amir
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Post by amir on Feb 8, 2020 23:28:16 GMT
My first posted effort- please criticize.
Alone in the Woods
Stefan contemplated the rain as it dripped off the brim of his helmet. He tried to focus on the top of his head, hoping that by concentrating on the only dry spot on his body he could spread the localized warmth across him. His hands and feet were already numb despite gloves and thick socks. He briefly thought of his rain cape, tucked away with his pack inside the reconnaissance vehicle which had carried him from peace to war. The vehicle from which he had clambered before made it ghosted away, leaving him alone with a signal panel and a message to stand in the rain along a muddy forest track awaiting a promised relief.
Stefan had faced National Service like most of his friends, as a necessary burden to be borne and then moved on from. A youth spent in sports programs had prepared him for the physical burdens of Army life, and he was intelligent enough to quickly master the tasks expected of him by his corporals and sergeants. He was sure, until today, that he was even reasonably well liked by the Lieutenant, who had chosen him to crew his vehicle.
The alert had come suddenly, in the twelfth month of his National Service. Stefan had just completed a short home leave, hitchhiking back and forth in uniform, and was looking forward to the downslope of his service. Instead, he found himself barraged with alarming information. The Captain himself had personally spoken to him, only the third time in a year, reminding him of his training and duty to the unit. The Deputy Commander had addressed the assembled company with a stirring call to defend the homeland and liberate the oppressed. What most concerned Stefan was the reading of sections of the field service regulations dealing with cowardice to the Company; this had never happened in any other alert.
Departing the Kaserne, the Platoon spent a rainy, restless night hidden in an unfamiliar bivouac area. After performing maintenance they ate their cold rations and attempted to snatch sleep on the sodden, chilly ground. There was speculation among the conscripts about where they were and why the alert had extended so long; even the scant comforts of their barracks were favorably compared to the current situation. The more senior conscripts, even some of the corporals who kept the tribal knowledge of the junior soldiers, the seemed concerned- the unanticipated alert was a departure from their familiar pattern of forewarned deployments to local training areas. Was this war? Any doubts they had, and Stefan’s rest, were shattered by the arrival of ammunition trucks in the very early morning.
Stefan remembered frantic labor to shift the heavy ammunition boxes off the trucks and load them into the vehicles. Any illusions he harbored that the alert would end in a return to the Kaserne were shattered when he was issued live ammunition in an almost matter of fact manner. In twelve months he had never been given live ammunition without careful accounting for such important property. Surely this was no exercise!
Once mounted in the vehicles, the platoon moved down a paved road until turning off on a farm track. Stefan noticed the Lieutenant frequently checking his map and watch, ducking up and down out of the turret hatch. Periodically he would issue orders to the driver, inaudible to Stefan over the sound of the engine. The early hour and warmth of the vehicle eventually overcame Stefan’s curiosity, and he slept.
Stefan awoke with a start as the vehicle lurched onto a track, slipping and sliding for traction. His helmeted head banged off the steel walls of the vehicle as the wheels ran over ruts left by heavier traffic. Just as Stefan began to feel the first waves of nausea from the motion, the vehicle lurched to a halt. The Lieutenant dropped into the turret, focused on his watch.
The vehicles began to rock like a ship on the sea as a sound of percussive drums became audible over the sound of the engine. The vehicle lurched to a start, rocking forward along the track. Stefan had known in his heart that the rumored war was now a reality.
The next hours passed in a blur of boredom, fascination, and terror as the reconnaissance vehicle penetrated into the heart of the enemy positions. Stefan rode in nauseated silence, his droning terror punctuated by fire from the vehicle weapons and shouted commands from the Lieutenant. Periodically, Stefan and his comrades would be roused to run out the vehicle doors, into a world of rain, mud, and noise. The vehicles Stefan saw outside matched the descriptions of enemy vehicles he had been trained on, except broken and burning as they devoured their human crews or sitting as silent tombs full of butchered men. Once, he was ordered by the Lieutenant to help drag a bloody torso off the ramp of a boxy armored carrier- he saw by the remaining shoulder tab that the body was a senior officer in the uniform of their wayward brothers. The Lieutenant took a sheaf of papers from a pocket before they remounted the vehicle.
During one of these intervals of action, the noise and smell of an outgoing round was followed by a series of loud clangs and shaking. Once again outside the vehicle laying in the mud, Stefan stole glances as the Lieutenant and the Sergeant poked and prodded at the sheared stubs of the radio antennae. By this time, the rest of the platoon was nowhere to be found, and the Lieutenant seemed to have a frantic, yet excited air to him as he reviewed his maps. The sound of drums, which Stefan now knew was artillery, in a heavier concentration than any exercise, had drawn further away. Stefan overheard enough to know they were far behind enemy lines, and all alone as the rain lifted.
It was not long after that that the vehicle halted at a crossroads. The muddy track intersected a paved road the width and quality of which Stefan had never seen. Again, there was a brief conversation between the Lieutenant and the Sergeant. The Corporal, who had ridden in the same droning terror as Stefan in the back of the vehicle, was called over. After a brief conversation, he pointed at Stefan, beckoning him.
Stefan sprinted over to the group, anxious to impress. The Lieutenant grasped Stefan by the shoulder, telling him he had a mission of great importance. Stefan was being trusted to lead the advanced party of the division on a route deep into the enemy’s rear. He would send a set of instructions and information to pass on as the platoon had no radio communications. Did he understand? Of course he did. He was handed a signal panel and told the advanced party would be along in less than an hour. Then the rain started again. Stefan was alone.
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stevep
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Post by stevep on Feb 9, 2020 0:18:14 GMT
amir , Nice little snippet. I get the feeling this is an into to a WWIII from the eyes of an E German conscript who suddenly gets thrown in the deep end?
Steve
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amir
Chief petty officer
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Post by amir on Feb 9, 2020 2:02:23 GMT
Thanks!
Yes- wanted to try a private’s perspective.
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James G
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Post by James G on Feb 9, 2020 19:10:31 GMT
Thanks! Yes- wanted to try a private’s perspective. Good way of doing it. Sometimes, this is the best way to show a story. Someone at the bottom knows nothing about political decisions, generals forming fronts and air armies: just what he is told. It gives an everyman, 'that could be me', feel to a story. Well done. |
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lordroel
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Post by lordroel on Feb 9, 2020 19:29:26 GMT
My first posted effort- please criticize. Alone in the Woods Stefan contemplated the rain as it dripped off the brim of his helmet. He tried to focus on the top of his head, hoping that by concentrating on the only dry spot on his body he could spread the localized warmth across him. His hands and feet were already numb despite gloves and thick socks. He briefly thought of his rain cape, tucked away with his pack inside the reconnaissance vehicle which had carried him from peace to war. The vehicle from which he had clambered before made it ghosted away, leaving him alone with a signal panel and a message to stand in the rain along a muddy forest track awaiting a promised relief. Stefan had faced National Service like most of his friends, as a necessary burden to be borne and then moved on from. A youth spent in sports programs had prepared him for the physical burdens of Army life, and he was intelligent enough to quickly master the tasks expected of him by his corporals and sergeants. He was sure, until today, that he was even reasonably well liked by the Lieutenant, who had chosen him to crew his vehicle. The alert had come suddenly, in the twelfth month of his National Service. Stefan had just completed a short home leave, hitchhiking back and forth in uniform, and was looking forward to the downslope of his service. Instead, he found himself barraged with alarming information. The Captain himself had personally spoken to him, only the third time in a year, reminding him of his training and duty to the unit. The Deputy Commander had addressed the assembled company with a stirring call to defend the homeland and liberate the oppressed. What most concerned Stefan was the reading of sections of the field service regulations dealing with cowardice to the Company; this had never happened in any other alert. Departing the Kaserne, the Platoon spent a rainy, restless night hidden in an unfamiliar bivouac area. After performing maintenance they ate their cold rations and attempted to snatch sleep on the sodden, chilly ground. There was speculation among the conscripts about where they were and why the alert had extended so long; even the scant comforts of their barracks were favorably compared to the current situation. The more senior conscripts, even some of the corporals who kept the tribal knowledge of the junior soldiers, the seemed concerned- the unanticipated alert was a departure from their familiar pattern of forewarned deployments to local training areas. Was this war? Any doubts they had, and Stefan’s rest, were shattered by the arrival of ammunition trucks in the very early morning. Stefan remembered frantic labor to shift the heavy ammunition boxes off the trucks and load them into the vehicles. Any illusions he harbored that the alert would end in a return to the Kaserne were shattered when he was issued live ammunition in an almost matter of fact manner. In twelve months he had never been given live ammunition without careful accounting for such important property. Surely this was no exercise! Once mounted in the vehicles, the platoon moved down a paved road until turning off on a farm track. Stefan noticed the Lieutenant frequently checking his map and watch, ducking up and down out of the turret hatch. Periodically he would issue orders to the driver, inaudible to Stefan over the sound of the engine. The early hour and warmth of the vehicle eventually overcame Stefan’s curiosity, and he slept. Stefan awoke with a start as the vehicle lurched onto a track, slipping and sliding for traction. His helmeted head banged off the steel walls of the vehicle as the wheels ran over ruts left by heavier traffic. Just as Stefan began to feel the first waves of nausea from the motion, the vehicle lurched to a halt. The Lieutenant dropped into the turret, focused on his watch. The vehicles began to rock like a ship on the sea as a sound of percussive drums became audible over the sound of the engine. The vehicle lurched to a start, rocking forward along the track. Stefan had known in his heart that the rumored war was now a reality. The next hours passed in a blur of boredom, fascination, and terror as the reconnaissance vehicle penetrated into the heart of the enemy positions. Stefan rode in nauseated silence, his droning terror punctuated by fire from the vehicle weapons and shouted commands from the Lieutenant. Periodically, Stefan and his comrades would be roused to run out the vehicle doors, into a world of rain, mud, and noise. The vehicles Stefan saw outside matched the descriptions of enemy vehicles he had been trained on, except broken and burning as they devoured their human crews or sitting as silent tombs full of butchered men. Once, he was ordered by the Lieutenant to help drag a bloody torso off the ramp of a boxy armored carrier- he saw by the remaining shoulder tab that the body was a senior officer in the uniform of their wayward brothers. The Lieutenant took a sheaf of papers from a pocket before they remounted the vehicle. During one of these intervals of action, the noise and smell of an outgoing round was followed by a series of loud clangs and shaking. Once again outside the vehicle laying in the mud, Stefan stole glances as the Lieutenant and the Sergeant poked and prodded at the sheared stubs of the radio antennae. By this time, the rest of the platoon was nowhere to be found, and the Lieutenant seemed to have a frantic, yet excited air to him as he reviewed his maps. The sound of drums, which Stefan now knew was artillery, in a heavier concentration than any exercise, had drawn further away. Stefan overheard enough to know they were far behind enemy lines, and all alone as the rain lifted. It was not long after that that the vehicle halted at a crossroads. The muddy track intersected a paved road the width and quality of which Stefan had never seen. Again, there was a brief conversation between the Lieutenant and the Sergeant. The Corporal, who had ridden in the same droning terror as Stefan in the back of the vehicle, was called over. After a brief conversation, he pointed at Stefan, beckoning him. Stefan sprinted over to the group, anxious to impress. The Lieutenant grasped Stefan by the shoulder, telling him he had a mission of great importance. Stefan was being trusted to lead the advanced party of the division on a route deep into the enemy’s rear. He would send a set of instructions and information to pass on as the platoon had no radio communications. Did he understand? Of course he did. He was handed a signal panel and told the advanced party would be along in less than an hour. Then the rain started again. Stefan was alone. Nice amir. |
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forcon
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Post by forcon on Feb 9, 2020 20:44:51 GMT
Good work. I think you did the details really well like describing the numbing cold. It feels very real!
Some dialogue could improve the story, but it works without it. Realistic dialogue is something I struggle with too. Many a story with fantastic descriptiveness and realism has been, to put it bluntly, fouled up by poorly-written/cringe-worthy/unrealistic dialogue between characters.
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amir
Chief petty officer
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Post by amir on Feb 9, 2020 21:53:38 GMT
Thanks for all the feedback!
I kicked around some dialogue, but decided to cut it because it seemed a little clunky. Instead I just went with a third person perspective.
I wanted to keep it at the individual soldier level for two reasons.
First, I didn’t craft much more of a frame than what Stefan knows as a young private in the divisional reconnaissance battalion of an EG division. They’re probably conducting reconnaissance pull for a forward detachment penetrating WG defenses somewhere in NORTHAG, but that’s echelons above his knowledge- he doesn't even know where he is at the moment!
Second, I wanted to stay away from too many technical details. Stefan would be intimately familiar with the objects and tasks he was regularly exposed to, but wouldn’t know or care if that was an M2 or M2QCB that just fired at him- he’d just know it was a big, loud gun.
I’ll do more.
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amir
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Post by amir on Feb 10, 2020 4:16:04 GMT
Another short piece. This one is set following a worse outcome to the Gulf of Sidra incident- again, your criticism and feedback is welcome. Thanks!
The Commute
“One Minute!” The cry echoed down the red lit interior of the aircraft accompanied by a series of upraised left index fingers along the stick of paratroopers. Alex echoed the cry and the signal as he struggled to keep his footing against the pull of gravity, his parachute harness and equipment seeming to pull at the very bones of his body. The Hercules was climbing now, leaving the protection of the earth, clawing for jump altitude. The air rushing in the open doors grew seemed louder and colder, tinged with what he imagined to be the faint smell of burning oil, and other burning things.
“Thirty Seconds!” His gorge rose in his throat as the aircraft leveled off, seemingly ballooning in the sky. Swallowing it back, he watched sweat roll down the green and black painted neck of the trooper in front of him, chocking on the putrid stench of vomit in the aircraft as he held his left hand up to echo the signal. His own body was shaking violently as his emotions raced between utter panic and unbridled excitement. Throughout the overwater flight and the brief, but rough, nap of the earth these emotions had warred. He was a professional soldier, well trained and equipped, and no stranger to combat- his experience on a small Caribbean island had seen to that- he was an Airborne Paratrooper, Un paracaidista. Yet, he carried the icy ball of fear in his stomach with him as surely as the black steel weapon hung from his side.
“Standby!” The lead jumper was silhouetted briefly on the door as the light outside brightened with what Alex prayed was not the flare of a burning Hercules. The Jumpmaster, bathed in the light, appeared as an unearthly being, camouflaged face rendering him as a vaguely human shaped blob with glowing eyes. The Loadmaster reflected the true horror of the scene outside, his white face washed with orange, his mouth open in an unheard scream. Alex pushed closer to the packtray of the jumper in front of him, feeling a similar pressure from behind as the paratroopers mentally sought the illusory safety of the door and the air outside. The warm sensation of urine flowed down his leg and he tasted metal in his mouth.
“Go!” bellowed the Jumpmaster. In the green glow of the light, the lead jumper shot out the door, the conditioning of a hundred exercises overriding primal fear of the waiting black void beyond. As Alex shuffled forward, the black was lit by red flashes, strobing in the steady green light at the door. He unthinkingly shot his arm forward, handing the static line to the Jumpmaster, now a green and black painted monster under his ballistic helmet and half turned towards the door.
“Madre Dios” Alex croaked, as he confronted the maw of the night, lit only by fires on the ground below and the green and red of tracers. The coastal town below him was a far cry from the pleasant hills of Veneto where his Battalion had been on yet another alert cycle when called to deploy. A crisis begun as a freedom of navigation dispute had escalated following the loss of a US Navy warship to fast missile boats, bombings and shootings near several bases in Germany, and a successful Scud missile strike on a Coast Guard station. Alex’s Battalion was alerted from their base in Italy to seize a former USAF base while a Marine force would seize an adjacent port, all under cover of USAF and USN air strikes. They would drop at night, paving the way for a follow on Airborne Brigade enroute from the United States. For Alex, it was a point of pride that his Battalion had been chosen to seize the airfield and not a battalion of Rangers; maybe the flurry of news reports he saw of them having readiness difficulties at their bases were true- maricos! His chin tucked firmly in his chest, hands clenching his reserve parachute Alex stepped forcefully into the night.
“One Thousand!” Alex shouted as the windblast tugged at his face and uniform. He saw the familiar shape of the Hercules fly over him, seemingly so close he could touch its riveted skin. A sudden flash from the ground caused the green and gray aircraft to assume light and dark brown shades.
“Two Thousand!” he shouted, over a deep bass roar from below accompanied the dampened flash. He sensed small pops and whirs as his static line began to snap the elastics on the back of his pack tray.
“Three Thousand!” Alex counted, hearing the comforting rustle of the deployment back flying past his ears. The slap of the risers on his coal scuttle shaped helmet told him his main parachute had begun to deploy. A sharp barking sound rose from below as what had to be a medium antiaircraft gun fired into the air at objects unknown to Alex.
“Four Thousand!” he exclaimed as with a pop more felt than heard, and a sudden uplifting sensation his main parachute slowed his fall. Alex looked up to check his canopy in the flickering light from the burning ground, seeing no major holes.
Looking around him Alex could see fellow paratroopers hanging in their parachutes, and just make out the oncoming shapes of the next wave of Hercules approaching from inland. A pall of smoke rose from a star shaped mass of fires east of the airfield, wafting lazily towards him on the light wind, shining in reflected moon and firelight. Looking down, he saw the on on the water, the coastline, headlights on the coast road, then buildings: some burning, some sitting smoking in the firelight. The broken and burning hulks of aircraft lay on the ramp, including large transports reminding him of a Starlifter. Motion drew his eye as the heavy drop howitzers, vehicles, and dozers landing just north of the runway. Their strobe lights blended with the scattered muzzle flashes and green tracers of small arms beyond them. Immediately below him he saw the runway, rushing up much more quickly than in a higher altitude training jump. Instinctively Alex pulled on his risers, slipping away from the hard runway and increasing his rate of descent, the night being rent yet again by the thumping and red rope tracers of light antiaircraft guns and the screams of a paratrooper hit by small arms fire.
Releasing the risers, he reached down with both hands to free his rucksack, as the last few hundred feet to the dirt by the edge of the runway beckoned. The acrid smell of burning metal, rubber, and oil stung his nostrils. As the rucksack fell to the end of its tether, he grasped and pulled down on his risers, focusing on the fire lit horizon and taking a last fix on his assembly point. The screaming of the wounded paratrooper closest to him had settled to a low moan and an occasional quiet “Please” or “Mama”. His feet and knees together, he heard the thud of his rucksack hitting the dirt just before he impacted the ground in a rolling cacophony of noise punctuated by an involuntary “ow-Ai-Dios-ugh” before coming to rest on his back.
Alex instinctively released his left riser as soon as he came to a stop. Fighting the urge to sit up, he looked about. The godlike perspective he’d enjoyed during descent was gone. The world was reduced to a small circle of dirt, a sky crossed by green and increasing volumes of red tracers, and the flickering firelight beyond. Freeing himself from his harness, he rolled to the right, extracting his weapon from the case at his side. He heard the thuds, grunts, and curses as other paratroopers landed around him. He could no longer hear the wounded man whom he was sure had landed close to him. The cracks, pops, and buzzes of small arms fire blended into the night’s cacophony of noises as he rose to one knee behind a berm. “Time to go to work,” Alex muttered. His commute was over and the working day had begun.
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stevep
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Post by stevep on Feb 10, 2020 16:05:49 GMT
amir , Possibly I'm missing something but this is a clash between the Us, probably supported by its NATO allies and Qaddafi's Libya? As such how have the Libyans taken control of a former US naval base, or are you talking about something America had in Libya before the 1969 revolution brought Qaddafi to power?
Otherwise again a good grunt's eye view of going into combat, this time from an elite unit and someone with previous combat experience but again facing fear and confusion when it comes to actual combat.
Steve
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amir
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Post by amir on Feb 10, 2020 19:59:36 GMT
Thanks, Steve
The story is set in spring 1986 during the same period as the Naval engagement in the Gulf of Sidra/Berlin Bombing/El Dorado Canyon (aka LIBYA= Lakenheath Is Bombing Your A**) events. The airfield they are seizing is the former Wheelus AB (then) outside Tripoli. After the USAF left in 1970, he base became Okba Ben Nafi Airfield, hosting the headquarters of the Libyan Arab Republic Air Force. The unit in question is the US Southern European Task Force in Vicenza, Italy. This was a reinforced airborne battalion designed to serve as an in theatre reaction force for the US in addition to having a role in the AMF(L).
Okba Ben Nafi was best known as the filming location of the world famous “Pave Tack Footage of an IL76 Being Destroyed” which premiered in April 1986. Since then the area has served as a location for further European, Canadian, American and Qatari productions in the 2000s in addition to Libyan produced projects.
I chose the title after reading an article about the possible dissolution of large airborne forces in the United States in which a senior military officer described parachute capabilities as “just one way to get to work”.
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forcon
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Post by forcon on Feb 10, 2020 23:25:10 GMT
Good work there Amir. I like the scenario in general and you got the details written very well indeed. Is this the start of a full-scale US invasion of Libya or a smaller operation?
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amir
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Post by amir on Feb 11, 2020 1:38:12 GMT
Thanks! I’d call it a strategic raid (aka butcher and bolt). A Brigade of the 82nd and a CAG/TF160/Ranger TF coming in to a secure airhead to hit strategic SAM, missile, and leadership facilities in Tripoli. A MAU seizing the port and linking up with the airhead to provide armor, supply, casevac, and withdrawal/evacuation under a naval gunfire umbrella. Decapitation is a plus, but not an objective- Reagan just wants him to hurt. About a 72-96 hour mission- anything more gets you into War Powers territory and attracts meaningful international attention. Instead, the US can declare victory and go home!
I don’t see myself spinning this into a timeline- my real life won’t give me the time. That said, there’s probably some more stories in this one- an USMC Landing Support Specialist, a Fuel Handler in TF160, a Ranger Support Element mechanic, or a USAF REDHORSE at the airhead. We shall see...
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amir
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Post by amir on Feb 11, 2020 7:22:33 GMT
Another short story- this one follows a tank crew through their first engagement in mid 1980's Cold War scenario. American Regimental Cavalry expected to fight a series of section and platoon level engagements to destroy WARPAC reconnaissance elements to prevent disruption of the Corps deploying and delay the main body of Enemy forces. I've tried to model the early phases of this counter-reconnaissance fight.
As always, I welcome feedback and criticism, thanks.
First Shots
Someone was jostling him as he shot the winning free throw for the Bulls in the NBA Championships, and he was so warm and comfortable wedged into the Commander’s position in his IPM1 tank, “Conan” with the heater hose shoved under his tanker’s jacket…
“Sergeant Ski, Sergeant Ski, wake up!” It was Private First Class Cooper; better known among the Fourth (Tank) Platoon, C (Comanche) Troop, 1st Squadron, 2nd ACR as Welfare-Eye; who was jostling his arm in the Bavarian night. His loader and project soldier, PFC Cooper was a short, ape-armed, lazy eyed version of himself as a private, and like Skapanski, a native of Chicago.
“Sergeant Ski, Blue One says they have contact audio!” Cooper’s eyes shone bright with excitement in the dimmed blue green turret lights, his stubbled, pimply face a rictus of apprehension. Sergeant First Class Skapanski swam upwards into consciousness only reluctantly as long trained instinct called him to the urgency of action.
“Alright, alright Coop. When’d they call it in?” croaked Skapanski, reaching for his canteen and rubbing his eyes under the Combat Vehicle Crewman’s Helmet. It seemed like he had only fallen asleep a few minutes ago.
“They called it in just now, Sergeant Ski.” Cooper said, “They sounded really calm about it, not like that time at Hohenfels when they called contact audio right before White Platoon ran right through their Alpha alpha.”
Reflecting on the report, Skapanski switched his CVC from internal only to platoon net as he kicked his gunner, Sergeant Riley, in the back. “Hey Rilo, wake up, time to get hot.” Skapanski growled. SGT Riley for his part let of an “Aw F*ck” before asking “What’s up?” “Blue reports contact audio. Pick up your scan and let me know what’s out there,” Skapanski ordered. Keying the radio, he called “Blue One, this is Green Four, anything further on your contact, over”.
“Green Four, we have contact audio tracks to the east, over“, a tired voice drawled. Green One was First Lieutenant Simmons, the Third (Scout) Platoon leader. The Louisiana born lieutenant was leading the half of his six Bradley platoon to which Skapanski’s two tank section was attached while Skapanski’s platoon leader, Second Lieutenant Trent led the other mixed platoon. “Roger Blue One, can you identify, over”, asked Skapanski over the radio before switching to internal.
“Iwalu, you awake up there?” he asked the driver, Specialist Iwalu, a stocky Samoan. “What, huh… yeah, roger Sarn’t”, Iwalu answered. “Iwalu, I’m going to tell you to move and your fat a** better be awake. Blue has contact,” said Skapanski. “I’m awake, Sergeant, I’m awake,” answered Iwalu, any trace of sleep instantly wiped away.
Awaiting an update from 1LT Simmons, Skapanski retrieved a blue lensed flashlight from a storage bin just below his cupola. Levering his fireplug build up until he was waist high in the open hatch, he waved the light in a horizontal pattern toward his right as the chill, moist night air enveloped him. Listening to the quiet clicking sound of the thermal sight, he waited until he was met by an answering blue light in a vertical pattern. “Good,” he thought. His wingman in the 43 tank, Staff Sergeant Alvarez, was alert.
Reaching back into the turret, Skapanski brought a sound powered phone to his ear. “Green Three this is Green Four,” he said. “This is Green Three, I monitored all,” Alvarez answered. “Ok, Al, we’ll have Blue pass them off to us and hit them in Engagement Area Anvil. I’m thinking recon BRMs, but we don’t know yet. We’ll go FM once Blue has visual and engage from our primary positions. Afterwards we bound to alternate one,” Skapanski said over the phone. The phones were a pain, but better than exposing your formation to direction finding when you had to send a long message. “Roger that, Green Four, we’re REDCON ONE, ready to move,” answered Alvarez.
Keying his CVC, Skapanski called, “Blue One, this is Green Four. Green section REDCON 1, over.”
“Green Four, Blue One. Delta elements report contact audio now two BRMs moving east to west on Route Copper vicinity EA Anvil. Engage and report, over”, 1LT Simmons called over the radio. “Green Four, Ack,’ answered Skapanski, before switching to the section net, “Green section, this is Green Four, Tophat”. At this command of execution, the section began to move forward into their firing positions.
“Battlecarry HEAT, Driver move up, Gunner take over,” Skapanski ordered as he ripped the wires out of the sound powered phone. With that command, Iwalu placed the transmission into drive and twisted the throttles on the T-bar, propelling the 57 ton Conan out from under its overhanging camouflage net with a whine from its turbine, creaking towards a pre-dug firing position. Riley twisted in his seat to look through the gunner’s auxiliary sight, a tube mounted by the main gun, ensuring the gun tube remained clear of the lip of the firing position by pulling back on the cadillac controls to elevate it. As Conan lurched forward, Cooper dropped into the turret, pivoting to trip a panel switch with his right knee, causing an armored door in the turret to slide open. Cooper slapped the retaining tab for a 105mm HEAT round with his gloved left hand. He caught the base of the round in his right hand, easing it into his lap, then pivoting himself to ram the steel cased M456 HEAT round across the cradle of his repositioned left hand, driving it home with his balled right hand as the gun’s automatic breech closed with a metallic “snick”. Reaching up with his left hand, he flipped the gun’s arming lever to the up position before announcing “Up” over the internal. Almost immediately after, Riley, satisfied that the gun and sight were clear of the firing position but that the hull was still protected called “Driver stop”, while switching the arming panel from Sabot to HEAT and reporting “HEAT indexed” over the internal. Iwalu shifted the transmission into neutral, engaging the tactical idle switch to maintain the engine at high RPM. Conan and its crew were ready to fight.
“Rilo, pick up a scan from TRP 3 to TRP 2,” ordered Skapanski. Glancing to his left, he noticed Green Three, “Cool Hand”, had its turret scanning as well. It was too far to tell if Alvarez was up in the turret, but Skapanski was sure he was.
“Green Four, Green Three. Two BRMs, TRP 1, moving west fast, over,” Alvarez’s voice carried an air of excitement over the radio.
“Roger. Standby,” Skapanski replied. “You got’em, Rilo?” he asked as he dropped into the turret to look through the commander’s extension. “Identified,” Riley answered. Placing his eye to the turret Skapanski saw the green images of two sharp nosed, tracked, turreted vehicles in the thermal sight. “Riley, you take the left,” Skapanski directed as he slewed the point of impact reticle over the desired target.
“Green Three, Green four, identified. You take right and we’ll take left, over.” “Roger,” Alvarez answered. With all coordination done, Skapanski issued his fire command. “Gunner, HEAT, BRM!”
“Identified,” answered Riley, shifting the sight to high magnification and pressing the laser rangefinder button on top of the cadillac. The M68A1 gun bucked as its ballistic computer laid it on the most current firing solution.
“Up,” answered Cooper.
Skapanski keyed his CVC. Conan was ready. “Green Section, Green Four. Two BRMs, EA ANVIL. HEAT, Frontal. Fire!”
No sooner did he say this than the night was pierced by two balls of fire accompanied by mighty cracks. The commanders of the two BRMs, secure until this moment in the assumption that the American cavalry had been surprised and unable to deploy this close to the border to meet their surprise attack barely registered the blooms of fire before the HEAT rounds arrived from just over a mile away, riding red tracer beams. The shaped charge jets pierced the light armor of the reconnaissance vehicles, immolating fuel, ammunition, and crew in fireballs visible to the naked eye throughout the long Franconian valley. The first shots of the war for Comanche Troop validated a rigorous schedule of gunnery and maneuver training.
“Target,” called Riley, seeing his BRM flare then fly apart in the thermal image. As the dust of the muzzle blast settled through the hatch, Skapanski called “Cease fire, battlecarry sabot, pick up your scan” on the internal.
Cooper’s report of “Up” and Riley’s “Sabot indexed” was lost as Skapanski listened to Green Three’s report, “Engaged and destroyed one BRM, slant one.” “Roger, move to alternate one, report when set, over,” Skapanski ordered. “Roger, Green Four, moving.”
Keying the platoon net, Skapanski reported. “Blue One, this is Green Four, engaged and destroyed two BRM in EA ANVIL, my slant two, moving to alternate one, over.”
“Green Four, Blue One, roger, report when set alternate one. Be advised my delta elements report two BRDMs stationary vicinity TIR E4. They halted when you engaged. Be prepared to engage if they enter EA Nail. Be advised I am calling Redleg for fires,” Simmons transmitted.
“Here we go again,” thought Skapanski, reaching into his pocket for a dip of tobacco as what promised to be a long night unfolded.
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forcon
Lieutenant Commander
Posts: 988
Likes: 1,739
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Post by forcon on Feb 11, 2020 10:49:53 GMT
Good work again Amir. I hope you have more of these short stories planned! Maybe it'd be a good idea to create a short story thread of your own to post them in? Not that I mind reading them in this thread, I just have a feeling that if I want to come back and re-read them I'll be searching this thread for hours!
Keep up the good work.
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stevep
Fleet admiral
Posts: 24,836
Likes: 13,224
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Post by stevep on Feb 11, 2020 12:05:40 GMT
amir, Good snippet showing a brief but tense clash and a hell of a lot of detail. Including the importance of the two tanks moving to new locations as the Soviets will have some knowledge of where they are and there will be incoming. Also great intros of the characters of the tank crew. Steve
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