Cut Lunch Heroes

By Phillip J Tucker

2024 and the war in Korea grinds on, with both sides suffering heavy losses. Australia, fully committed to helping South Korea, sends army reserve soldiers to East Timor to discourage West Timor from invading. Australian high command thinks it's a bluff. The men on the ground know differently.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bidwell Media
• Release date: Dec 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9780645601114

Book preview

CUT LUNCH HEROES

BY PHILLIP TUCKER

www.philliptucker.com.au

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

To my family and friends. As long as a man has both, he is truly blessed. Thanks to all of you for your support.

COPYRIGHT © Phillip Tucker 2021

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

Cover illustration and design copyright to Lindsey Bidwell at Bidwell Media, visit: www.bidwellmedia.com.au

This book is a work of fiction. names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

TIMOR THE RETREAT

Racked with uncertainty, Sergeant Ross Stewart lay in the jungle motionless. His eyes, red with fatigue, remained glued to the open patch of ground across the river. There, an eroded dirt track negotiated its way down a steep crumbling riverbank to an old wooden bridge. Old it might be, but strategically, it was the only place for twenty kilometres where you could traverse this God-forsaken River.

Shit, they haven’t even given this overgrown creek a name yet. Ross cursed under his breath, his eyes never leaving the clearing on the opposite riverbank. Roughly a football field in width, the mud-coloured, crocodile-infested river was only known by the number three. In other words, it was the third river crossing from the south coast. Looking at it, Ross found it hard to believe that the one-lane wooden bridge in front of him had once been part of the main highway between East and Western Timor.

The Portuguese had built it when they controlled the country. They’d cleverly used timber cut from the trees on the opposite riverbank, creating the eroded clearing that Ross was watching. That was over eighty colonial years ago. Since then, east and west had gone their separate ways, the main road becoming nothing more than a memory. The crossing’s only traffic was by the local hill people and rarely by vehicles. Now, after sixty years of neglect, the decaying structure had again become vital. That was because it was one of the only places where a vehicle could cross this overgrown flowing mud-hole.

I wouldn’t cross it in a jeep, let alone an armoured vehicle, Ross whispered to himself as he again looked for any sign of movement.

It was five in the morning, and light had been filtering through the trees for over an hour. It turned a muggy jungle night full of mosquitoes into a festering humid day full of mosquitoes. ‘Thank God for bug repellent.’ he mused, knowing the downside of the spray was that its pong carried on the wind for miles. Still, I’d rather take my chances with the militia rather than those little mobile malaria filled needles. He whispered. The mosquitoes, as if hearing his loathing for them, buzzed annoyingly around his protected face, looking for an opening in his defences.

Where the fuck, have they got to! Ross growled, wiping sweat from his eyes. He picked up his rifle for the tenth time, using the scope for a better look. Still, he saw nothing, and his trepidation grew. The patrol for a better name was well overdue. It was supposed to be just a short recon, Ross growled, quietening down. ‘But then again, they’re just weekend warriors,’ he reminded himself, as a rare smile broke through his pessimistic attitude.

Their Lieutenant, a green, kiss-arse kid, fresh out of Duntroon, had sent a four-person squad out to try and locate the enemy. He’d done this after a heated discussion with Ross, who was dead against it. Still, he’d sent them regardless, confident in his non-combat training back in Australia, the fucking idiot. Ross knew that the top brass back in Australia had ordered it and their boss, Lieutenant Stupid, felt duty-bound to obey.

Not only did he send the four-person squad to show his leadership the fool had also gone with them. That left Ross to command the defence of the crossing while their heroic boss carried out a recognisance instead of doing his job.

Why bother! Thirty thousand militia troops make quite a racket, especially with tanks. He mumbled. Even now, he could hear their faint distant metal tracks grinding along the jungle roads, their vibration pulsating through the very ground. "Shit, what are insurgents doing with tanks? Ross nervously asked himself, switching back to his binoculars.

They could be heading anywhere. Ross lied to himself, knowing the next ford of this river was twenty clicks to their north. No, they’re coming here, He confessed to himself, fear gnawing at his guts.

They were into the third month of their deployment when the shit had hit the fan. The so-called, West Timorese militia had crossed the border in force. It was supposedly was to redress a throwaway remark made by the East Timorese President. In a heated debate with the opposition leader in their Parliament, he had argued over the sharing of offshore oil and gas rights with the west.

The President had pointed out that the west had never recognised his government and should receive nothing until they did. The opposition didn’t want to give them much either, but to score points against the Government, they’d pushed the idea of sharing the wealth. The President, in the end, lost his cool, proclaiming the oil wealth belonged to East Timor, and that was the end of it. Somehow the West thought this was enough provocation to go to war. Those on the ground, of course, knew the truth.

The East had money and land, and the West wanted it. It wasn’t some Islamic Jihad to free the oppressed; just one side wanted what the other had. Sure, religion had reared its ugly head, but the grunts fighting knew the score, and most couldn’t give a shit. They just wanted to go home. That wasn’t going to happen until one side made the other side bleed enough to reconsider their position.

At the time, East Timor had a fledgeling army, mustering about three thousand troops. The majority, trained in Australia. They had no armour or artillery, just a few mortars. Their reserves numbered around 10,000, primarily old Guerrilla fighters who had fought the Indonesians for independence. It wasn’t much of an army, but Ross knew they were fighting for their homes, which would make them fight ferociously.

Worried by the West Timor’s posturing, the UN had graciously sent three thousand troops. The UN hoped this would cover their total lack of response in helping South Korea and their allies in the war raging to their north. Australia also sent a contingent, roughly two and a half thousand men. In January that year, they’d been sent after East Timor became worried by West Timor’s rhetoric and increased border crossings. Like the UN, Australia only moved after being pushed to do something by the media.

On paper, it looked like a formidable force, with the Australian commitment being a measured response to the rising tension. On the ground, it was a pathetic attempt at political posturing. Most of the Aussie troops were reserves, sent to play soldiers and show the flag. Since the regular grunts had returned from Afghanistan in 2016, many had left. They blamed the Government’s failure to support them as their main reason. Those left wearing uniforms and carrying weapons numbered a little over ten thousand.

Eight and a half thousand were now holding down positions in South Korea, with most of the Armies armour and Air support. That was because, in 2022, Kooky Kim had launched his stalled attack on the South. Both sides had dug in along a new line with Seoul’s burnt-out remains at its centre. Daily, the Yankee air force pounded the thousands of frightened North Korean soldiers in their temporary foxholes while the North burned. Kim, their leader, hadn’t been heard of since he tried to fire three nuclear missiles at America.

Two exploded after being launched. The remaining rocket was shot down over the Pacific by an American Patriot anti-missile battery located in the Marshall Islands. The Americans, livid over the attack, had dropped several nukes on Kim’s palace in Pyongyang and his reactors at Yongbyon. Millions were dead on both sides, but still, the fight went on. That left Timor as nothing more than a sideshow. The Korean War gave West Timor its chance to take back the East.

When the West Timorese so-called freedom fighters crossed the border, they targeted the UN forces. They held the border positions in the middle, with the East Timorese troops on their northern side and the Australians on their southern flank. Barely trained and with a commander who had bribed a UN official to get the position, they were entirely unprepared for an attack. The first artillery assault saw them fold, most abandoning their defences at the first sign of aggression.

To make matters worse, they left their heavy weapons for the militia to commandeer. Many in desperation seized civilian transport, causing confusion, in the rear areas. The Timorese troops, on the other hand, held their ground. In some places, they drove the militia back across the border, inflicting heavy causalities. Their commander witnessing the UN forces retreat ordered his men to retreat as well. He then signalled the Australian commander, his intent to withdraw.

The Timorese commander hoped this would not only cover the UN’s retreat but allow their reserves to meet them as they moved back. Once they’d linked, they’d establish a position opposite the Australians again. The Australian forces, caught off guard by the UN’s rout and the Timorese’s decision to retreat, decided to dig in. Their commander knew that this border area was the only section where West Timor could deploy its mechanised units. Holding the enemy here gave them time for reinforcements to arrive from Australia.

The East Timorese President, having been informed, readily agreed. He and his government wished them all good luck as they stepped onto a plane for Australia. They had decided to lead the fight for freedom from the safety of another country. The Australian commander immediately ordered all bridges to be destroyed to stem the flow of mechanised troops. Since most were along rivers, which formed the border, they were lost in the initial push.

Where the enemy captured bridges, the engineers used alternative strategies. They delayed the advancing armour by blowing up sections of the mountainous winding roads, forming kill zones. With several mobile artillery batteries, the Aussie gunners hammered the approaches to these obstructions. Doing this allowed the engineers time to create more obstacles further down the roads. It wasn’t perfect, but it slowed the enemy’s armour to a crawl. This allowed the building of defensive positions for the troops to fall back to and fight again.

Nevertheless, after two weeks of heavy fighting, the Australian troops had been pushed back twice from prepared positions. Now they were down to their third hastily prepared positions in the mountainous country, bordering yet another valley through which a river flowed. Once this went, they’d have to retreat three hundred kilometres across the open farmland and swamps to the Loes River.

Unlike the other overgrown creeks called rivers in the Mountainous border ranges, the Loes River was a formable natural barrier. Anchored on Mt Ramelou in the centre, it flowed north and south, cutting the country, in half. The only area where there was a problem was in the shadow of Mt Ramelou. Here where the river began, the crossing was easy. Although there were no roads of any worth in that area, the Aussie commander had conceded they were vulnerable there.

Ross, in secret, had been told that it would fall to his Support Company to hold the centre. Looking around at his platoon, he wondered if they were up to it. Like most of the Aussie’s grunts, Ross worried about the enemy armour. They knew that once the militia broke free of the hills, the enemies' armour would roll over them, destroying the entire force. Having complete confidence in their soldier's holding, the Top Brass ordered all non-essential units and their regimental command headquarters to head east to the Leos River.

As Ross’s platoon took up their third position, most camp followers were bugging out. Burning everything they couldn’t take with them, they fled east. Luckily, it had one redeeming aspect. Once most of these men had fallen back, their transport was free to return. It gave the men holding the line the option of leaving swiftly if the enemy broke through. Ross smiled as he remembered the lucky one's faces.

They thought they’d be safe in the rear; nothing was more from the truth on an island. Sooner or later, everyone would have to fight, either that or swim. Only one thing rattled Ross; it was the total lack of air support.

When he’d been in Afghanistan, there had always been overwhelming air superiority, either from the Dutch Air Force, who supported their ground operations, or the Yanks. In this conflict, he’d hadn’t even seen a helicopter above them, let alone a jet. It wasn’t until a staff meeting a week after the first attack that they found out the truth. The Indonesian had threatened to intervene if Australia used Airpower or its Navy.

The Australian government had folded rather than risk turning the conflict into a major war. Now, both Air and Sea forces patrolled outside Timor’s Territorial waters, waiting for someone to blink. Like most soldiers there, Ross saw this as another betrayal, sacrificing digger’s lives for a lopsided truce. Sure, the Indonesians couldn’t use their Air force or Navy to help the West Timorese, but that wasn’t the issue. The problem was their ground forces severely outnumber the East Timorese’s in both men and armour, giving them the upper hand.

When news of the attack on the UN broke, pandemonium broke out in the Australian positions. Many thought the build-up along the border by the West Timor forces was a bluff designed to sway the East into sharing their wealth. The Fourth Battalions, Support company, was spread along the border next to the UN positions. They were the first to see the UN soldiers suddenly retreat from their trenches, fleeing east.

They were surprised, as there was no firing along this section of the border at all. Colonel Brooks, who commanded the fourth battalion, which Ross’s support company was part of, immediately deployed his two rifle companies to protect the flank. The Militia taking the collapse of the UN as a victory, poured through the breach ignoring the Australian positions. Given time to organise, the Australian forces had time to bring up heavy weapons.

When the Militia finally did turn towards their lines, they received a bloody nose, as artillery, mortar, and heavy machine guns chewed their advance units to pieces. Using this momentary advantage, the fourth went on the offensive, pushing the militia back through the UN’s position, back over the border. As a mountain range ran through the middle of the Timor Island from east to west, this anchored the Australian position against the mountain range. True, the Militia troops could still come along through the UN’s abandoned position to the north, but not with heavy weapons or armour.

This small success helped morale and allowed the Aussie troops to retreat to their second line, ten kilometres from their first position. Again, it was behind a river through a twisting steep-sided valley. The Fourth Battalion held the front with five hundred men, with a mixture of other reserve units, from their parent unit, the Fourth Regiment. Five hundred men, defending a front-line of over fifty miles against a determined foe, seemed impossible when an outsider first looked at it.

Luckily, the mountainous nature of the area meant there were only five passes through the mountains, with only three roads of any worth. Most troops covered the five approaches, while roving patrols kept enemy units flanking their positions.

Using small detachments of Special Forces soldiers, their commander deployed them forward, behind enemy lines. Keeping out of sight and not engaging enemy units, they reported enemy movements and arranged deadly artillery fire missions. This constant bombardment led to the enemy stopping forward movement until their artillery units could move forward to cover their troops.

Ross, like many veterans, wondered if the reserve units were out of their depth. In the first clashes, half had panicked, leaving their positions. Despite his misgivings, the rest of the reserves had pushed back the militia and given them a bloody nose on the flank. Ross’s unit hadn’t seen any action, except shelling, having moved to the other flank. Their only achievement was blowing the bridge in front of their position. That aside, he knew the real test would come when his men and the other reserve units came up against mechanised units.

The Fourth Regiment held the second line for five days until continuous artillery fire made the positions untenable. Ross’s platoon retreated without firing a shot, and as with the flanking movement, his men again hadn’t faced combat. He’d trained them well, but war was a different animal altogether. In Afghanistan, he’d seen hardened soldiers buckle under pressure; how would these half-trained men stand up to the real thing?

His thoughts were interrupted when he saw movement to his front. It was the outline of four camouflaged figures moving fast through the scrub before entering the clearing across the river. Looking through his scope, he saw the figures turn into men he knew as they sprinted across the decaying bridge, making for the platoons’ side of the river. Behind them, Ross became aware of a clattering noise that grew in volume as it neared the river. Only one vehicle made that noise as a West Timorese tank crested the hill above the bridge.

Ross, from an Intel meeting, knew it was an old AMX13. Having replaced their old armoured units with Leopard 2 tanks from Germany, Indonesia had sold the West Timorese a hundred of these monsters. At first glance, they looked more like self-propelled guns than tanks. Its primary weapon being located in a canopy towards the front. Instead of being in the centre, like modern tanks, the crew were at the back. Not that this affected their performance. With a 105mm gun, they could still give any tank they came up against a run for their money.

That’s if we had any! Ross raised his voice angrily before stopping himself. Looking around, making sure no one had heard his uncontrollable outburst, he took a few deep breaths calming down. Refocusing, Ross saw the patrol look back and spot the tank cresting the hill behind them. As if anticipating the metal monster reaction in spotting them, the four men dived into the scrub, which grew densely beside the bridge, disappearing. ‘Where’s the fifth man?’ Ross asked himself, expecting at any moment to hear the ear-shattering blast of the tank's cannon, firing at his patrol. Instead, he watched the tank crawl hesitantly down the slope towards the bridge, firing their machine guns into the bushes where the patrol had disappeared.

‘Jesus! They let them cross’, he mused, knowing the enemy had used the four men to see if the bridge was mined. Well, keep coming, boys; let’s see how smart you are? He chuckled evilly.

As if sensing his thoughts, the lead tank stopped just short of the bridge. Two enemy soldiers moved out cautiously onto the roadway from the scrub beside the tank, examining the bridge structure. Movement amongst the trees showed other troops were covering them as the first two soldiers walked out onto the bridge. After ten minutes of scrutiny, Ross watched the men signal the tank to move forward.

This is going to be good. He whispered as the tank fighting a stall chugged several times before moving forward onto the creaking timbers. The tank's driver, who had opened his hatch for a better look, revved the engine and accelerated, trying to cross the bridge as quickly as possible. The two enemy scouts now joined the rest of their platoon. Standing in the open, they watched the tanks progress. Ross figured the enemy soldiers must’ve concluded that the Aussies had fled, and the bridge was theirs.

Deciding to celebrate, they lit up a few cigarettes, enjoying the smell of something other than rotting vegetation. It was a short-lived victory. The centre of the bridge, taking the total weight of the twenty-five-ton monster, realised its advanced age and promptly collapsed. The armoured vehicle left with nothing under it tipped over head-first and dived into the river. One crossbeam in front of the tank, unfortunately, held. As the tank passed through the broken timbers, it ripped the cannon from its mount.

The crew fearing they’d drown, promptly abandoned ship and joined the smoking members of their advanced party on the remains of the bridge's western end. A heated debate then developed over who was at fault. The tank crew naturally blamed the two soldiers who’d checked the bridge. The augment stopped when the sound of more vehicles approaching echoed through the valley. The smoking group took on a more soldierly look, swiftly throwing their cigarettes into the river.

The first vehicle over the rise and down to the river crossing was a jeep-like vehicle. It was probably a Russian knock up version of the American army’s famous workhorse. Behind the jeep could be seen the barrel of the first tank. This group, unlike the first, didn’t venture down to the bridge, waiting instead on the rise. The jeep in the meantime had stopped near the smokers; two soldiers swiftly climbed out.

Ross didn’t have to be a linguist to know by their shouts that one was the unit’s boss, and he was pissed. After ten minutes of calling his men everything he could think of, he had four of them strip off. Ross couldn’t help comparing this officer to his own, seeing the similarities. Holding sticks in front of them, the four men divided into two on each side of the bridge, testing the depth of the water, while the others watched for crocodiles.

All four men managed to cross the river without their shoulders going under or being eaten. This news was greeted with a livelier conversation as the officers signalled to his radioman to come over. Grabbing the handset, the officer spoke swiftly into it, as a large group of soldiers, numbering about fifty, appeared over the rise. With the original ten soldiers, they went to work cutting into the sides of the approach to the bridge.

The officer then pointed to Ross’s side of the river as ten men stopped what they were doing and entered the water. Ross had feared this. The Militia commander had ordered a recon of their side of the river. Activating his headset, Ross whispered the word Falcon this warned his men to get ready. He then changed frequency’s calling the returning patrol. Around him, his platoon in heavily camouflaged weapons pit prepared their weapons.

Warren. Where are you? He whispered.

In position, behind you to the east. Warren's voice sounded strained.

Who bought it?

Lieutenant Strap. He wanted to get close for a better look. Ross took in this information and then moved on.

I want you guys to open up on the soldiers crossing and then beat it over the ridge. Fire as you go, but keep moving, or they’ll bury you. Ross warned.

No problems, Sarge. We’ll open fire in five. Warren replied, the radio going dead. Ross sat there for several minutes thinking about Warren. When he’d first met him, he felt the guy couldn’t suck a dummy without his mum holding it. Now he was leading a squad after his boss had bought it. It's funny how time in the army changes a man, even if it is part-time.

Five minutes and right on time, Ross heard the tell-tale sound of the squad’s automatic assault rifles open up. Looking down at the river on his side, he saw the ten men who had just crossed dive for cover. Across the river, all work stopped as the militia infantry sort cover as two tanks came into view, returning fire. Nothing is more frightening to foot soldiers than the thump of a tank firing. Ross lying in the bottom of his pit, felt helpless as the tanks chewed up his side of the river.

Round after round ripped the countryside apart, as the enemy sort the evasive squad. The spasmodic fire continued as the unit moved from cover to cover, returning fire then retreating. Having lost two men dead and two injured, the Militia patrol fled across the river while their comrades laid down covering fire. Ten minutes after it started, it ended. The squad knowing they were running out of luck, disappeared over the ridge to the safety of the rear side. The Militia cautiously waited another twenty minutes before returning to digging.

After an hour of blistering handwork, the militia’s soldiers had completed the two ramps, one on either side of the bridge. It allowed vehicles to enter the water of the wide yet shallow river. Ross’s side provided no obstacles. The riverbank, although thickly covered with jungle, was relatively flat. Vehicles that crossed could climb out of the river with ease. The Militia officer must’ve had some misgivings about the deserted river-crossing. Scanning the enemy side of the river through binoculars, he seemed to Ross wary of the Australians just running away.

Seeing nothing, he signalled to his driver. The driver, understanding, moved the jeep onto the start of the old bridge as the first couple of tanks prepared to cross. Obviously,