Ron's random ramblings.

[Ron Bleac]

This, after watching Battle of the Bulge.

Somewhere in “Alsace”, Imperial territory, previously known as “Poland.” A clear summer night.

Eyeing the landscape through his periscope, Discens Smyth eyed what used to be one of the largest, and certainly most profitable stretches of Imperial farmland. After a mere three weeks of constant warfare, it was nothing but a puddle. The forests which stretched out around both sides of the area had been burnt to the ground or fragged by shrapnel. Very few trees remained standing, and it seemed as if mother nature had retracted her loving arms. Or they had been viciously cut off. The hum of the tank engine accompanied the constant complaints of his fellow crew, as if it was a bitter sweet symphony.

It had a melody of its own. A constant, but shifting rhythm. Sometimes the engine screamed like a quartet of Cellos approaching a dramatic and strong peak, or whispered like a group of Violin creeping towards a silent, but abrupt end. The armored vehicle, composed of multiple layers of steel combined with state of the art protection, creaked and swayed as its tracks slid along the muddy face of the battlefield.

The four crewmen inside peered out of their respective portholes, eyes lid into small slits to identify any threats. The sloped and sliding surface of the battlefield proved to be a perfect place for a hostile anti-tank gunner to hide in, and you never knew what waited around the next corner. The turret traversed the chassis as the war machine comparable to battleships of old glid further into the deep night, seeking so far unseen threats. The sun had set some hours ago.

“Comrade commander, the engine is on the verge of tears. She won't last much longer.” The silent but clear voice of Milites Novik echoed through the intercom hooked up to the light layers of necessary gear each man had donned. Through his receiver, the commander heard the tanktracks whining.

“Steady as she goes, number 2. The mission comes first.” Duplicarius Vijek stated coolly. He was like a breath of fresh winter air, and had nerves of steel. A man in his late 50s, he was the proud owner of an excellent grey moustache and multiple layers of wrinkles. That, and a wonderful set of reading glasses. And a couple of Monocles. Maybe more, depending on the situation. He re-entered service when the Imperium began to run low on fresh recruits. His experience was valuable in the training and re-training of tank crews, and he had previously been stationed at the best training facilities the Empire could offer.

After a series of disastrous defeats all along the front, he was put into combat action on the field. Crews, from now on, would be supplied directly to him and directly onto the field. There was no more time to train them in a controlled environment, and it was clear to him that here, only the strongest and smartest would survive. His job was to take a cadre of innocent boys and mold them into men, warriors capable of taking life, and sparing life. The art of armoured warfare was hundreds of years old by now, and through years of perfecting strategy and machine itself, the Empire boasted one of the largest crack Armored corps in existence. But there was strenght in numbers, even the best armies could be overcome by sheer odds. Surely, it was all too familiar after the events of past weeks.

As he worked with the delicate equipment in front of him, adjusting sensors, his trusty range-finder, he repeated past lessons taken to heart. His fingers twitched at the knobs and levers on his communication equipment, his lifelink to mission command.

In his other hand, he held a small box. “Emergency Rations”, the front cover said in an oddly gothic font. The box itself was adorned with artwork from different periods. Typical, he thought to himself. Even emergency rations and supplies have to be decorated. Vijek hooked himself onto the intercom again.

"Survival kit contents check. In them you'll find: one .45-caliber automatic, two boxes ammunition, four days' concentrated emergency rations, one drug issue containing antibiotics, morphine, vitamin pills, pep pills, sleeping pills, tranquilizer pills, one miniature combination "Rooshin" phrase book and Bible, one hundred credits of Imperial currency in rubles, one hundred dollars in gold, nine packs of chewing gum, one issue of prophylactics, three lipsticks, three pair of nylon stockings... Shoot, a fella could have a pretty good weekend in Paris with all that stuff!"

Vijek continued,

“Listen boys. It's night time, so I want every one of you sharp. Eyes and ears open, especially you, Mr Smyth. You're sitting atop of several pounds of high explosive shells and hundreds of rounds worth of machinegun link. One wrong move, and you go up in flames and take all of us with you. No pressure, buddy! Mr Novik, how long until predicted engine failure?”

“Commander, engine temperature is bumping between critical and dangerous, but we shall continue. Do not worry your little head! My family's history in temperature control, for example, in nuclear energy began very early on! They were very famous, and worked for the USSR! Imagine that, sir. One of them, my great great great grandfather worked in finest facility! A nuclear plant in Ukraine. But it is too bad, he had accident. Maybe you have heard?”

Vijek held down the send button again, “I trust you, Milites Novik. Camilleri, how are you doing?”

The loader, Camilleri, was the youngest. Originally from the island of Malta, the teenager had barely turned 18 in time for the conscription. From beneath a layer of freckles and messy hair, a pair of blue eyes stared at the darkness. Being the loader, he had a unique view on the tank. He was smackdab in the middle of the action, and his life and that of his crewmates depended on his hands, and how quick he was. Precision was key. His childlike frame, chin and nose caused the other crewmembers to feel responsible for him. He was treated like a kid, but deep inside he struggled with the idea of growing up fast in a world like this. Camilleri was in fact the newest addition as well.

Duplicarius Vijek had complete control of his military career, in all aspects. He was a novice when it came to warfare of any kind and had frozen up during the crews first contact with the enemy. Not due to combat stress, but because he stumbled upon the personal belongings of the previous loader. Letters, pictures, and a wallet. Generally, such personal items would be removed with the body, but both tanks and crewmen were coming off the production line so quickly the supply team barely had the time to dislodge the human remains out of the back of the turret.

A few weeks earlier, the tank had taken a devastating hit midway through crew evacuation. The previous loader was not fast enough, and was killed as a warhead penetrated the thick hide of the vehicle. In a glowing ball of sparks and limbs, he was dead before his heart could skip a beat. Camilleri, shocked by the find was unable to load the next shell when Vijek demanded it. It took a hefty bit of screaming before he could move again. Camilleri had been very apologetic, but Vijek had understood. In combat, the quietest guy in the platoon can suddenly fight like a possessed banshee, or the bravest and ballsiest guy could suddenly be a mewling kitten.

Their mission tonight was to support the advance of an Imperial infantry company, their target: a small supply depot filled to the brim with fuel, ammunition and other provisions. Among these provisions, pure water. It was extremely important that this vital resource was secured immediately, as in an area that had been trundled by artillery, tanks and high explosive ordnance, barely any pipes were left functional. Getting water was hard. And something as simple as water, something common in every day life, was the difference between life and death on the long run. The tank, having trundled through the night, was about to reach the rendezvous point. The link up, the get together. Through his optics commander Vijek pinpointed the exact location of the Infantry company, and directed his crew through the muddy countryside, towards friends under the same banner.

The commander got on the horn, and switched frequencies as previously agreed.

“Pelote 5 to Hawkmother. Pelote 5 to Hawkmother. Package is on the way, I repeat. Package is on the way. Estimated arrival time, within 5 minutes or less. Pelote 5, requesting further advice and updates on mission. Over.”

“Hawkmother to Pelote 5, good to hear from you. Reception expecting you with open arms. Triplicarius Morel is ready to advance on Hawkmother's orders. Communications check on arrival. Hawkmother over and out.”

It was on now. A mere minutes on now, they'd link up with the company and launch their assault on the unsuspecting supply depot. Everything depended on the crew. And even if he was an old man, Vijek told himself with a big grin worthy of an award, that he would kick so much ass. So. Much. Ass. A small device to the left of him suddenly sprung to life, the computer screen filling with green lines of text. Additional data and mission parameters were delivered through an encrypted and secure line, invulnerable to enemy tapping or eavesdropping. Similar to submarines, the system had only recently been adopted in armored vehicles. But the constant and growing importance of secure communication lines demanded extreme modification. The work of Imperial engineers and computer technicians now rested in front of Vijek's eyes.

“HICOM-ALSACE

DEF AROUND DEPOT DWINDLED CONSID. LAST NIGHT ATTACK SUCCESFUL. GODFATHER DELIVERS CONGRATULATIONS. WEAKENED DEFE

NSE ON DEPOT, BUT REC. CAUTION. TROOP MOVEMENTS AROUND AREA

-HI-. POSSIBLE ENEMY REINFORC. ON CALL. AIR SUPP.&ART

ON -LO-. DO NOT REQ- UNLESS URGNT. TRIP.MOREL SEC- ACCESS TO

SUPP- ASSTS.

WITH LUV

HAWKMOTHER”

Vijek grabbed at the receiver, and transmitted a return message.

“PELOTE 5

REC- LOUD&CLEAR. PROCEEDING WITH MISSION.”

[Trinity Heckroth]

so. much. ass.

[Ron Bleac]

PANZERLIED :d

[media]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lSLHasN9UXQ

[Cygna]

Awesome read!