The Unfortunate Series of Events Leading to the Death of Milites Bob

[Ron Bleac]

The Unfortunate Series of Events Leading to the Death of Milites Bob

Somewhere in a muddy, water filled trench far away from the comforts of modern cities and sanitary facilities sits a single man on a shattered rock. His uniform, rifle and boots are tattered but his eyes still scan the horizon in anticipation of movement. But for four weeks, there have been nothing but tumbleweeds. Four weeks on outdated, rotten rations. Not a single armored car, battle tank or Liberator has passed his position and the loneliness is slowly becoming an unbearable form of torture. Small droplets of pure desperation grow into a puddle. And from a puddle to a stream. From a stream to a river, until finally he spots something in the distance. A dust ball. A moving one!

Three miles away from the mans position, Triplicarius Orel and his four wheeled Daimler Attack Vehicle sped towards a point marked as "abandoned" on his battle map. The wheels and transmission scream as the battle car accelerates to a neck breaking 50 miles per hour on unpaved ground. In the small command tower Orel is thrown back and forth but attempts to balance himself on two metal railings welded to the top of the tower. "Drive faster! It's near sundown!" He yells, banging the side of the tower with his prosthetic right fist. The engine of the DAV bellows a deafening series of explosions before shooting out pure black exhaust from the tailpipe. 55 mp/h. "Commander, two minutes to target!" The driver screams from his extremely cramped position below the gunners seat, banging his fist against the top of the compartment excitedly.

Six hours of driving at full gallop, Orel thought to himself. Six hours of swallowing sand, detritus and since an hour ago, a foul smelling gas of some sort. Sulfur. The region seemed to be largely volcanic, or perhaps that rotten egg smell was the result of roughly 250,000 unburied Ordo dead. Regardless, he reveled at the chance of parking his ass into a fast moving vehicle rather than being forced on another bloody footmarch. Orel leans down into the vehicle and snatches a pair of binoculars. He rests himself against the tower as the vehicle bumps back and forth like a bucking horse. 58 mp/h. Pretty good for a DAV! Gently, he raises the edge of the binoculars to his eyes.

"Unknown infantry contact dead ahead! One mile!" The Triplicarius screamed. He stashes the binoculars away swiftly, grabs the iron bar in front of him and swings into the vehicle. Grabbing ahold of the other bar, Orel swings the hatch shut and locks it with a lever.

"Driver, halt!"

The sudden deceleration throws Orel against the front of the turret, smashed like a fish against the glass pane of an aquarium. After the initial bump, the DAV glides to a halt quite smoothly. Only to be absorbed into its own dust cloud. "Gunner, switch to thermographics."

A soft click is heard within the vehicle as the gunner flips his optics over to thermographic. A thermographic sight is very simple by all standards. The device forms an image through infrared radiation, picking up heat and bringing the image to the display.

"Target sighted. Infantry, 0.6 miles and closing, sir. Lone soft target."

- "Switch to 20MM high explosive, set range dial to 960 meters."

Click, click. Whirr. Seconds later the gunner had switched out the previous 20MM strip to another, much more intimidating looking one. A red stripe painted the front of the explosive warhead, signifying its explosive qualities. Only a second later the range dial had been set.

"Ready to fire."

Exactly 960 meters away, Milites Bob was running towards the halted DAV at full sprint. He had left his rifle behind and was waving his arms back and forth frantically, screaming something about a homecoming fuck fantasy and how he'd finally able to cash in his win at Trudy's, a local lottery at his home town of Ashden a mere 30 miles to the West of the capital city of the Empire. Young Bob had scored a vertical line of 7 correct, granting him an approximate win of roughly 6 million Imperial Roubles. More than enough for cushy retirement days. The prospect of a cash prize only served to push him further, but also faster towards the DAV.

"Fire."

In the bat of an eyelash, Bob disintegrated into a bloody cloud of meat and bone giblets. His head was blown clean off of his shoulders and his UCA chestplate shattered into a hundred pieces of smoking, glowing shrapnel. Meanwhile, his limbs had separated from his torso and waist and hurtled in different directions like miniature flesh missiles followed by a stream of clarette. Small strips of his skinsuit, BDU pants and several fingers rained back to the earths surface. But his head had rocketed to the skies like a meaty missile trailing strings of saliva, blood and spinal fluid. The last thing Milites Bob saw was the rolling hills scarred by artillery shells, dried rivers and several dozen sets of destroyed trenches pockmarking the beautiful artificial farmland of Aquitaine, a state of the Empire named in direct descent of a similarly titled French region. Farms, churches, even a cathedral in the distance caught his eye as he rocketed forth towards the heavens leaving a beautiful pink mist behind him. Seconds later, Milites Bob closed his eyes and smiled, thinking of home.

"Target destroyed." Spoke the gunner.

Thump.

The crew twitched at the sudden loud impact on the outer hull. "Gunner, traverse 360 right. Scan immediate area." The gunner did as he was told, punching a small pedal under his right foot. The turret on the DAV began traversing to the right. It only took 12 seconds for a full traverse to the right.

"Nothing."

- "Opening command cupola."

Said Orel, pulling the lever above his head. With an audible creak, the command cupola slid open. As it did so, Orel took leverage from the side of the turret and stood on his seat to poke his upper body out. He scanned the horizon, shifting left and right to spot a possible firing location. Nothing. He turned back to face the direction of the now obliterated Milites Bob. His combat boots were still upright in the mud, smoking.

"Gunner, contact TERCOM on the red line, please." The red line. In service for 200 years and so far uncracked, the red line was a separate lane of communication encrypted into each vehicle and infantry radio that the Ordo held. With frequencies switching daily and encryption mechanisms shifted, it was rumored that an enemy electronics and communications specialist could only decipher the message at a range of 24 meters or less. Only then would the signal be strong enough to be undone without use of supercomputers or the encryption code. At that range, one only had to know what channel to listen to. In this case, it was channel 9.

Orel picked up the transmitter and began his report: "Orel to TERCOM. One enemy soft target eliminated at agreed rendezvous location. On location now, awaiting further instruction, over."

-"TERCOM to Orel. Job well done. Milites Bob should be on post to point you to your temporary living quarters."

"Orel to TERCOM, Milites Bob is nowhere to be seen. Assuming cowardice in the line of duty."

-"TERCOM to Orel, roger. We'll round up Milites Bob's family and shoot them. Job well done, Triplicarius. Hold steady at position."

"Rock steady, TERCOM. Orel out."

As Orel ended his radio transmission, the driver opened the compartment hatch at his front. Suddenly, an ear piercing scream rockets through the air as the driver begins to panic. "Get it off, get it off! Get it off me!" He screams like a paniccing teenager. Orel climbs out of the turret from the top, walks over on the hull of the DAV and takes a look at what the driver is making such a big fuss about. Milites Bobs disembodied head, frozen into an eternal smile had landed on the front of the DAV and lodged itself between the drivers hatch and the front grille. As soon as the driver opened the hatch, the now lifeless head rolled from the front of the armored vehicle directly into his lap. With blood and other assortments of bodily fluids still leaking from the stump Orel lifts the head out, pats it on the cheek and throws it from the muddied locks of hair still attached to the flayed scalp. The head flies for a good ten meters then plummets into a flooded shell crater, burying Milites Bobs hopes of cashing in his lottery win forever. Fate had other things planned for Bob. Shortly before his head touched the bottom of the crater, it bumped against a landmine that had been laying dormant for nearly a decade. The sudden intrusion upon the mines personal space resulted in an abrupt detonation. The crater and the water in it disappeared into thin air. This unfortunate series of events had the effect of launching Bobs head several dozen meters into the air, cheeks and slack jaw flapping wildly in the strong air current. The sound was akin to a series of cards taped against the spokes of a childrens bicycle speeding down a hill. As his head began to descend yet again, it tilted due to an offset weight balance caused by the sudden lack of brain tissue in Bobs skull cavity. A large hole at the top of his skull that lead directly into his mouth acted as an air pipe, creating a terrifying whistle. Due to its airspeed, the head landed roughly 100 meters to the west of Orels position.

The silence was broken by another scream.

"What the fuck!?"

Orel snatched up his binoculars and directed them to the approximate direction of the vocal protest. A large group of infantry, roughly 12-16 men suddenly jumped up from a shell hole and began jumping up and down, some dispensing their rations by the swift route of regurgitation onto the battlefield, the others covering their eyes at the sudden grotesque sight in front of them.

"Enemy infantry, to our left! Gunner, traverse 75 degrees left! Shell type: HE! Identify on sights and commense fire when ready!"

Little did Orel know, Milites Bob had just saved their lives by exposing an enemy anti-tank detachment hidden in a poorly constructed, or destroyed slit trench.

Then they all had cake.

THE END~

[Steeltael Lykin]

That was sad. and deeply disturbing. Thanks Finland.

[Arokh Takakura]

I love your dark sense of humour, Ron, very amusing.

[Trinity Heckroth]

That was sad. and deeply disturbing. Thanks Finland.

^ this

[Tiridates Mikadze]

Lt. Sippo was having a bad day, and then the Soviets Invaded during his coffee break.

"I guess that's why we have these warm hats!" Says Sippo, as he trudges through the snow towards the walls of Soviet massed infantry.

^^^^^^

This is what I think a Finnish joke actually looks like.

[Gen Scientist]

HIS NAME IS ROBERT PAULSON, HIS NAME IS ROBERT PAULSON

[Esva]

That was sad. and deeply disturbing. Thanks Finland.

I love your dark sense of humour, Ron, very amusing.

:winner: