slow walk that built into a thunderous trot as thousands of horses in columns set out towards their parallel routes of advance, screening squadrons and brigades already starting to spread into the broad V's that would herald the advance of the Army.  "Allahu Ackbar!" General Zuma shouts.  "Allahu Ackbar!  Allahu Ackbar!" is the reply from thousands of voices as the war for Texas begins......

[snip]

July 7th, 1914. West Ouest Bretagne, Novus Francia

Corporal Elio Stabile lay prone behind his Naylor Model 1911 machine gun. The loader and six riflemen shared the shallow earthwork with him. To ether side were slit trenches filled with soldiers of the 59th Legion, 3rd Battalion, additional Naylor's interspaced in similar dugouts to his. Behind the makeshift line, somewhere, sat a sextuplet of 75mm field guns. In front of them was one of the few major roads leading out of Novus Francia to the west into the Aztec territory of Hidalgo, the faint path snaking down the low incline. The sun, tho low in the sky was already showing the heat of the day to come. Elio took a sip from his canteen absentmindly before a cry caused him to drop it to the dusty ground.

"Riders! To the west and closing!"

It was unclear who had first spotted them, likely one of the officers. The cry sent the men of 3rd battalion to the edge of the trenches, rifles clutched in hand and fixed to shoulders. Bayonets gleamed in the sunlight. Elio checked the belt feed on the Naylor one last time, then nodded to the loader. As if summoned by the cry, Aztec cavalry appeared. They were charging hard along the road, clearly expecting a fight. Quickly, they were rallied by their officers and began to charge the hilltop.

Elio heard a ripping and several spouts of dirt sprang to the sky. The 75s had sent the first salvo down range. It was a little long, catching the tail end of the charging Aztec line.

"Hold! HOLD!" One of the officers called out. "WAIT FOR MY ORDER TO FIRE!"

Elio tightened his grip on the Naylor's grip. A second round 75mm shells tore through the air and exploded in front of the Aztec line. Men and horse were blasted apart, some falling to the ground and others simply ceasing to exist. It was still not enough. The war cry of the men and the labored breathing of their mounts growing louder by the second.

"OPEN FIRE!"

Without thought, Elio depressed the trigger. The Naylor leapt to life, digging the back leg of its tripod into the dirt. Elio swept the gun from right to left across the charging Aztec line, aiming roughly at the high of the horses heads. Hardly delayed, a volley of Model 1891 rifles cracked after the machine guns. Aztec cavalry fell, but the came on for what felt like an eternity before breaking off and stampeding back down the hill.

As more ammunition was brought up, and the water jacket was refiled, Elio noticed the second dust cloud further down the road; an advancing column of Aztec infantry. The day was far from over.

[TacCovert4]

July 7th, Noon, outside of Fort Lombard....Texas

Colonel Zaniyah passed her binoculars over the stagecoach stop just outside of Lubbock.  There.  There were the guns.  Six of them, glinting in the sunlight as their teams pulled them to a position near the station.  Pausing a moment, she checked for the telltale parapets of trenches, the darker clay under the sandy plain relatively obvious in the broad daylight.  Only the corners of a position big enough to hold a regiment had been dug.  She had done it, the 5th Brigade, Queen Fatima's Light Cavalry, had been beaten by the Romans here, but not by much.  No, indeed, with luck she had caught them before they had sufficiently hardened their position.

Issuing her orders briskly to her hardened cadre of leaders, veterans of the Comanche war, she said "2nd Squadron to the Right, 3rd to the Left, Artillery come up as fast as they can.  1st will as always go up the center.  Take them at the gallop!"  Her Majors nod behind their shemaghs and ride off quickly, there's no question as this is a standard tactic of the Light Horse, the double envelopment.

The Brigade split into three broad wedges as it advanced at the trot, then increasing speed as they reached the half mile.  The Romans had been alerted, and she could see men running to the guns to unlimber them.  Spurring her mount, she drew her scimitar as the first of the Schneider 1907s barked out a full magazine, dropping a few of her troopers, then another barked out in a syncopated rhythym.  But there was a pause, one of the guns must have jammed.  The 1st Regiment increased their speed to the gallop as they approached the quarter mile, hooves pounding the earth as mounts dodged mesquite brush.  Rifles cracked from trenches and from men taking a rough line in front of them, bayonets glistening in the burning sun.  "Allahu Ackbar!" she screamed, and then the ululating battle cry of the Light Horse as they raced the gunners across the last few hundred yards.  The big guns roared, but the fast moving horses had closed the gap and many of the shots went long, screaming past them as the women gave horses their heads for the impending clash.

The First Regiment rode right into the infantry protecting the battery, scimitar meeting bayonet in melee as pistols and rifles alike barked.  Zaniyah cut left and right, felling soldiers who had turned to run after finding themselves caught in the open without cover, her horse slowing as she sawed at the reins to bring her sword to bear.  One fell, blood flying from a slash that opened him to the spine, the other turned abruptly and thrust with his bayonet, striking home on Zaniyah's leg.  Wincing from the pain, she brought her sword down with a crash on his head, sending him sprawling with a wet crunch.  Pulling up, she takes off her sash and ties it around the wound, then looks left and right as troopers cut their way through the Roman ranks and swarm down off their mounts and into the isolated dugouts, a Schneider blazing away to her right abruptly stops, a few mercifully short screams signaling why the dugout goes silent.  One of the 75s fires, and she looks towards their position to see a dozen horses and riders disappear in a welter of gore, but the others of the 3rd Regiment avenge them, riding over and literally through the gunners, sabers and pistols reaping their toll on the unprepared position.

Another Schneider rattles its swan song and she watches the 2nd assail the adobe station only to pull back as there's no way to assault it, the machine gun firing from the window by the only door and riflemen and officers lining the walled enclosure for the stagecoaches.  Minutes later, a quartet of 40mm guns catch up, and unlimbering open up a rapid fire upon the station, their common shells chewing into and through the unreinforced adobe walls.  With her own machine gunners beginning to fire into the holes made by the guns, she spots something above the station.  Taking her binoculars from the saddle tree, she calls out "Cease Fire, Cease Fire" and all along the ragged line rifles and guns go silent.

A Roman officer walks out of the station, a white cloth tied to an upside-down rifle.  Zaniyah rides out alone to meet him.  "Major Marc Aloi, Battery C, 142nd Legion of the Imperial Roman Republic."  he says.  "Colonel Zaniyah of Queen Fatima's Light Cavalry" is the reply, the Major taken somewhat aback that a woman leads a unit of this size.  "Do you wish to surrender?" She asks matter of factly, pointing her bloodied scimitar at the white flag.  "Indeed, for the lives of my men I think it is best".  "I concur", Zaniyah replies, "honor has been satisfied, there is no point in gratuitous bloodshed".  The Roman Major sighs with relief.  "If I had one more day you would have found this to be tougher meat" he replies indicating the far from complete defensive position.  "Probably, but Allah is gracious and merciful to his servants, and the Sun shines upon us today" Zaniyah says, painfully leaning in the saddle to take the proffered officer's sword, and her troopers ride up to watch nearly a hundred Roman soldiers file out of the station, throwing their rifles into a stack as they hold their hands high.

Over the next hour she sits in a chair in the shade as a medic tends her wound, Roman and Aztec medics collecting the wounded as disarmed prisoners collect the dead.  Even a complete victory takes its toll, in this age of the machine gun, and a full squadron's worth of the 5th will never ride again.  Consolidating her unspent forces into the 1st and 3rd Regiments, she leaves the 2nd behind to see to the wounded and prisoners, her orders to keep pushing as long as she is able, with confidence that the Jaguar Warriors are marching at their best pace behind her to firm up any positions she overruns.  Yes, the advance was going well, but how long could the cavalry bear the burden of this campaign before speed alone was insufficient to guarantee victory......

[snip]

July 6th, 1914. Offshore of Grand Turk.

The weather had worsened as the day stretched towards night. Throughout the day transports had closed to the beach and started disembarking troops, the smaller rowboats sometime making it to shore, other times blasted apart by Aztec artillery. Some marines had already managed to push off the beach in isolated bulges, rows of bodies like bloody steppingstones along the path. The smoking hulks of several beached freighters blocked the line of sight, both with their bulk and the thick smoke clouds pouring from gaping wounds.

From the bridge of the IRS Sublimis, Admiral Kilian De Campo could tell that things were not going well. The gunfire from the closer in destroyers was hopefully having some effect. He pitied the Marines. Turning his eyes to the sky again, the clouds concerned him more with each passing hour. A major storm was coming. One of the other command officers joined him in observation.

"The weather is getting bad, my gut tells me it will only get worse. We have not seen any Aztec torpedocraft thus far, its likely they will strike us at night."

"Indeed." De Campo replied, thinking on the briefings of Cheju-do. "The lack of moonlight will prevent us from continuing the landings, we will need to head out to sea and resume at first light tomorrow. Make the necessary arrangements." De Campo knew this meant that many of the Marines on the beach now would not be there in the morning, the cold calculation that they could not be saved unstated.

"Yes Sir, we will get underway to the holding point." The officer then saulted.

De Campo returned to surveying the beach.



On Grand Turk, several hours later

The fading light distorted the withdrawal of the transports and warships off shore. Capitan Hadrien Daniel silently cursed his commanders aboard the ships, knowing they were making the right call. Without the light of the moon it would be impossible to continue the landings, that just ment he and his men had to hold. Gathered with him were the remnants of what other officers were left. May faces younger than Hadrien's own, some far to young. He coughed and then began over the sound of mid distant gunfire.

"We have to hold for the night alone." Hadrien opened with the obvious. "How are defenses proceeding?"

Each other officer gave a brief report, most bad. The defenses would not hold a determined attack without considerable luck.

"Well, we do not have much choice. We will do what we can. Dismissed." Hadrien lacked the capacity for a more motivational finish.

The other officers dispersed to their respective troops. Hadrien wondered how many would be alive come morning. The winds continued to howl louder.

[TacCovert4]

July 7th, 1914, the Caicos

Ensign Tupoc peered out over the morning gloom. His squadron of Motor Torpedo Boats arrayed behind him as he followed the old Scimitar-class destroyer.  Having learned from bad Japanese experiences, the Orca warriors had organized their 'mosquito fleet' into MTB squadrons following Destroyers, the latter having the rangefinders and spotting tops necessary to see at appreciable ranges.  Despite the ever-present heat of July in the Caribbean, Tupoc felt a slight chill.  This was the first offensive action committed to by a major fleet group, if you did not count San Diego, and few counted that execution of tired old cruisers as a battle.  Warmaster Abidi's orders had been clear, they were to inflict maximum damage upon the enemy, and they were not to withdraw until they had accomplished their mission.  His little command of not better than a dozen men would get their first taste of battle.

Initially the run in was confusing, the Romans were not nigh the beach as intelligence had been able to provide.  But soon word was passed by signal from the Destroyer that the Roman screen had been spotted and the columns of torpedo boats turned and accelerated as they closed with their quarry.  Tupoc redlined the engines as he ran his boat past the rapid-firing guns of the screening Roman destroyers, powerful ships but too few to stop the nearly sixty torpedo boats that bore down on the fleet they protected. 

The battle is a confusing mass, a ballet only understood by those who can see it from tabletops in academies.  Scimitars trade blow for blow with Roman destroyers, buying time at great cost to get the torpedo boats by the screen.  Tupoc sees one of the Roman cruisers, mightier than the old scouts of his own fleet, break up under the blows of multiple torpedo hits. 

And then its his own turn, the bulk of the Roman battleship Sublimis looming before him.  A seeming sheet of flame along her sides flickers as guns fire, the mere touch of one of her secondaries enough to pulverize a torpedo boat into splinters.  Five thousand meters, four thousand meters, three thousand meters, "Launch!" yells Tupoc, and two fish are shoved by blackpowder charges free of their tubes and into the water.  Ensign Tupoc barely has time to register that the bubble trails look straight before a 140mm shell detonates on the 40mm gun, turning his little boat into a sinking charnel house full of dying men. 

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

On Grand Turk:

Captain Acalan sees the Warmaster step into his trench, closest to the Roman incursion while still giving him the best view of the landing areas.  "Shouldn't be long now" the warmaster says, and the Captain brings his binoculars to his eyes to watch a naval engagement of unbridled desperation and brutality erupt.  At this range he can barely see the shoals of torpedo boats plunging through the growing swells, but he witnesses destroyers savage one another as they go gun for gun, the smaller Aztec vessels giving better than expected into the larger Roman ones. 

And then a flash catches his eye.  Sublimis, the Roman Flagship, is rocked by geysers of water.....and then in a vertical column of flame the after turret somersaults into the air, heralding the destruction of the grand old ship.  "Allahu Ackbar!" is shouted up and down the trench, for the men know that they won't be subjected to explosive shells the size of ox carts today. 

Throughout the rest of the morning, the Captain and Warmaster watch the remnants of the Roman fleet withdraw, led by the Imperito which has stubbornly defied Allah's will.  But today is a day that the sun does not really rise, for the weather continues to worsen all through the afternoon.  Intermittent squalls douse the islands while the winds pick up until a man cannot walk standing straight.  "Tonight, in the worst of it, that's when we make our push" Commodore Abidi says.  "They'll all be huddling until the storm dies down, and we can overrun them.  Attack all across their front, tell the men swords, grenades, and pistols and carbines only.  They need to close in the storm and kill them until they shatter, and then our island will be free of their stain"  Captain Abidi leaves to prepare his own Marines huddling in covered trenches against the storm, for the storm that they must bring at nightfall.

[snip]

July 8th, IRS Imperito

It would be difficult to believe that across the whole crew of a battleship, there would be any stretch where the voice of a crewman would not echo off a bulkhead somewhere in the ship. The crew of the Imperito would be the exception. Hardly a word had been said, and none outside of necessary communication in over a day. The events of the night the day before hanging heavy over every man on the ship. For the past day, they had sailed with the thankfully almost intact collection of merchants filled with Marines and their equipment.

Even above the din of battle, the solid thunk of the torpedo impacting the hull had been heard. That it failed to detonate was likely counted as a miracle shortly below the resurrection by some. The same grace had not been visited upon the rest of the escorting force. Of the 14 Imperial Navy ships that had departed days before, only one remained. Thousands of men had died, ether by the hands of the Aztec or by the storm. DD-57 had been the only other surviving ship, but she had not been seen in hours, those on the bridge knew her to be lost in the waves.

Admiral De Campo was dead, gone along with near one thousand others when the Sublimis exploded. The detonation of the rear magazine had been blinding in the early dawn light and the ship was gone quickly. De Campo had done what he could with the orders he was given, and it was perhaps a small favor that he would not have the stain of a trial on his record. The first Roman Admiral to die in combat in almost one hundred years would be something to martyr in public, judge in private. Surly metaphorical heads would roll after taking such a risk, one that had already shown to be foolish two years prior.

The silver lining to the darkest day in modern Roman naval history was that the transports had survived. Had they been sunk, the whole war would have been over within a week. But they still floated, Marines safely inside. While the troops landed on the 6th were already captured or dead, there were still more who could hit the beaches of the Caicos. Hope, however faint, that the Sublimis, her escorts, and the stranded Marines had not suffered in vein.



Brest, Francia

The group of warships departed the harbor without fanfair, sailing west. The Admiralty's underestimating of their enemy ended now.

[TacCovert4]

July 8th, 0500hrs, Grand Turk, the Caicos

Captain Acalan huddled against the side of the trench.  Not because of gunfire this time, the Roman Marines had been quiet overnight since their fleet had been annihilated before their eyes.  But the Romans were likely not out of ammunition as much as they were also huddling, the pounding storm surge and rain sleeting in from the side had brutalized the men throughout the night.  Some of his trenches would have to be redug, reduced like a sand castle to the powerful hurricane driven surf.  But his men had had hard cover, and orders were orders....the Warmaster must know what he is doing.  And he had to lead this attack, because a senior officer always participated in operations, and the more insane, the more seniority that was required.

Drawing his pistol, he checks it again to make sure that it is fully loaded with ten 7.65mm cartridges.  In the close quarters he expected to erupt, this would be more useful than a rifle by far.  He draws his flyssa, the single-edged short sword hissing out of its scabbard with only a little squelch of water.  Rivulets ran down his helmet, and rain pelted his face as he peered up over the parapet at the shell-blasted scape where the Romans had to be, because there was nowhere else for them to be.

Climbing the side of the trench, he looked left and right to see other officers doing the same, with Seal Warriors scrambling up behind them with satchels of grenades, carbines, rifles, and some with just swords in their hands for the attack.  He wanted to run across the sand, but running was not possible in the gale, so as a very angry drunken man they picked their way across, sometimes staggering, towards the low dunes where the Romans had been blasted by wind from the open sea for hours. 

Cresting the dune, Acalan comes face to face with a Roman sentry, shivering and soaked in the elements.  The sentry starts to cry the alarm only for it to be cut short by the fall of the flyssa in Acalan's hand.  Looking past, he spies knots of Romans huddling under pieces of whaleboats or around ox carts or portions of fortification.  Now, now is the time!  "Allahu Ackbar!" he shouts, raising his pistol and firing into the Romans as he half run, half staggers down the low rise.  "Allahu Ackbar!" replies from voices as a general battle cry begins to build in the howling gale.  Rifles and pistols crack, and the more solid 'thunk' of grenades peppers the dunes as the Seal Warriors of Grand Turk fall on those who had tormented them under bombardment, who had threatened their realm with war.  Swords glint in the macabre light of muzzle flashes as they come into use.  Acalan steps around one piece of cover to find a Roman soldier, no, an officer, drawing his own sword.  With characteristic efficiency, Acalan's blade cuts deeply into his arm, leaving it hanging uselessly by his side, and the Captain brings his pistol to strike heavily against the temple of the Roman officer, dropping him like sandbag into the ruined gun position as he moves past to carry the assault.  Before the wan sun has peeked sufficient light through for one to observe the battlefield in the storm, it is over.  The soggy Seal Warriors muster the remnants of the bedraggled Marines and march them inland, to dry spaces, and prisoner of war camps......

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

July 9th, 1914, Tenochtitlan:

Minister Asad looks over reports sent to him from the War Ministry and Navy Ministry.  The Romans had invaded, just as they threatened to.  But they had been repulsed with great loss of life, many Roman soldiers captured after their fleet was nearly annihilated in a battle with the Royal Aztec Navy.  This was a great victory, but could it be made into a diplomatic victory.  He turns to his deputy:  "Send copies, with our unit names and such suitably redacted of course, to any ambassador that will listen.  Vilnius, Parthia, Byzantine, Incan, Japanese.....but send them the whole report, Norse, Chinese, anyone.  And see what you can do to ensure that this report gets into the hands of some Roman papers.  If their people see that their aggression costs them thousands of lives, and millions in treasure to no gain, maybe they will pressure their leaders to leave us be."

[snip]

July 8th, 1914. Fort Lombard

Ruben Hardy ducked behind a tent near the makeshift airfield to the east of the fort. One of the quartermasters was waiting, a canvas bag weighted with something heavy in his hand. Ruben broke into a smile as he approached.

"You got what I asked for René?" The grin splitting Ruben's face childish in its glee.

"Four grenades." René lifted the bag, metal objects clinking inside, before continuing deadpan. "You going to tell me what I'm risking my job for?"

"History my friend, history." Ruben replied grasping the bag. "Thank you, I owe you a round when we next get leave."

René quipped back. "Make it five." He still held one strap of the bag.

"Three, and if you find company, I'll handle it." Ruben tugged the bag for emphasis that this was his final offer.

"Deal." René let the bag go. "Make sure you come back so I can collect."

Ruben ignored the comment, turning to walk out from behind the tent and back to the airfield. One of the base's two Avro Beagles sat on the cleared runway, his observer checking the fabric and wood contraption. Ruben approached, doing his best to look innocent as he held the quartet of grenades. On reaching the Beagle, he quickly inserted the bag into the cockpit before joining the observer on his walk around.

Peppe Charron noted Ruben's arrival with a short nod before asking in a low voice. "I presume that sack is a present for me?"

"Of course." Ruben's voice was also low. "You did say you wanted something with some bang?"

Peppe thinly smiled. "You are reading my journal again?"

"Never, not once." It was Ruben's turn to smile. "Lets get in the air before René's conscience gets the better of him and we get hauled away."



An hour later, the Beagle flew west from Fort Lombard towards the sound of artillery fire. The Aztec advance across the boarder had not been a surprise, but its ferocity and speed had been underestimated. Things were much better for the Romans further south, were forts and well prepared trenches held what probing attacks there had been at arm's length.  Here those forts were not yet built and the trenches not dug as long. This was a war of maneuver, horsemen assaulting or reenforcing isolated islands of infantry. Given time, it would solidify but that time was uncertain. For now, the best that could be hoped was to hold and bring the will-shattering power of Roman artillery to bear.

Ruben and Peppe were assigned to reconnaissance duty, their mission was to report on any advancing concentrations of Aztec infantry and centralized locations for the calvary's logistics. While both men took the mission seriously, the four grenades were an opportunity to help their brothers on the ground whose blue-grey uniforms stuck out against the brown dirt. Locating a small column of Aztec horsemen, Peppe tapped Ruben on the shoulder and point them out. Reuben nodded and at his request the Beagle began to dive lower in a left hand circle. Peppe produced the bag from under his seat and placed two of the grenades into his lap. Nether man spoke, not that they could have heard much over the clatter of the rotary engine.

Settling in less than two hundred meters above the ground, Ruben lined up the Beagle on the road the Aztec unit was progressing down. Peppe took a grenade in hand, and as the calvary grew closer held the small sphere out of the cockpit. As the first riders realized how close the plane was and began to hastily rase their rifles, Peppe pulled the fuse and dropped the grenade over the side. He quickly did the same with the second as the Beagle carried past the column of Aztecs.

Ruben pulled the Beagle into a climbing turn, looking to see if the improvised attack had any effect. The column was scattering from the road, and Ruben though he saw a body or two that were not moving. He overflew the side of the road which more of the Aztecs had chosen to get off to and Peppe lobbed the remaining two grenades over the side. The Beagle again struggled for altitude and circled the dispersed column once before departing.



The Beagle bounced back onto the runway at Fort Lombard without fanfare. Ruben noticed René standing by the briefing tent with a furious looking Major. Sighing, Ruben cut the Beagle's engine and exited the cockpit, Peppe in tow. The pair walked in the direction of the tent, where the Major engaged them directly and without delay.

"Return the grenades. Now." The Major's tone hinted this was not to be a conversation.

"I'm afraid I cant do that Major." Ruben saluted while replying.

"Why not." A vein bulged on the Major's neck as the angry tone punted the words.

"They have been expended against the enemy sir." Ruben's tone was matter-of-factly.

"But you took them in that aeroplane." René blustered his way into the conversation. "I saw you do it."

"The Quartermaster is correct." Peppe replied. "We dropped the grenades from the plane onto some Aztec calvary."

The Major's expression went from furious to shocked in the blink of an eye. "What?"

"As my observer said," Ruben answered. "We used the grenades to disrupt the movement of the enemy to the font. We were successful in doing this and by our observation managed to kill several of the column."

The Major look dumbfounded. "You dropped live grenades out of an aeroplane? This war gets stranger by the day. We should brief the other crews on this and discuss tactics, it might be enough to throw off the heathen's efforts, I would wager they were not expecting it."

"I would agree sir." Ruben replied. "And we would be happy to pass what we have learned on to the other crews."

"Quartermaster," The major turned to René as he spoke. "Please ensure that this aviation unit is allocated more grenades going forward. If you meet any headway on this request, please direct them to me. Excellent work gentlemen."

Ruben and Peppe exchanged a chuckle, today had gone very well indeed.

[TacCovert4]

July 15th, Bahamas

Captain Tariq sailed up the Nassau Roads.  The hurricane had been terrible, and though his pair of old cruisers had not taken more than superficial damage which was already repaired by crews onboard, there were times the waves breaking over his bows as he rode out the storm worried him.  The scouts were built for the Caribbean, but they were still some of the smallest in the fleet.  Their engines rattled some and had been a constant maintenance nightmare to keep in service, had it not been for the war they would have been scrapped this year as no longer suited to their task.

But here they were, old ships, with old crews, performing a final service to the Sultan before some retired and some moved on to duty stations aboard new cruisers.  Tariq himself was hopeful that success in this war would net him command of one of the Sultan Ali class still in the yards.  He puttered up Nassau Roads, searching for remnants of the Roman fleet that had made their escape under cover of the storm and the guns of the Roman battleship.  Fortunately, he had been able to see that monster depart for Cuba, which meant that for another day or so he more or less knew there wouldn't be a battleship at least in Nassau.

In the mid-morning light, he picked his way up into the roads, and took stock of his luck.  A whole convoy of Roman supply vessels and troopships, desperately making steam and for the open sea, and nary a warship of any sort to protect them.  The single gun that fired from shore made a few ineffective splashes which were ignored.  "Guns, you may fire as you bear" was his order to be passed down to the gun crews on deck.  The 100mm guns, small by modern standards for a cruiser but rapid firing, began blazing away as his two cruisers made their run through the roads, setting ships ablaze.  He spied a few that had already made way and were headed out to sea.  Finishing the 'turkey shoot' in the roads, the pair of cruisers split up to pursue their quarry, stokers pouring sweat as they brought the ancient boilers and engines to flank speed.  Into the night and the next morning, the stokers would be exhausting themselves intermittently as the sluggish little cruisers pushed their piston engines hard to overtake and sink the Roman transports.

As he returns to the Caicos, Captain Tariq hails Picket.  Between the two, they sunk fourteen Roman transports.  Not a clean sweep, only sinking the battleship and the transports it had husbanded to Guantanamo could make that, but he was proud.  His ad hoc 'mosquito fleet' of obsolete cruisers, small destroyers, and torpedo boats had over the period of little more than a week effected the utter ruin of a Roman fleet of proper oceangoing warships and amphibious forces.  Coupled with the capture or annihilation of all Roman Marines that had made landfall, it was a good start to the war......

[snip]

July 7th, Aboard the IRS Sopianæ, Saint Rochelle. Approximately 0100.

The echoing of an explosion over the calm night of the Gulf of Azteca was unexpected. Jean-Marc Bonnet, an enlisted seaman in the Imperial Roman Navy, leapt to action from his watch post on the IRS Sopianæ.

"Explosion off the north bow! Distant, something detonated on of the mines!" Jean-Marc made the leap in logic, correct or incorrect it was the most likely reason.

Other corroborating shouts rang out across the ship and vague sounds could be heard from the Sopianæ's sister Histonium across the water. The two cruisers had been working a lazy screen of the main harbor of the Saint Rochelle area, Portus Arturius. Around them lay a minefield, courtesy of the elderly Aosta and one of her sisters. Inside the harbor sat the elements of the New World fleet left to guard the Novus Francian coastline, the detached units somewhere to the east supporting the landings in the Southern Bahamas.

Sopianæ began to turn, headed for one of the safe passages in the minefield. Jean-Marc scanned the black waters for anything out of the ordinary, the light of the explosion long diminished but the harm to his vision not yet receded. The pounding of the cruiser's old engines increased in frequency, the sound of water lapping at the hull growing louder as well. Seconds stretched into minuets as the minefield past by, then the ship began to turn north in the direction of the explosion. The moonlit night could not shield the source forever, and a group of Aztec ships slowly became distinct in the distance.

"Destroyers!" Jean-Marc cried out. "Aztec Destroyers dead ahead!"

The group of Aztec ships were caught almost flat footed, the acceleration forward having begun not long ago. Clearly Jean-Marc's intuition about a mine detonation was right, the bows of the Aztec ships were swinging away from the minefield. One of the Aztec ships was larger than the other visible ones and began maneuvering to engage the Sopianæ as the smaller ships continued to turn out to sea. High powered searchlights lanced the darkness from both ships, followed quickly by the boom of Sopianæ's forward 140mm gun.



The IRS Insuadibilis had gone from calm to chaos in the blink of an eye. Men swarmed around, some having been on the night watch, others fast asleep minutes prior. The other ships present in Portus Arturius showed similar signs of life, the lit boilers already belching more black smoke into the obsidian of the night sky. Across the water outside the minefield, the searchlights of Sopianæ, Histonium, and their Aztec adversaries were visible, the muffled report of guns echoing across the water.

Insuadibilis shook free of her moorings with the help of her crew and began to slowly lurch forward. Ahead the Aosta was already making for the channel out to the gulf, the faint blade-like hulls of at least two destroyers darting past. Insuadibilis joined the procession out of the harbor between more destroyers. The column continued out the minefield past the lit navigation beacons, the light occasionally shielded by a ship's hull. Out to sea, the guns fell silent as the number of searchlights dropped. The Insuadibilis's crew hope that this meant the Sopianæ and her sister had drawn first blood.


Jean-Marc's dilated eyes were again blinded by a humongous fireball. The smaller Aztec ships had not been destroyers, but minelayers. This had become apparent as the range closed. One of Sopianæ's rounds had found ether the mines directly or something near them and the back of the small ship had simply vanished. The fight was not yet over, the other minelayers were fleeing into the Gulf and their remaining escort was making a final attempt to protect them.

The charging Aztec cruiser, Jean-Marc identified her as one of the SC-1 class, charge like an enraged bull. Sopianæ turned rapidly beneath his feet to bring the full furry of her 140mm guns to target. Histonium did the same, the thunder of the guns unrelenting. The Aztec ship continued unphased, unable to feel the pain the Roman guns inflicted. Slowly, but inevitably, the damage continued to rise. The Aztec guns stopped replying, the bow dug into the ink-black water, and as more water flooded through previously dry holes the ship began to turn. It was as if it was making a final attempt to save itself though the effort was futile. The fires burning aboard clearly silhouetted the flag flying proudly from the formast as it was hauled down in surrender.

Sopianæ continued west, pursuing the minelayers. The smaller ships were clearly running all out, but it would not be enough. Still loaded down with their explosive payloads astern, this was the last situation that the crew of the minelayers ever wanted to be in. The fire of the guns aboard, smaller by sound than Sopianæ's 140s, was determined, but ineffective. Slowly, the range came down and the time the minelayers had left with it. Histonium scored first, setting a second cargo of mines alight in a sun-bright display of energy which consumed the minelayer's aft. Within moments, the crew of the minelayer skewered by Sopianæ's searchlights began striking the colors. Over the next minutes, the same action was repeated on the remaining handful of ships.



The procession back into the harbor after first light the next morning was like the departure the night before. Sopianæ and Histonium both sported damaged from the battle, clearly visible. What was more carefully hidden between the smaller destroyers were seven Aztec minesweepers. After stopping to offload most of their crews, the ships were towed by small harbor tugs to a more concealed anchorage where they would be less obvious to prying eyes. The Roman sailors celebrated their victory, the full extent of the disaster that had befallen their comrades off Grand Turk not yet known.

[snip]

July 8th, South of Tamara Insula. Approximately 0900

The ungainly Short-Pemberton Albatross slowly meandered its way through the morning Caribbean sky. Off to the west, the clouds of a distant tropical storm hinted at danger, but the air here was calm and clear. The sparkling sapphire water below broken by the occasional white wave crest. Alphonse Ravenna sat in the observer seat, scanning the ocean below for anything out of place. The clattering of the Gnome engine behind him provided tantalizing distraction but it was not enough to fully divert his attention. Stifling a yawn, Alphonse then noticed something out of place. Cleaving the sapphire were the hulls of many warships, the imposing industrial grey of their steel out of place against the serene nature of the ocean. Alphonse indicated to the pilot, Roland Durant, the direction the ships were in. Roland banked the Albatross towards the fleet.

It was quickly apparent that they had not stumbled across the Emperor Trajan VIII and her consorts. The en-echelon turrets on the capital ships were not a feature of Roman vessels, but of Aztec ones. Alphonse quickly scrambled for a pad of paper. He and Roland spend precious minuets counting all the ships they could see. In total, six battleships and a handful of smaller escorting ships were observed. With Alphonse's nod, Roland banked the plane north and opened the throttle as wide as he dared.

An hour later, when the Albatross landed with fumes in the tank, it had hardly finished slowing to a reasonable speed on the ground before Alphonse was out of the cockpit and sprinting for the airfield's radio tent. The notepad clutched firmly in his hands.



IRS Supremus, 1007

Alessandro Valli had been shocked to silence along with the rest of the command staff on the Supremus's bridge moments before. One of those damnable airplanes had found an Aztec fleet. What would likely have been missed by the fleets own scouts had been found by a bundle of fabric and wire. The information had been scarcely an hour old, the time it took for the plane to fly from where it had seen the hostile force. Already the Supremus was turning underneath the feet of her men, swinging southeast. Further ahead, coded radio messages blasted out from Supremus's sister as the most powerful Roman fleet yet assembled in the New World began to prepare for a clash. Only a few knew this was to be an attempt at revenge, not a fresh triumph.



IRS Isca, 1501

The radio operator furiously keyed at his instrument. The call of "Smoke spotted on the horizon." Still echoing though his mind. The coded transmission blasting out to those who could hear it and decipher it sending the call far and wide.

Contact with Aztec Main Fleet. Shadow commencing.

July 9th, IRS Emperor Trajan VIII 0119

Admiral Cédric Fabron hunched over the map in the lit command room. The IRS Isca's lost contact report crumpled in his hand. Everything he knew indicated that the Aztec fleet was attempting to make transit to the Southern Bahamas, where had it not been for the night before, vulnerable transports would have been sitting. Fabron knew his force was outnumbered, six capital ships to two. Despite that, this was perhaps the best chance the Imperial Roman Navy would have to catch the Royal Aztec Navy at sea. Even if the cost of whittling down the force came at the effectiveness of his own, removing as many capital units from play as possible was the right move to make. He turned to the communications officer standing near the door.

"Send the Lauri and Caletum to assist the Isca in the search."

The communications officer snapped a salute and left quickly, boots echoing on the steel deck. Fabron was left to contemplate the map some more, before retiring to close his eyes for a moment longer.

Much later, when night fell again, Fabron had no contact reports aside from Wilnoin fishermen and the screening destroyers low on fuel. Forced to conclude his quarry had been lost, he ordered the fleet to return to Novus Catinus, where most of the invasion transports sheltered. The clash with the Royal Aztec Navy would have to wait for another opportunity.

[TacCovert4]

The Caicos, Battle-Eve

Captain Hadrian walked stiffly up the steps, his arm still in a sling, both products of the Aztec grenade which had gone off near him as his Marines were overrun on the beach in what felt like a lifetime ago.  The storm had been terrible, and the Aztecs unforseen and maniacal attack right as it broke upon Grand Turk had been devastating, many of his men cut down with swords or killed by grenades before they could even disentangle themselves from their hastily assembled shelters against the rain and wind.  The wounded, and a few survivors who surrendered, had been pushed and shoved into a section of Aztec trench, which if packed and miserable had at least given shelter from the wind-blown sand.  The rain had filled the trench to knee deep, and some men had drowned as they passed out from wounds or exhaustion and their comrades did not notice their plight. 

After the storm, the sorry soggy Roman Marines had been marched by their gruff and silent captors to a parade ground pocked with shell damage.  There the officers had been separated, as well as the noncoms, and the groups marched off.  The Enlisted had been sent to other islands in the South Bahamas, Caicos as the Aztecs insisted it be called, packed on the fore decks and quarterdecks of cruisers with sailors sternly watching them from the upper works, machine guns at the ready. 

The officers, like him, had remained on Grand Turk, and had been interrogated by Aztecs fluent in Latin.  Their 'prisoner of war camp' as Hadrian thought of it, was a section of rear-area trenchline, a barbed wire fence separating it from the other defenses and the Officers sleeping in dugouts, all under the watchful eye of stern Aztec Marines, Seal Warriors, whose carbines and swords gave no doubt as to what an escape attempt would entail.  Today, Hadrian had been summoned by the 'warmaster', whoever he was, and the Lance Corporal who followed him with his carbine at the ready had on a clean enough uniform that he knew this man must be worthy of some additional respect, and had pushed him to great haste.

Finally stepping onto the observation deck built above one of Grand Turk's many dunes, Captain Hadrian saw a man at the far end, in a severe black uniform with a massive obsidian-bladed sword leaned against the railing.  "Captain Hadrian of the 4th Marine Regiment reporting as ordered" he said, not knowing what to do as the man who could only be the Warmaster had not acknowledged his presence. 

"Captain Hadrian", he responds,  "Come and see" he says motioning out across the water.  Hadrian walked to the railing and the Warmaster handed him a pair of binoculars, made in Zurich curiously on the side.  He looked out across the water and spied smoke on the horizon.  "Your fleet, come for another round" answers his question.  "That is the Roman way of war, like a river.  If you cannot sweep the rock aside, you wear it down as quickly or as slowly as it happens, until the rock is no more". 

Hadrian looks at the Warmaster in shock.  With a slight chuckle, then he nods, saying "Commodore Abidi, I studied at the Academie Navale, class of 1902.  Being cousin of the Sultan has its responsibilities to diplomacy and exchange of ideas."  He points to one smudge on the horizon.  "It's a bit far without a telescope, but I believe that would be either Imperito or a Triumphus.  I got to tour Triumphus in the yard before I left to come home.  The bigger ones I cannot differentiate, not at this range, there's nothing that stands out in my mind."  Hadrian looks through the binoculars again and points at another smudge, somewhat closer.  "I think that one is Argonauta, I was stationed on her for a few months in Brest."  The warmaster plucks lightly at his beard and nods thoughtfully.  "The home fleet, your people lay themselves bare to their oldest enemy in their bid to take something that never belonged to them from someone who never offended them."  Hadrian stammers a reply to the accusation, "There were concerns that your people would cut us off from our colonies here or raid our supply lines".  The warmaster, barely older than the Captain, calmly replies, as if educating a child.  "If we wanted to raid your supply lines, we have cruisers that can steam to Brest and back without refueling, and the support ships to keep two squadrons running indefinitely in the Atlantic.  As for the other, if we had wanted to take New Francia from you, we would have done it before you began fortifying your border.  No Captain, everything that has transpired is due to people across the Atlantic and their greed.  Your men already paid the price, and it appears that many more will as well before the sun sets."  Hadrian looks out to sea pensively, remembering the terror he felt as Sublimis exploded off of Grand Turk. 

Almost absently, the Warmaster touched the big obsidian sword.  "You know, on the eve of a great battle there used to be the sacrifice of all high ranking prisoners to the Sun God."  Hadrian shivered and looked at the black-clad Aztec with some trepidation.  Abidi chuckled again.  "No Captain, that was better than three centuries ago. We are not as savage as some would like to believe.  Anyway, I wouldn't risk damaging the stones in this blade, it's one of the twenty presented to Ali the First when he ended the Great War at Tenochtitlan and established the Sultanate.  These are handed out to those appointed Warmaster, and they're expected to be returned."

"What is a warmaster?" Hadrian asks.  "Think of it as a combination of Ambassador and Field Marshal." Abidi replies, continuing "A Roman Field Marshal is the commander in chief of a theater".  Hadrian nods understanding and Abidi continues "I am the appointed field marshal of the Outer Gates as we call them, the Caicos and the Windwards.  But my power does not flow from the Army or the Navy, it is granted specifically by the Sultan for this task of defense.  In this I am functionally the Sultan out here with not only the full power to make war as I will but also the power to make peace and to rule the civil administration to my purposes for as long as the Sultan wills that a Warmaster be appointed.  It is a great honor and great power, but it is also a great responsibility, for if the Sultan deems that I have failed in my task, nothing less than my life would satisfy honor.  If only your people had someone with similar rank, we could finish this war in an afternoon, one round of single combat to decide the fate of the Caicos."

"Well, that explains the uniform" Captain Hadrian says, "and the sword".  "No.  The Black is something else entirely." The Warmaster replies.  Hadrian pauses and the Commodore continues.  "Any Aztec officer may take the black.  It is a symbol of an oath to the Sultan, sworn before Allah, that the officer will fight to the death to see his task completed.  I have the power to make peace, but I cannot surrender my charge.  And I have heard the Sultan himself has taken the black.  If your people choose to wear down this rock, there will be a lot of water turned to blood before the end." 

"But why not negotiate?" Hadrian asks.  "I'm sure our diplomats could work something out?"  Abidi replies:  "Our diplomats were negotiating when your people threatened to take what they would not be given.  So I was sent to ensure that we held firm while the negotiations continued.  And as Rome is wont to say, the conference diplomacy was not to their satisfaction, so they would continue the diplomacy on the field.  It is in irony that every thing Rome feared would happen has happened because they feared it to be so.  Cruisers were stationed on the outer gates because Rome threatened war.  And Cruisers now raid your trade lanes because Rome chose to start the war.  My people are a people of war, Captain Hadrian of the 4th Marines, they have fought wars for thousands of years, wars that have lasted hundreds.  Roman steel is steel, and Roman Marines are Marines as are mine.  But is the Will of the people the same?  Will Rome stomach a generation of war, the ruinous expense, the rolls of the honored dead?"

Both of them look out over the water as the inexorably closing smudges.  "No.  Allah Willing, the war will be decided this day."

[TacCovert4]

(As the breakage is still being sorted in the Battle of Caicos Cay, also known as Ironclad Bay, the following is transmitted a few days later from Martinique)

In the clear:

ALERT FOR MEDICAL PERSONNEL OR NEUTRALITY SHIPPING STOP
MULTIPLE WOUNDED IN CAICOS STOP
ASSISTANCE REQUESTED FOR NEUTRAL MEDICAL PERSONNEL STOP
WOUNDED ROMAN POWS REQUIRING ASSISTANCE STOP
ENQUIRE LOCALLY STOP
ROMAN FORCES HAVE DESTROYED COMMUNICATIONS AND MEDICAL SUPPLIES END

Edit: KPOD MOD Comment: we will have this broadcast be 40hours after the battle.