Chapter 1796 - 1373: Civilians_3

Civilian casualties might occur, but they will be fewer than direct shooting.

"1515 may use civilians as shields to rush through the artillery coverage area," Jiang Feng pointed out.

"Then we can only gamble," Song Heping said. "Gamble that civilians will scatter and flee, and that militants won't dare to stay in open areas. Also, ask Mahmoud, what is his sniper team doing?!"

This wasn't a good plan, but it was the best plan he could think of.

He also knew he was posing an almost insurmountable challenge to Mahmoud.

But aside from this, there was no other way.

Letting a small portion of the 1515 members go was already the limit of his compromise.

"Additionally," he added, "notify Naxin on the western line to prepare to intercept any breakout forces. But similarly, prioritize differentiating between civilians and militants."

"Understood."

The orders were given.

Song Heping walked to the window, looking north towards Tikrit.

The city was burning, black smoke rising, obscuring the newly risen sun.

This war, regardless of its outcome, will see many people die.

Many innocent people.

He hoped that after today, most civilians in the Tikrit area would survive and have a new beginning.

But hope is the most luxurious thing in war.

When Sadam's regime fell, those who excitedly took to the streets to celebrate, joyfully welcoming the "righteous army," probably never thought about how much blood it would take to regain peace.

He checked his watch: seven o'clock sharp.

The general offensive had begun an hour ago.

The battle was just entering its most brutal phase.

Tikrit's southern district, seven ten.

Mahmoud watched the crowd surge from the end of the street.

Civilians were at the front, about three hundred of them, forming a loose formation.

Old people with canes, women holding children, young men supporting the wounded. Their faces were full of fear and numbness; some were crying, some praying, some just walking forward blankly.

Following were the armed militants, about a hundred of them.

They mingled in with the civilians, but Mahmoud could clearly distinguish through his scope: those with guns, and those without.

Distance: Five hundred meters.

"Prepare non-lethal weapons," Mahmoud ordered.

The mercenaries and government army soldiers took out tear gas launchers and some shock bombs.

These items were originally used for riot control, now to disperse civilians.

Four hundred meters.

Mahmoud could see the faces of the front-row civilians.

An elderly woman, perhaps over seventy, walking unsteadily.

A young mother, holding a crying baby.

A teenage boy, perhaps only fifteen, with an injured left leg, using a wooden stick as a crutch.

Three hundred meters.

Two hundred meters.

One hundred meters.

"Fire."

Dozens of tear gas canisters were launched, landing twenty meters in front of the crowd.

The smoke burst open, and the white, irritant gas drifted with the wind toward the crowd.

The crowd started to panic. Civilians coughed, cried, turned, and tried to run.

But the militants behind opened fire, shooting at the feet of those fleeing, forcing them to keep moving forward.

Mahmoud could hear his teeth grinding together.

It seemed these so-called non-lethal weapons were limited in effectiveness; although the crowd was chaotic, it hadn't dispersed.

Moreover, with militants mixed among them, snipers found it hard to aim.

"Commander," he said into the radio, "dispersal failed. The crowd is continuing to advance, distance one hundred meters."

The response from the command center was brief: "Let them pass. Artillery is ready."

Mahmoud understood.

He ordered: "Everyone, take cover. Let them through."

The mercenaries and government army soldiers retreated into the depths of the buildings, observing the street outside through windows and firing ports.

The crowd surged past their controlled blockade area, fleeing southwards in a mad dash.

The civilians staggered, and some fell, being trampled by those behind.

The militants followed closely, their gun barrels constantly pointed at the civilians' backs.

Mahmoud saw a militant grabbing an old man who had fallen, smashing his head with a gun butt, forcing him to stand up.

Another militant snatched a child from a woman's arms, using the child as a shield.

Bastards!

Mahmoud cursed in his heart but didn't pull the trigger.

The crowd moved through the textile factory area, continuing south, running towards the city outskirts.

Mahmoud watched them leave and then checked his watch: seven fifteen.

"Artillery countdown," came the voice of the artillery observer over the radio, "Ten, nine, eight..."

The crowd had already run four hundred meters and was about to enter open ground.

"...three, two, one. Fire."

The artillery group on the eastern line opened fire.

This time it wasn't high-explosive shells or Thermo-baric Bombs, but time-fused shells.

The shells flew through the air, the timing precisely calculated.

The first round of shells hit the ground.

But they didn't explode in the air; instead, they burrowed into the earth.

The time fuse activated, and the shells exploded deep underground.

The earth trembled.

Even from five hundred meters away, Mahmoud could feel the ground shaking.

Around the explosion points, the ground rose, cracked, then collapsed, forming a huge crater.

This time, the crowd, having just escaped the blockade line, completely broke down.

After all, the psychological pressure artillery places on non-combatants is unimaginable; no civilian can remain composed after seeing artillery fire erupt nearby.

Civilians began to scatter, running in all directions, no longer following the militants' commands.

They screamed, cried, and fled in every direction.

The militants tried to stop them, shooting and killing some of the fleeing people, but more escaped.

The shelling continued.

Second round, third round...