And on this day, from the fumes of pestilence arose a thought to be dead figure, bearing with him the sacred texts of Fooly-Cooly fanfiction. And he was given a name, and it was BigCountry75. Soooooooooo... how is everyone doing? First off, I want to apologize sincerely for the delay. It's been a hot minute, hasn't it? I assure you, I've really actually, totally, truly, haven't been goofing off. I have just straight up been wasting time. But seriously, I have been looking into career changes and have been seriously working on my health and weight; down forty pounds this year! But going to the gym and on ruck marches cuts into writing time, although I think it is worth it. So, at least you know that making you wait this long for a new batch of chapters was for a good cause. After all, I can't write more at all if I'm dead from a heart attack, now can I? SO! With that out of the way, take some time to refresh if need be, and then we'll get back to it!
. . .
"The fuck was that?" S. Sergeant Carson was standing in his hatch when a roaring explosion to their rear echoed across town. Mana, down on her Gunner Seat, couldn't see but Corporal DuBois looked out of his hatch for her.
"Looks like a huge fuel fire." Corporal DuBois stood as well for a better view. "That's where we just were; that's the Uni-Mart. Someone must've put the pumps to the torch."
"There goes tens of thousands of gallons in fuel we desperately needed and will never get back." 1st Sergeant Shaw lamented as he swung the tank around a tight turn. "I know we all agreed on this plan, letting them capture the cities, but we really should've gotten as much stuff out as we could beforehand; like the gasoline and diesel."
"Think of it this way." Specialist Copenhaver sought a silver lining to the blossoming smoke column. "Long as it's burning, they can't use it either. And their supply line is a lot longer than ours. This attack today had to work for them, I suspect, 'cause they've got to be running low on gas."
"Tank O-G, we're two blocks out." The lead truck called back as it peeked around the next corner.
"Roger that, fall back and rejoin the line. All other vehicles halt." Carson ordered and the tank gently rocked as its brakes engaged. Mana's worldview, instead of the wide vision fields she was used to and sorely missed, was restricted to the direct vision sight, display screen, and periscopic sight. Thus, she could not see the conversation taking place but could just hear a truck pulling alongside.
"What's our plan, Carson?"
"Lemme draw it up. So, the road curves this way…" S. Sergeant Carson was drawing on a notepad. While waiting, Mana unfolded her own notebook and made some margin scratches; writing while inspiration was striking:
'Over and under, dodging and wheeling, armor rent asunder, sent them reeling!'
Small Break
'When our cultures clash, it's a fight to the last, only one banner at day's end will fly! Rally our troops and sally forth, straight to the fight, The Red Star shall set tonight!'
Mana read the notes several times in her head. Chewing on her tongue in thought, she ultimately took the eraser to the words; unsatisfied. So much for inspiration.
"Alright, looks good." Someone outside agreed. "Let's make it happen." The idling truck took off and S. Sergeant Carson ordered them to move out at full tilt.
"What's our plan?" Mana asked, swinging the turret to keep it trained forward.
"We're going to pull into the parking lot, the trucks will be in a staggered column behind us. Johnny'll drive us right to the front door, then we're holding while everyone inside the school evacs out to the trucks by the west doors. Then we back up, throw as much HE, smoke, and lead as we can, and pull back."
"It's not the most elegant or sophisticated of plans, but simplicity is a quality all unto its own."
"Short, simple, easy to remember."
"What kind of time frame are you expecting? This is a rather 'spur of the moment' decision. We haven't had the opportunity to gather additional information, I know, however…" Mana wondered if Carson made a habit of this, dashing off into the unknown without orders, authorization, or consideration of long-term fallout.
Carson's answer was with utmost confidence. "Four minutes and fifty seconds."
"That fast?" Mana turned around to see if Carson was laughing behind her back. She found him stone faced serious. "Exactly four minutes and fifty seconds? It can be done; I've had similar maneuvers in five flat. But what about those ten seconds?"
"I have a secret weapon." Carson evasively non-explained. Mana recalled the contents of the tank, weapons, defenses, crew… nothing secret or special came to mind.
"I don't understand."
"We…" Carson held up his MP3 music player. "Have Judas Priest's nineteen ninety-one album: Painkiller. And they…" Half out his hatch, he pointed forward. "Do not. A most severe lack of planning and foresight I've ever seen."
"Hear, hear!" Copenhaver added from the Bow.
"I don't see how that helps." Mana wondered if their successful engagement at Cold Stream had been Beginner's Luck; and it was now running out. Maybe this crew really was as crazy as Captain Carson had alluded? It was far too late to back out now.
S. Sergeant Carson then tapped her shoulder. "Bet me."
"On what?"
"On the four minutes fifty. If we meet that or are under, I win. One second past, your bet."
Mana considered, then agreed. "Alright. Terms?" She was not so high on her own ego as to be above work-related wagers. And as a pessimistic realist, if she was wrong, everything would have gone well. If she were right, things would be more concerning than a simple bet. Thinking fast, she remembered he had promised her a new uniform. "Mine are two new uniforms." She reached a hand over her shoulder. Carson came down to his seat, took her hand and searched her face; presumably thinking of ideas. 'Poker face, Mana, poker face…'
"I want a look at that notebook of yours."
"…Deal." Unwilling to look wishy-washy or a coward in front of the others or worse, put her honor as an I.I.B. officer in a bad light, Mana shook on the bet. "Let's see if Painkiller can do what you claim."
"You better believe it." Carson took his rifle off the back-turret shelf and Mana returned to her sights. The shape of a large building was forming through the trees. Carson flipped on the general radio channel. "Steady on everyone, we've got a lot of people riding on us getting this right. You've pulled guys out of cave-ins and collapses ten times worse than this, so I ask you have half as much faith as I do. Now, we've got five minutes, say again, five minutes, to get this done. Once we round the corner, the clock starts. Any questions?"
"No questions." Came the resolved response. "We're all clear back here."
"Big 10-4 on that, standby for contact. Sierra-Papa-3, this's QRF-OG, lead ORGASMATRON. Do you copy?"
"Solid, OG! Where the fuck are you guys?! They've breached the east door! We're holding but are surrounded!"
"Papa-3, we're T-Minus thirty seconds from you. Gather all your forces by the west and front doors, again, all forces at the west and front doors. We will be here for three minutes, no longer. Three minutes to get out. Once that's up, train's leaving; otherwise we'll all be cut off together. How copy?"
"Thirty seconds, west doors, three minutes to get out. Solid copy. Can't wait to see you!"
"Hang tight brother, almost there." Carson signed off. Mana went to her periscopic sight for its wide and elevated view. DuBois had already loaded the cannon with HE and topped off the coaxial M240. Settling her nerves, Mana waited for the corner turn to come. In the last few seconds it was that odd quiet she often heard before such calamitous events. There was a small chime as Carson started his MP3 player. And then did Mana understand fully why G&R had taken the trouble of installing ORGASMATRON's loudspeaker, and why she would never again question the awesome might and power of the phenomenon that is Psychological Warfare. She was immediately hooked.
. . .
Patrolman Hynen, carrying his M16A4 instead of a shotgun or UMP-45, had been tasked with security outside the elementary school. Others in the security squad eyed the surrounding forest with fear. Many were hiding behind their transports or cars in the parking lot. Hynen's immediate command, Sergeant Simmons, was growing suspicious at the lack of counterattack or rescue attempt for the fifty-odd fighters still inside the school. As grenades sounded and sub-guns clattered, Sergeant Simmons organized those outside into a defensive line.
"Things're going a little too well." He said while sending a team to the south. "It's only a matter of time. Hey, ah…Hynen!"
"Yes Sar'n't?"
"You've got a rifle, good. Post up at the corner and watch the road west."
"On it." Assuming his post, a curious collection of sounds wafted his way; from the road west. The first was obvious: dozens of heavy truck engines. Second was less so, what could be the clanking and clacking of a tank's caterpillar tracks; but that couldn't be right… could it? And last, but not deafeningly not least, a sound intimately familiar. Hynen had spun this CD in his Jeep countless times. It was the out of place nature of hearing Judas Priest's twin guitars blasting in the middle of an active battlefield that confused him. First obscured by trees, the sounds source finally revealed itself. Even with Caleb Kauffman's pill in him, Patrolman Hynen was unable to remain composed while staring down the 76mm cannon of an M4A3E8 tank; barreling straight for him.
"TAAAAAAANNNNNNKKKK!" His voice cracked at the end of his alarm, the paradigm shift of the tank's arrival destroying his O.O.D.A. Loop. All fear and panic were chemically suppressed, so Patrolman Hynen's brain simply locked up when he needed those basic instincts the most. He froze. Muscle memory alone was all that was slowly raising his rifle.
"Tank?!" Sergeant Simmons didn't see Patrolman Hynen fleeing, only a man paralyzed where he stood. He went to see for himself. To further complicate things and prove Sergeant Simmons possessed a touch of clairvoyance, the tank had escorts. A parade of technicals and up-armored trucks fanned out from behind the tank; obscured until the last second. These dove for the school's west doors while the tank continued its unrelenting approach. "What're you on abo… oh, shit. OH. SHIT. Hynen, GET BACK NOW!"
"Yeah…" Too slow and too late, Hynen turned to run. The tank's gun fired a shell painted bright, angry red: High Explosive. The explosion lifted him off his feet and sent him soaring straight for the school's brick walls. Then all went black.
. . .
"Gunner, far corner of the lot, edge of the building. Sentries among the cars."
"On it." S. Sergeant Carson used his traverse override to guide Kitsurubami on target.
"Lay in two rounds HE quick. Drive them back."
"Ready!"
"Send it!"
"One the way!" The gun thundered, car parts and bodies caught air as rapid, piercing guitar rang out across the grounds.
"Good effect, saw one trooper launched; that'll fuckin' learn him." S. Sergeant Carson commented behind his binoculars. "Gunner, adjust right, send second HE then engage at will. Bow, second verse same's the first: kill 'em as you see 'em. Let's pave our guys a wide path!" More rounds rained and explosions bloomed, throwing police and contractors off their groove while the tank's loudspeaker announced their inevitable, impending doom.
*Something's calling… in the Night!
Electric Madness, roars in sight!
Heat is rising… blazing fast!
Hot and Evil… feel the blast!
OOOooouuuttt… offff… control!
ABOOoouuttt tooo, Explode!
It's comin' at you!
Here comes The Metal Meltdown!
Run, for your Lives!
Can't stop The Metal Meltdown!
NO ONE SURVIVES!
Mana latched onto the bass drums thudding rhythm, regular, fast and powerful as race car engine pistons, pumping and slamming their sound against her; even ensconced behind steel armor the notes were hitting off her very core. This was no longer conventional combat as she knew it. This was destruction of anything stupid enough to be caught in her sights, sights of not a rifle or even an anti-materiel gun, but a brutal cannon firing shells the size of her forearms, laying to waste all before her in bloody, bite-sized, burnt to black, bits.
Raging fury… wired for sound!
Nitro Bombshell… shakes the ground!
High and Mighty… rips the air!
Piercing laser… burning glare!
OOOooouuuttt ooofff… Control!
AABBOOOooouuuttt tooo, Explode!
It's comin' at yah!
Here comes The Metal Meltdown!
RUN, for your Lives!
Can't stop The Metal Meltdown!
NO ONE SURVIVES!
Catching them unawares and stricken with surprised inaction, Mana ripped into the security teams. A Ratel-60 fired in a hurry its mortar at them. The small shell impotently pinged off the tank's hull. Retaliating likewise, Mana used a HEAT round to rip the Ratel-60's turret off. The offending object rolled away after coming back down from its explosive boosted flight. Unwilling to follow his crew mate's fate, the Ratel-60's driver flung his vehicle into reverse and made his presence scarce. This didn't slow Mana down the slightest, who had a bounty of targets to choose from; firing shells and machine gun bullets as fast as Corporal DuBois could feed her voracious appetite.
Temperature is boiling… magnifying might!
Feeding like a virus… flashing light!
Imminent collision… shockwaves all around!
Generating energy… screams So LOUD! RRYYEEAAAGGGHHHGGgg…*
"Right to the door, give us an angle once there!" S. Sergeant Carson assisted 1st Sergeant Shaw's driving as the approached the front doors. Turning her periscope, Mana saw through the glass doors the lobby was packed with men both terrified and relieved to see them.
"Stop here?" 1st Sergeant Shaw pulled forward of the doors, so those inside could use the tank as cover.
"Back up, just a foot or two…annnddd… stop!" S. Sergeant Carson had the back end of the tank under the lobby alcove so no rounds would slip between the tank and the wall. "Perfect. Mister Bragg! Such a shame we meet again under such circumstances." The police and contractors, thoroughly mauled by Mana and their escorts, had backed off to discuss what in the Ever-Loving Hell had just happened and regroup. This lull in the fight meant Mana could hear Bragg climbing up the tank's hull and him talking to S. Sergeant Carson.
"Oh Jeff, thank God Above you guys showed up! Another minute and we were done for. God Bless you all!"
"It's what friends do. Now either get down or hold on tight, it's 'bout time for us to leave."
"We, we can't leave yet!" There was a small scuffle of Carson's feet behind Mana's head; like Bragg was pulling on him. "One of my fire teams is still in there. Several walls and part of the roof caved in, and they're stuck; cut off. We have to get them out!"
"Bragg, you didn't think to tell us this BEFORE we rolled?! I specifically goddamn told you three minutes! Not four, not five, THREE! And if someone wasn't out here and ready to go, they were getting left behind."
"Are you going to abandon these guys?!" Bragg nearly screamed.
"If we don't leave now, we're ALL going to get cut off, we're ALL going to get surrounded, and we're ALL going to die! This's the only tank we've got; no one else has the firepower to come get us!"
"What the fuck is wrong with you?! You're dooming them to die! We can't leave them; they need our help!"
"I am not dooming the sixty guys I brought with me, your forty we just pulled out, and twenty trucks and this tank, for a five-man fire team buried under a mountain of bricks that'd take all of a normal, sane day to dig through! Now either get down from my tank or I will throw you down!"
"Please! Please don't do this! You can't be this heartless, what the fuck is wrong with you, Carson?! I, I won't let you do this!"
"Bragg, last warni…" P-Thing, P-Thwang, P-Thung… Blind fired rounds bounced off the tank. Mana and Specialist Copenhaver resumed burst firing in response. Corporal DuBois fired smoke grenades to their front, and these began to billow. "Masters May, Taggart! Come get your boss! He's taken leave of his reason." There was a scuffle and violent exchange of oaths and curses, and something tried to pull S. Sergeant Carson out of the turret. Freeing himself from Bragg's anguished and distraught grip, S. Sergeant Carson slumped in his hatch for a moment. Silence filled the hull.
"Okay, we're leaving." He announced. "Driver, forward to get us clear, then all speed reversed. Gunner, Bow, you're doing amazing, keep up the pressure; don't give 'em a second to breathe."
"You got it." Specialist Copenhaver resumed his firing.
"Aye, TC." Mana pressed her left toes, PSHT-CLACK, over to coaxial again. Several trucks, acting as Gun-trucks instead of plain transports, lined up one either side of them and added their support. But the Police and D.R.S. were far from rolling over and allowing them to leave uncontested. From inside the smoke fired several PONK! Sounds of launched 40mm grenades. While none hit the tank and wouldn't have mattered if it did, one landed aside the truck nearest them. The grenade blew the dual-axle truck's left rear wheels off and tossed the rear compartment riders onto the pavement. Those in the cab extracted themselves and fired back over the engine hood. Ten men all told now huddled behind their crippled machine while vicious incoming fire was taking it apart piece by piece.
"GET BEHIND ME! GET BEHIND ME!" S. Sergeant Carson stood in his hatch and bellowed above the noise.
In the midst of the deafening din, someone shouted back. "NO CAN DO!"
"I'm going out." S. Sergeant Carson announced over the intercom. "Keep doing what you are." He then fully exited the turret.
"Out to do what?" Mana asked as S. Sergeant Carson unplugged his intercom. She was answered by a heavy KER-CLACK-KAH-CHUNK. A thunderstorm of muzzle blasts erupted as S. Sergeant Carson fired ORGASMATRON's 0.50cal M2HB. What a pair of M240's and several small arms couldn't quite do, the M2HB helped push to the line. Men of Arms will suffer much in ways of incoming rounds establishing that they have reliable cover and concealment. However, the M2HB's statement on such matters has always been thus:
-Fuck you.
-Fuck your concealment.
-Fuck your cover.
-Fuck everyone around you.
-And fuck the next five guys standing behind you.
Police and mercenary alike ran over each other to get out of the M2HB's sights. Nothing they had was safe from it and its rounds were coming too fast for an exploitable opening. This and ORGASMATRON's last HE shell gave time for the truck crew to get behind the tank. They clambered onto the engine deck and clung fast; sailors on the last lifeboat in a raging sea. Corporal DuBois opened his hatch and threw more smoke grenades by hand. Blue, white, and red clouds added to the veil. Now back among the trees, they turned around and fled into town proper with all haste.
. . .
Commander Amarao and his twin platoons had rendezvoused with the other defenders of Osceola Mills without incident. They now fought a staggered retreat up the hill towards G&R Fabrication. Enemy units doggedly pursued, hot on their heels. Dismounted police and mercenary infantry were expected to ford the foul, sulfurous waters of The Red Moshannon and pursue on foot; while bridges were constructed or brought up from their rear areas. But Commander Amarao was astounded to be followed by motorized infantry. MRAP's, RG-31's, and a Ratel-60 were all firing on his latest temporary position. How had they done it? All road bridges had been demolished, and the only other road in was heavily mined and blocked with vehicle wrecks and totaled hulks. There was no way that quagmire had been swept and cleared in such short time. He had no opportunity to wonder and postulate about it now. Amarao gave the withdraw order to the next line of slit trenches dug in the rocky woods. On the way he regretfully informed Solomon, and Tommy Carson that Oscar-Mike was holding but would be unable to keep the arranged timetable. He either needed reinforcements or Papa units would have to leave their positions immediately; lest the mountaintop and airfield be overrun.
Unknown to Amarao there existed one last way across The Red Moshannon that had been overlooked: a railroad trestle barely wide enough to allow safe and easy passage of a dirt bike between the rails. D.R.S. combat engineers seized on this Godsend and orchestrated an obvious, to them, solution. A squad ran a steel cable across with several feet of a second cable, a block and tackle, and set of pulleys. This affair was secured to the trunk of an enormous oak tree, then they ran the cable hook back across the narrow span. A 2 ½ ton truck took the hook while the other end of the cable was latched to a section of bolt-together bridge they had brought along. The 2 ½ ton truck drove south, pulling the bridge section north across the railroad trestle to the far side. Engineers began anchoring this section while the cable was run back and the truck re-positioned and another bridge section was pulled off its trailer. This process repeated until all sections were in position, connections bolted, and the last two-foot long anchoring spikes driven in. As soon as the last sledgehammer blow rang out, the first vehicle tentatively crossed. Built to hold freight trains carrying millions of pounds of coal, the railroad trestle held up. In minutes rather than hours the D.R.S. combat engineers had spanned The Red Moshannon and opened it to vehicle traffic. Now crossing infantry advanced confidently with machine gun, grenade launcher, and vehicle support.
. . .
"…recommend that Auxiliary Forces be mobilized to defend airfield. Break." Commander Amarao had given the terrifying news of his struggle to contain an overwhelming southern front. The update spurred immediate action around the G&R airfield. Defensive positions were manned, and assets re-positioned to counter the evolving threat. One team assisting was Shigekuni Nandaba and his Coffee Club from the V.F.W.
"Sounds like they'll be coming right up the main road." Ken tapped the map they had been using to track the day's fighting. It was covered with arrows and symbols, showing fully formed north and south pincers drawing right to where they sat.
"A-and with armor, and those howitzer guns on wheels; or trucks or what-cha-mah-call'ems." Ralph added with inexperienced nerves. "I was a submarine guy, cut me some slack."
"Those light transports and tanks ain't shit!" Franklin pounded the table and roared his proclamation.
"Frank, your hearing aids are off." Shigekuni reminded.
"What?!"
"Your hearing aids are off."
"WHAT?!"
"Your. Hear. Ing. Aids."
"Hearing aids?! Those're for old people!"
"You were in Korea, Frank." Jim shook the shoulder of the man junior to him. "I hate to be the one to tell you… but you ARE old."
"Hey, Old-Timers!" Mr. Shantz and a large squad were running by. "Mind lending a hand?"
Shigekuni answered for the group. "Of course."
"Hook your Jeep onto that cannon and move it to the roadblock. I'm getting some guys to man it; you just need to drop it off. Okay?"
"Our pleasure." The old warhorses left their chairs and the awning in front of Shigekuni's field bread ovens and bakery. "Let's show 'em how it's done gentlemen." The cannon was one of the repurposed Revolutionary War memorials. It had been re-bored and rifled, strengthened with steel bands, and installed with a new breech loading system. The trigger was new, doing away with gunpowder fuses for either a pulled lanyard or a plunger that was struck with the heel of the gunner's hand. Its new carriage allowed it to be rolled easily and had several storage bins filled with extra ammunition. This affair was wrangled into place while the Jeep was backed up. Hooked in, the five piled in and headed for the main road.
"That looks like the spot, there." Ralph pointed at the sandbag and concrete Jersey Barrier wall, stubbornly positioned in the middle of the road. "Shigekuni, hop out and help me back this up. Rest've you, keep an eye out." The cannon and ammunition caisson were proving difficult to maneuver, being on the side of a downhill slope. Yells of 'Left…left….no, no! Your other left!' demanded too much of everyone's attention.
. . .
Sent on a scouting run, an Eland Mk 7 had taken the scenic route to find another way up the mountain and out of Osceola Mills. It had ranged miles west, then north, and finally swung back to approach from the northwest. Its stealthy profile had so far evaded detection. Now it arrived at Black's Home Sales; cautiously moving between rows of display manufactured houses. Unknown to its crew, they were within half a mile of the Carson House, G&R's shop, the airfield, and Auxiliary base. They could have lobbed their compliment of 90mm HE shells and done tremendous damage before pulling back with no risk; all before reporting a route to end the war within the day. Instead, the Eland's primary concern was on the five men setting up what looked like an anti-tank gun. And as the commander observed through his periscope, one of the five had spotted his vehicle. It was too late to sneak away.
"Gunner, front. Infantry and gun. Behind that barricade. One round HE, engage."
"Roger, infantry front. On it."
"Fire."
"Firing."
. . .
"TANK!" Frank had screamed, pointing with a spasaming finger before throwing himself into the roadside ditch.
"What?!" Shigekuni turned in time to see the Eland's round land just short. But with a 90mm HE, close can be close enough. Ralph and the Jeep were cut to ribbons. Jim was thrown up the road and lay motionless where he landed. Ken had disappeared within the shell's blinding flash. The carriage of the cannon had taken the shrapnel meant for him, but Shigekuni was bowled over by the shock wave. For a moment all went black.
. . .
"Good effect, Gunner." The gun crew was eviscerated, the gun knocked off its carriage to the ground, and the Jeep was scrap. "Scan left. Reloading." Only crewed by three, the Eland Mk 7 had its commander pulling double duty. A drawback of a small, light, fast and nimble vehicle. While the commander manhandled a fresh shell, the gunner looked for new targets, and driver worried at his fuel gauge, none of them realized the anti-tank gun crew had not even begun to fight.
. . .
Ears deafened and ringing, Shigekuni Nandaba returned to consciousness. His heart was hammering against his sternum, harder and faster than it had in well over fifty years. And not a soul would have blamed him if he'd decided to tap out of the fight and sit things out by laying on the road. But giving up just wasn't written into his code. He rolled himself to his stomach, then one limb at a time forced an unwilling body to stand. While his ears were no good, he could still see clearly. The gun carriage and ammunition caisson had jackknifed against the Jeep. The gun itself was on the ground and loose shells from a broken locker rolled freely. This not being his first time knocked over by an exploding shell or bomb, having survived months on Rabaul as a target of Allied bombing and naval shelling, Shigekuni did not flee the scene or lose his cool. Dormant instincts took over, quickly assessing the situation and his options.
'Tank shell, over where? There, yes. One tank. Run? No, too hurt, too slow. Drive? No, Ralph's down, Jeep's fucked. Gun, there, on the ground. Lift it, onto Jeep? Can't. No. Must. Base will be hit if I don't." He took deliberate strides to the gun, then squatted in perfect form; hooking the barrel and trunnion with iron fingers. He only had one chance at this. Adrenaline surging through him and knowing his son and a grandson were just over the hill, Shigekuni lifted with every ounce of strength his body could muster; overclocking himself with a fury that would make the stoutest of men gape in awe.
The cannon clanged onto the Jeep and didn't roll or fall out of position. Shigekuni jerked open the breech and picked one of the spilled shells. He threw the shell home and the breech locked closed; ready to fire. With the sights gone he aimed down the side of the barrel, nudging the weapon with his shoulder to get on target. The plunger trigger was gone, and he would have to keep his shoulder on the gun to keep it lined up. No lanyard pull was possible. He knew the recoil on this particular "rifle" was going to be significant; to understate. He also knew it must be done and felt completely at peace with this knowledge. Eighty-nine years was a good run. In fact, he felt it was quite poetic: he was a pitcher lining up for the game's last throw, with bases loaded, bottom of the ninth, score tied up, and a full count. All or nothing.
"Go on… hit… this… one… Batter. I… dare… you…" Shigekuni challenged as the Eland started slowly swinging its turret back his way. As sure of his shot as he was going to be, Shigekuni pulled hard on the lanyard trigger.
. . .
"Sir, there's movement by that gun emplacement." The Eland's driver had no telescopes but could just see something moving.
"Gunner, traverse right, ready coax." As the hand-cranked turret slowly rotated, the so-thought out of action anti-tank gun somehow fired. The shot drifted wide right and high of its gunner's mark but did not miss. The round struck the Eland's gun and recoil system, right at the mantlet. This impact spun the turret ninety degrees left, stripping its traverse ring and gears. The breech block, a brick of solid machined steel, crashed against the gunner's head and slammed him against the turret wall. This one-two punch of uncaring metal against fragile flesh fractured the gunner's skull and put him out of the fight. Having been shot, the vehicle's Turret Monster lashed out. It claimed several of the commander's fingers, twisted and crushed his left foot, and broke his shoulder as the gun spun into him. Finally, the shell's impact also rang the entire vehicle like a bell. Fighting the urge to pass out from pain and putting the bleeding stumps of his fingers under his broken arm, he ordered his driver to immediately cede the field. He had seen quite enough excitement for his liking and was content in calling it a day. Its gun broken, turret jammed, gunner unconscious, commander crippled, and driver feeling the uncomfortable and shameful warmth of his soiled pants, the Eland Mk 7 scuttled away to the safety of the rear lines; far and away from the bite of an unyielding, outdated but never obsolete, cantankerous old man and his shoulder-fired cannon.
. . .
Shigekuni didn't know for sure if the shot had landed. The muzzle flash filled his eyes with stars, the report took away even the ringing of his ears, and the recoil had felt like being hit with a train. The force had knocked him down and the cannon onto him, pinning his legs under its substantial weight. Suddenly he felt exhausted and his eyelids struggled to keep open. It had been one hell of a busy day after all. Just a short rest to catch his breath. Someone interrupted him by shaking his shoulder. On the edges of his vision, the proper gun crew had finally arrived. He must have gotten that tank, killing it or driving it off, if the gun crew were walking around freely. Several sets of hands moved him from under the gun and onto a stretcher. A killed or driven off tank, a hit was still a hit. The stretcher was lifted, and someone began strapping it to the hood of a truck.
"Did… I… get… it?" He asked one of the stretcher bearers.
"Fuck yeah you did! Smacked that sunova bitch right in the turret; right in his face! I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it."
"Ah… good. A… strike… out…"
. . .
*Metal Meltdown - Judas Priest
If you have made it this far and read these little blurbs, I really do mean it: I apologize for the five month delay. I had mentioned last time I had something lined up and was ready to start final editing. Then one day I went to open the file, the same master file I've been using since 2015 and... corrupted. All the tricks I knew couldn't bring it back. So I lost all progress I had made and started over. And then life got in the way, and other engagements popped up, and so it goes. But in the last month I finally buckled in and got it done. Hopefully I haven't lost my touch! Do let me know, and thank you for sticking it out; you're the best!