Scorchedlight
06-10-2011, 09:36 AM
Hi everyone, first post here.
One thing I dislike are blatant wanks, so I wrote this, I hope you like it.
1991, Iraqi Desert
John Smith (I'm not in the mood to give original names) watched the Horizon. Sand, and the harsh, hard ground. Having lived all his life in Florida, he was accustomed to heat. This desert, however, was well beyond his tolerance threshold, and he decided to take his clothes, keeping only the pants and boots. The rest of the men in his group, composed of ten ageing M60a3 did the same.
"T-72, 1 o'clock!" he shouted to his gunner. Within seconds, the laser range finder calculated the distance, sealing the fate of the Iraqi tank. He pondered if worrying more about the unbearable heat than the blood on his hands was bad, and kept going.
Sand, endless sand.
1944, Ardennes
Oberst Jan Schmidt prepared his tanks for an ambush. Mines were placed in the cover of the snow storm, the vehicles were entrenched and concealed, the enemy was unaware of their prescence, and wouldn't be. Snow kept falling on the machines, accumulating without the heat of the engines to melt it. Those were too noisy for an ambush.
Jan laid comfortably in his seat. A veteran of many battles, he found ways to get comfortable inside his massive Tiger II. He was tired of war, of fighting a losing war. He wanted to go back home to his family, but he wanted to go to the East and at least contain the Red Ride that threaten Germany. His company, and the night vision equipment they were issued, would be put to better use there.
This? Just a vacation.
1991
John was checking the horizon when a white light, more unforgiving than the desert sun, covered his unit. He felt a pain at the base of his skull and then, for a moment, nothing. Pure darkness, and heat. He felt several small blades stabbing his skin, and then the cold, the terrible cold.
He got inside the vehicle and slammed the hatch, trying to escape the frozen he'll.
"What the hell was that?" Asked his gunner, bewildered.
"I don't have any idea. It was cold all of the sudden!"
"Whatever it was, it messed with the thermal. The rangefinder is going crazy with all that freakish snow, and it's too damn dark to see anything... Wait, I see a track."
"We must retreat. We turn and go back to headquarters to report this."
"Sir... Huh, the GPS is gone. We're lost."
John took a compass from his pocket, an ancient relic from WWII. It belonged to his father, a man that he never met because he died in the Ardennes.
"Let's go south. Back to headquarters."
Slowly, the machines formed a convoy, regretting to what they knew.
1944:
"Enemy Panzers! Coming from the north!"
Schimdt felt pride when all his men reacted at once, a machine more precise that the Armored beasts they controlled. In less than ten seconds, they were ready for action.
"I'll target the vanguard. Hess, you take the rear guard. The rest, fire at will on my mark."
Only a matter of seconds before the trap sprung into action.
1991
"Sir, telemetry is useless, and thermals can't register anything through this storm."
"We'll have to use our Mark one eyeballs then. Keep your eyes open, we are lost.
1944
"Mark!"
The 88 of his cannon roared, announcing the end of the world. The enemy tank stopped, his crew evacuating the vehicle as fast as they could. In less than a second, the other Panzers did the same, picking six enemy vehicles.
His company didn't use their machine-guns on the Americans. As far as Schimdt was concerned, they were out of the fight.
1991
"Where the hell did they come from? Kill them, quick!"
"I can't find them with all this snow! They must be hidden!"
He heard an explosion, as his tank turned frantically to face the unseen menace.
"Mines! We're immobili-!" Came the desperate crackle through the radio. Another shell out of nowhere finished the transmission.
"Face them! Find them!"
1944
Less than 400 meters. His men could blow the tracks cur of those mammoths. He was about to do just that, but someone else claimed the shot. The American was going nowhere. Three more shells impacted the hull of the vehicle, without causing any damage.
Impossible. Thought Jan.
"Concentrate fire on the enemy's gun!" He shouted.
1991
"The gun is disabled!" Shouted the Gunner. Not that he needed to tell, as smoke poured from it.
"That's it! Bail out!"
1944
"It seems that they have surrendered. Do we kill them?"
"No. We are not monsters. Take them prisoners, they look miserable."
Fuck wanks!
One thing I dislike are blatant wanks, so I wrote this, I hope you like it.
1991, Iraqi Desert
John Smith (I'm not in the mood to give original names) watched the Horizon. Sand, and the harsh, hard ground. Having lived all his life in Florida, he was accustomed to heat. This desert, however, was well beyond his tolerance threshold, and he decided to take his clothes, keeping only the pants and boots. The rest of the men in his group, composed of ten ageing M60a3 did the same.
"T-72, 1 o'clock!" he shouted to his gunner. Within seconds, the laser range finder calculated the distance, sealing the fate of the Iraqi tank. He pondered if worrying more about the unbearable heat than the blood on his hands was bad, and kept going.
Sand, endless sand.
1944, Ardennes
Oberst Jan Schmidt prepared his tanks for an ambush. Mines were placed in the cover of the snow storm, the vehicles were entrenched and concealed, the enemy was unaware of their prescence, and wouldn't be. Snow kept falling on the machines, accumulating without the heat of the engines to melt it. Those were too noisy for an ambush.
Jan laid comfortably in his seat. A veteran of many battles, he found ways to get comfortable inside his massive Tiger II. He was tired of war, of fighting a losing war. He wanted to go back home to his family, but he wanted to go to the East and at least contain the Red Ride that threaten Germany. His company, and the night vision equipment they were issued, would be put to better use there.
This? Just a vacation.
1991
John was checking the horizon when a white light, more unforgiving than the desert sun, covered his unit. He felt a pain at the base of his skull and then, for a moment, nothing. Pure darkness, and heat. He felt several small blades stabbing his skin, and then the cold, the terrible cold.
He got inside the vehicle and slammed the hatch, trying to escape the frozen he'll.
"What the hell was that?" Asked his gunner, bewildered.
"I don't have any idea. It was cold all of the sudden!"
"Whatever it was, it messed with the thermal. The rangefinder is going crazy with all that freakish snow, and it's too damn dark to see anything... Wait, I see a track."
"We must retreat. We turn and go back to headquarters to report this."
"Sir... Huh, the GPS is gone. We're lost."
John took a compass from his pocket, an ancient relic from WWII. It belonged to his father, a man that he never met because he died in the Ardennes.
"Let's go south. Back to headquarters."
Slowly, the machines formed a convoy, regretting to what they knew.
1944:
"Enemy Panzers! Coming from the north!"
Schimdt felt pride when all his men reacted at once, a machine more precise that the Armored beasts they controlled. In less than ten seconds, they were ready for action.
"I'll target the vanguard. Hess, you take the rear guard. The rest, fire at will on my mark."
Only a matter of seconds before the trap sprung into action.
1991
"Sir, telemetry is useless, and thermals can't register anything through this storm."
"We'll have to use our Mark one eyeballs then. Keep your eyes open, we are lost.
1944
"Mark!"
The 88 of his cannon roared, announcing the end of the world. The enemy tank stopped, his crew evacuating the vehicle as fast as they could. In less than a second, the other Panzers did the same, picking six enemy vehicles.
His company didn't use their machine-guns on the Americans. As far as Schimdt was concerned, they were out of the fight.
1991
"Where the hell did they come from? Kill them, quick!"
"I can't find them with all this snow! They must be hidden!"
He heard an explosion, as his tank turned frantically to face the unseen menace.
"Mines! We're immobili-!" Came the desperate crackle through the radio. Another shell out of nowhere finished the transmission.
"Face them! Find them!"
1944
Less than 400 meters. His men could blow the tracks cur of those mammoths. He was about to do just that, but someone else claimed the shot. The American was going nowhere. Three more shells impacted the hull of the vehicle, without causing any damage.
Impossible. Thought Jan.
"Concentrate fire on the enemy's gun!" He shouted.
1991
"The gun is disabled!" Shouted the Gunner. Not that he needed to tell, as smoke poured from it.
"That's it! Bail out!"
1944
"It seems that they have surrendered. Do we kill them?"
"No. We are not monsters. Take them prisoners, they look miserable."
Fuck wanks!