Commissar D -
..........what evil lurks in the bowels of men? Only "The Shadow" knows!
Even with a snoot full of Prit's vodka it's good to see that he can still outrun a Tiger shell, when scared "sh@%*$tless"! Now, hopefully, you'll give him time to change his shorts - Vodka and spam just don't mix well!
Commissar D, the Evil wrote:Das_Reich, I made a serious suggestion. Either you want to be a part or not. "Anti-Timo" just sounds stupid, even for a forum hero tale.
Cheers,
~D
ok, ok, I want to be Marcus W.
Well, I don't know about you folks, but I'm now convinced that Das Reich and KGM are not the same person. *rolls eyes*
Awakened by the sunrise, Sistah looked up dejectedly at giant fuzzy dice. She was surpised to find that Ian and Anna were awake as well and only lay quietly pretending to be sleeping.
“You know,” Sistah said, “I think it’s about time we had some luck.”
Ian squeezed her hand. She smiled demurely and drew her hand back.
Anna whispered to her. “In my country, when a woman wants a man, she reaches out and plucks him like a grape.”
Sistah giggled softly, then became serious. “I may have a plan.”
Ian considered for a moment. “You’re thinking of flying those things out of here?”
“Yes, I’m fairly certain we can get them into the air, even without the assisted take-off.”
“Perhaps”, Anna agreed, “but that still leaves a host of problems, not the least of which is how to get out of this cage.”
Ian nodded. “All of them come in for 11:00 prayer and stay for lunch. A truck comes in with their food and they eat under the dice after they pray.”
Sistah looked at him. “You mean you’ve managed to remain awake after their gas attacks?”
“Well,” Ian said, “I’m beginning to get used to it. But what’s your plan?”
“When does the truck arrive?”
“Before they pray, usually.”
Sistah reached into a pocket on her flight suit and produced a large glass vial. “Well, we do have a solution then” she said.
Anna’s eyes widened. “I am not committing suicide, you Nazi fiend.
“Suicide?” Sistah chuckled. “I’m a test pilot and we have found that at high altitudes or in very tight turns, “stomach problems” can be fatal. This vial contains the highest concentration of Simethecone known to mankind. I’m certain that there must be others here–she pointed to the piles of abandoned flight equipment within their enclosure. A few doses of this in their lunch and they won’t be able to pursue us.”
Anna dug around in the pocket of her flight suit and produced a tin of red powder. “We Russians use a similar drug, but we call it “Stalinicone”.
“And the other problems?” Ian said, somewhat impressed.
“I’m working on them”, Sistah said with a wink.
Craig had seen enough the night before to convince him that he was dealing with a band of total loonies who needed to be wiped out. But, there were a lot of loonies, which wasn’t an exactly unique event in the history of warfare, but which required some assistance. So, before dawn he had withdrawn from the airfield and returned to his position in the bushes to wait the arrival of the scarlet StuG. Prit’s vodka would come in very handy, he told himself.
As it happened, the food truck came a bit early that morning. Abool Toenailiban, last night’s lottery winner drove it. He was, in fact, so pleased with himself that he agreed to exchange places with their guard while he ate his precious spam. Watching him eat was at least a distraction from the odious smell of bean soup emanating from the 2 1/2 ton truck parked in the hangar.
Sistah stepped close to the wire cage of their enclosure and unbuttoned a button on her blouse.
“Say”, she purred, “would you like to play some strip poker?”
The Jerkistani looked at her with distaste and continued to eat his spam.
Shocked, Sistah said, “Tell me something, are there any women in your country?”
Abool Toenailiban gave it some thought and finally replied with a mouthful of spam. “I don’t know, I’ve never seen one...”
Sistah stepped away from the cage in frustration.
“Well,” Anna consoled her, “that explains why they don’t believe in God.”
“Or heaven”, Ian remarked.
Both women looked at him. What they were thinking slowly dawned on him, but before he could protest, Anna had pushed him to the wire.
Abool looked at Ian and his mouth fell open. He pulled out a deck of cards, leered and said softly, “Would you like to play a game of strip poker with me?”
Cursing under his breath, Ian nodded. “Okay, but I’d like to be able to deal my own cards.” Ian winked at Abool.
The Jerkistani looked around to ensure that no one was watching. Then he went and got a wooden box and sat it in front of the cage. He unlocked the door, but as soon as Ian stepped
out, the Jerkistani aimed his submachine gun at him. “Please, no tricks.”
Ian sat at the improvised card table, Abool sat across from him, cradling his submachine gun in his lap.
For the first time in his life, Ian played a game of poker where winning or losing were equally distasteful. But, deciding that a plan was a plan, Ian contrived to lose the first four hands.
That disposed of his flight jacket, shirt, socks and t-shirt.
He couldn’t be certain, with the Jerkistani salivating in front of him, but he thought he heard muffled giggles from Sistah and Anna behind him.
They played the fifth, and potentially decisive, hand.
“Three deuces,” Abool said smugly, laying the cards on the table.
A hint of a smile came over Ian’s face. He spread his cards on the box, “Four deuces!”
“What!” Startled, the Jerkistani leaped to his feet just in time to catch a left hook to the jaw.
Ian was still shaking his bruised hand as the fetidyeen hit the floor. Dressing quickly, Ian watched as Sistah and Anna scrambled over to the truck to spike the terrorists’ lunch with the most potent anti-gas medicine the Reich had invented.
Once they were back in the cage, Ian scooped up the cards and put them in his pocket. He kicked the box aside. Straddling the unconscious terrorist, he made certain that the keys to the cage were in his pocket. Then he pulled the man’s revolver from its holster, held it to his head and fired. Quickly placing it in the dead man’s right hand, Ian retreated to the wire cage and closed the door behind him without locking it.
The sound of the gunshot brought a swarm of Jerkistanis into the hangar. They gathered around the slain man’s corpse and gestured angrily at the caged prisoners.
Ian shrugged amiably and explained, “He thought he was lucky because of last night, so he challenged me to a game of Russian roulette. He lost.” Ian shrugged again for emphasis.
The Jerkistanis discussed this for a moment, but they noted that the prisoners were still in their confinement and the discussion ended with some laughter and much prayer-filled bowing before the giant--and obviously fickle--fuzzy dice.
Abool the unfortunate was drug off and his body deposited in the nearest latrine–an old Jerkistani custom, it turned out. A new guard was posted and the prisoners retreated to the far end of their cage to await the further success of their scheme.
Death is lighter than a Feather, Duty is heavier than a Mountain....
The first sign Craig had of the impending approach of the forum heroes was the hound springing upon him in his camouflaged hide and licking his face. After a few moments of this torture, the dog sat and wagged its tail.
“I smell spam on your breath, so you must have been successful, my friend.” Craig patted the dog on the head, the dog responded by licking his hand.
So, where are our friends, boy?”
The hound wagged his tail and Craig brought out the empty vodka bottle. It sniffed the bottle once then bounded off into the brush, stopping occasionally to look back for Craig.
Not having much better to do at the moment, Craig followed cautiously. Although he had never yet been betrayed by a dog, Craig hadn’t survived for two years on the Eastern Front by being overly sentimental.
Three kilometers and several hills later, his trust was rewarded and he spotted three German vehicles, including the outrageously colored StuG. The three vehicles were parked below the crest of a ridge, while several crew members lounged outside. Even from a distance, Craig could see that other crew members were arguing amongst themselves and gesticulating at maps laid out on the ground.
“Ah”, Craig sighed, “lost again. I love the forum heroes.”
It took a full pint of vodka, but Craig managed to explain the unusual sights he had seen at the airfield to a very skeptical group: Sam, Xavier, Prit, Adrian, Tolga, Michael and Tom.
The other crew members stayed in their vehicles. O’Sullivan, because he didn’t want to take the abuse he anticipated over the “friendly fire” incident and “The Shadow” because he was “the Shadow” and had a firm policy against standing around in the daytime in Russia.
All three of the other members of the Tiger’s crew remained in their tank to keep an eye on the little armored car. One of them, Andy Holtz was playful enough to swing the Tiger’s turret around so that the huge 88mm gun’s muzzle stopped directly over the open turret of Tom’s scout car. O’Sullivan might have complained openly–he certainly bitched enough about it to “The Shadow”--but “The Shadow” laughingly reminded him that, at this range, even if the Tiger accidently fired a round, the concussion would probably kill them.
“So they’re holding three flyers, two German and one Russian, prisoner?” Sam asked again.
“Yes, and they’re bean-eating maniacs”, Craig said with a gulp of vodka.
“And they intend to force these flyers to bomb Berlin, Moscow and the Vatican?”
“Yes, especially the Vatican", Craig replied.
“What are their defenses again?” Tolga asked calmly.
“Well, there are about 30 airplanes parked on the field, but I’ve never seen them fly one. There are four quad 20mm. anti-aircraft guns set up, one on each end of the airstrip. And I’d say about forty to fifty madmen with small arms.”
Sam straightened up. “Okay, so what are we waiting for? Let’s hit them and rescue the prisoners.”
“I agree”, Tolga said, “a quick strike, we knock out the guns, flatten the planes and it’s finished by dinner.”
“Whoa, now wait just a god-damn minute”, Adrian snapped. “You guys seriously want us to put our asses on the line to rescue two Luftwaffe pigeons from people we’re not even fighting? I hate to remind you of this, but a 20mm round will go straight through one side of our StuG and come out the other!”
“We’ve only got three vehicles here”, Prit said. “I think we’re a bit out-numbered old chaps. Besides, who has ever seen a dead flier on the battlefield?”
“Yeah, last time I saw the Luftwaffe was in 1941", Tom agreed.
Craig took another swig of vodka. Prit obligingly handed him a fresh bottle.
For his part, Sam was aghast. The forum heroes had never refused to fight before. In fact, that was the only thing they never refused to do.
“But they want to bomb Berlin!” Sam yelled at Adrian.
“The British are bombing Berlin with a thousand bombers a night–you think one more crater is going to make a difference?” Adrian retorted hotly.
“No wait just a minute, I have family in Berlin!” Michael flung himself at Adrian, but Xavier and Tolga restrained him.
Tom was a bit non-committal as well. “I don’t have to tell you guys what anything larger than 7.65mm will do to my armored car,” he said.
“Yeah, and I give a flying frig about the Vatican!” Adrian shouted angrily. “Maybe the Pope should take a round up his arse–then maybe he’d say that war is a bad thing!”
This provoked a swing from Xavier, but Tom stepped between them and grabbed the StuG crewman.
“But there are forty planes on the airfield,” Tolga said. “All lined up and waiting to be ground under our tracks. It’s a tanker’s wet dream come to life.”
“But some of those are our planes”, Tom asserted.
“Yeah, like we’ve never been strafed and bombed by our own side”, Tolga replied sarcastically.
“Well what about the prisoners?” Sam asked plaintively.
Caught up in the heat of the argument (and their general dislike of the Luftwaffe), the entire crew of the StuG, Tom and Tolga turned to Sam and yelled in unison:
“Aw F***k them!!”
Death is lighter than a Feather, Duty is heavier than a Mountain....
Thankfully, the three captured pilots had no idea of the debate going on three kilometers away. Not that it would have made a bean’s worth of difference. Their plans were set, even if the exact details hadn’t been worked out.
All three spent most of the morning “aerating” their lungs. This involved breathing as deeply as possible, while the air was still fresh. Ian, who had before the war spent some time vacationing in the far east, taught them deep breathing exercises learned from the Dalai Parton Lama of Tibetistan. Unfortunately, this involved a certain amount of manual chest manipulation on his part and the multiple slapping of his face by the outraged Anna and Sistah.
Promptly at 11:00, the terrorists filed in to make their usual odorous offering to the giant fuzzy dice. The three flyers took very, very deep breaths.
Like mustard gas, the first waves of flatulence swept over them. Sistah’s perm died and her blond hair wilted and hung limply over her forehead. Anna’s eyes burst into involuntary tears and her lipstick dissolved. The deck of the playing cards in Ian’s pocket melted and fused together. But the valiant flyers held out desperately against the stench.
Finally, their lungs gave out and they were forced to breathe.
“Oh that reeks”, Sistah said between gasps.
“They smell worse than my dead aunt”, Anna cried.
Only Ian was serene. It occurred to him that two days with little food except beans had upset his system as well. Siting cross-legged on the floor, he subtly raised one of his buttocks. Poot! A sense of relief marked by a guilty smile buoyed him through the event, even as Anna and Sistah threw the nearest things handy at his back.
Finally, the Jerkistanis began to eat lunch. They fell upon the bean soup like ravening wolves, slurping it down and gobbling it up. Bowl after bowl appeared only to be devoured with barbaric gusto and shouts of praise directed towards the fuzzy dice.
Sistah looked at Anna and Ian, knowing that the simethecone would soon take effect.
The unsuspecting Jerkistanis lit their after-lunch cigarettes or sucked on their all-day hookahs.
And then a strange thing happened.
Many hundreds of years ago, the revered Boobi Satdown Al-Fartih had explained the principles of the Jerkistani philosophy of life. He wrote:
All of life is a cycle of eating beans and expelling wind. This cycle has repeated itself for all of the years since our father’s, father’s, father’s discovered the lovely caves of our lands. It is the essence of our very way of life to eat and break wind and the very epitome of our hospitality. As long as that happens, the torches in our caves never grow dim.
But in the stomachs of Bin Ladinsky’s fanatics a war had suddenly broken out, a war between the traditional bean and the invading scientific drug, simethicone. The bean army would form its traditional gas, only to be stricken down by the simethicone hordes. This war was waged grimly, with the vicousness of the immovable force meeting the immovable object. The Jerkistanis, unknowing hosts to these battling intestinal forces, began to suffer the bitter agonies of constipation and cramps. One by one they doubled over or headed for a frustrating session in the latrines. Cries of great woe filled the hangar as the weight of the unrelieved beans bloated their stomachs. This was followed by wretched screams of biblical proportions.
Even Bin Ladinsky was stricken and desperately bent over trying to clear his entrails.
Seizing the moment, the three flyers sneaked out of the hangar and over to hangar 52. Without hesitation, they started the engines on the bombers and their attached fighters. They quickly climbed the ladders and hopped into the cockpits.
“Are you sure you can fly that?” Sistah called out to Anna, who was squeezing herself into the seat of an FW-190.
“Of course I can”, Anna responded gaily, “the heroic Red Army has captured dozens of these skinny planes!”
“Remember, don’t use the Jerkistani assisted take off system! Do as I told you!”
“Da!” Anna answered with a wave.
Sistah looked at Ian, he nodded and smiled as he put his goggles on.
Revving the engines, Sistah motored the unwieldy machine out of the hangar. She fed the engines more gas and watched the revs climbed, then she released the brakes. The huge craft jolted forward and began to eat runway. Sistah was watching the speed climb as the first plastic ball shot out of a tube and came to rest in a slot. The machine’s diabolical Lotto directional system was kicking in.
Worse, the end of the runway was fast approaching. Sistah held of to the very last second and jerked the stick back. The combination aircraft lifted a foot, then a yard off the ground. She could hear the engines straining as she pulled the stick back further. The giant bird began to rise sluggishly and Sistah knew that she had made it.
Ian followed. Having flown many an over-loaded Stuka off of grass strips, he wasn’t particularly concerned. In fact, Ian was never particularly concerned when he was in the pilot’s seat. He quickly got the aircraft off the ground and began searching for Sistah.
Anna flew off amid a spattering of ground-fire, as the few Jerkistanis still on their feet reacted. But Anna had never worried much about ground-fire, since she flew night interceptor missions and was happily unaware of the dangers.
Free at last, they rendezvoused in a great flying circle high above the aerodrome.
Death is lighter than a Feather, Duty is heavier than a Mountain....
David , I hope all this was captured in "glorious technicolour" and may be played back for future enjoyment of the viewing millions.
For soundtrack / musical score may I suggest that great hit from the legendery rock band "Spinal Tap" , one of Nigel Tuffnels greatest , that epic opus " BREAK LIKE THE WIND".
Good one , or as "Trigger" might say in " Only Fools and Horses" " Nice one Dave "
Last edited by behblc on Mon Oct 06, 2003 7:10 am, edited 2 times in total.
" Life , to be sure is nothing much to loose ; But young men think it is , and we were young . "
A.E. Housman.
" The old lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori. " Wilfred Owen (M.C.).
Of course, being free ordinarily doesn't mean having a few tons of high explosives strapped to your butt or a plane that tells you where it wants to fly. At 5,000 feet the 2nd plastic ball popped into the slot and Sistah felt a sense of urgency. She wagged the FW's wings at Ian.
"We have to get rid of these bombs–300 feet, remember", Sistah radioed.
"Acknowledged", Ian replied, "see you down below".
"Da!" Anna replied. But she had seen something off in the distance. So, when Sisath peeled off into a dive and Ian followed, Anna flew away in a different direction.
Meanwhile, two hours of argument, debate and flying fists hadn’t settled the issue amongst the Forum Heroes. Prit, Adrian and Tom all had serious doubts about the proposed mission. Xavier wasn’t thrilled either, but he was still angry with Adrian.
Attempting to break the deadlock, Tom made a simple proposal.
“Let’s ask the Shadow, if anyone knows, he’ll know.”
Worn out by the continued acrimony, the others agreed, although the Shadow’s advice was known to have a certain cryptic flavor.
Michael climbed up on the Tiger’s turret, rapped on the hatch and instructed Andy H. To traverse the 88mm from over the top of the armored car. Then Tom mounted his vehicle and disappeared inside.
After a moment, Tom popped his head out, saying, “The Shadow says that if we don’t go to the mountain, the mountain will come to us.”
Sam rolled his eyes and the others murmured things that included, “Lotsa help, thanks.”
But this time Michael was a bit quicker on the uptake than the others and nervously scanned the skies. Spotting a huge, if unlikely, machine in the distance, he yelled, “Oh S**t!” and dove into the Tiger.
Prit stared at the horizon and what looked like a fighter with a bomber attached to it. The sight was strange enough to make him rub his eyes in disbelief, but when he opened them again, the apparition had only grown larger.
Anna grinned as she brought the plane down to 300 feet, punched the JATO starter and pulled the release handle. The converted JU-88 fell away and was immediately transformed by the rockets into a deadly guided missile.
“Here’s one from the Motherland, Hitlerite panzie troopers!” Anna shouted as the Jerkistani missile dove towards the three German armored vehicles.
In the turret of the Tiger I, Michael was frantically elevating the gun while trying to get a bead on the five tons of high explosives bearing down on his tank at 300mph.
Tom stood transfixed in the turret of his armored car as the deadly device sped towards them.
“BLAM!” The concussion from the Tiger’s gun rocked the little scout car.
“KABLAMMM!!!” The old JU-88 exploded less than a thousand meters away in a rain of aircraft parts that drove everyone under armor, including Prit, Adrian, Sam and Xavier who scrambled underneath the scarlet StuG.
Tolga was ecstatic even when a piece of landing gear bounced off the turret of his panzer. He grabbed Michael, turned him around in his gunner’s seat and hugged him.
“Even Otto Carius’ gunner couldn’t have made that shot”, Tolga enthused.
“Hunh”, an ashen faced Michael responded.
“I said even Otto Carius’ gunner couldn’t have made that shot”, Tolga repeated.
“Hunh”, Michael said again. The blood had drained totally from his features and he suddenly broke into an icy sweat.
Seeing that his trusted gunner was suffering from a mild case of shock, Tolga poked his head out of the turret cupola and yelled.
“Okay you Forum Heroes, let’s do what Forum Heroes do best–let’s f**K them up!!!”
Death is lighter than a Feather, Duty is heavier than a Mountain....
Sistah had her sights set on the hangar she had been held captive in. Swooping low over the airfield and ignoring 20mm tracers, she pulled on the release handle to drop the JU-88 bomber.
The plastic handle didn’t cooperate, it snapped off in her hand just as another ball dropped into the navigation slot.
Cursing, Sistah brought the plane around for another pass, ran the gauntlet of fire again and hit the JATOs before pulling a hard left turn. The pylon holding the fighter to the bomber snapped under the stress and the missile streaked towards the ground. Unfortunately it missed the hanger she had aimed at and struck Hangar 52 with a gigantic explosion. The force of the explosion tossed her fighter into a loop and showered it with a multitude of numbered plastic balls.
Years of piloting skills came into play and she managed to lift the plane’s nose just in time to clip the big hammer and sickle flag attached to the aerodrome's flagpole. Breathing hard, Sistah glanced earthward at that moment to glimpse a Tiger I rolling on to the landing strip and lobbing an 88mm high explosive shell into an anti-aircraft gun emplacement.
She noted with grim amusement that Jerkistanis were running (or crawling) around like roaches on the doomed airfield.
Ian was holding the stick between his legs as pulled his flying gloves on. Somehow, flying never quite felt right without the gloves on. And, as an experienced ground attack pilot, he was determined to expend the explosive-stuffed bomber in exactly the right place. Another navigation ball fell into place. He put the unwieldy machine into a dive and aimed it at the entrance to the terrorist cave. He could see Jerkistani terrorists running for the cave and firing up at him with their submachine guns.
Unimpressed, Ian bore in, waiting for the very last moment to hit the JATO rockets and release the bomber. It flew straight and true.
On the ground below, Osama bin Ladinsky stared at the approaching missile in disbelief and amazement. He forgot his stomach problems instantly.
“Jesus Christ!!” Bin Ladinsky swore. Braappp!!! That sound was the sound of his intestines emptying involuntarily, but it was lost in the vastly louder noise of the JU-88 striking the opening of the cave.
For a moment nothing seemed to happen as Ian’s fighter clawed skyward. Then there was a magnificent, muffled “THHUUUMP!” as the network of caves, indeed the hill itself collapsed.
The Forum Heroes were having a ball. Tolga’s mighty Tiger crushed airplane after airplane underfoot as the startled terrorists fled, hid or died in the wreckage. Xavier, handling the StuG’s main gun, was having a field day blowing away airplanes. He especially liked it when one of the bombers or Russian attack planes went up in a fiery explosion.
Not to be outdone, Tom rammed his armored car into a Russian II-2, the dreaded "Stormovik" ground attack aircraft. The car rolled over the plane's fuselage, but, to Tom’s surprise, didn’t seem to inflict any damage. Tom swivelled his gun turret and fired a fusillade of 20mm shells and machine gun rounds from his co-ax. The ground around the Stormovik exploded, obscuring the plane in a cloud of dust. When that settled, Tom was amazed to see that he had managed only to flatten the plane’s tires and crack its canopy slightly.
“Damn!” Tom muttered, “I got to get me one of those.”
Leaving the stubborn Russian craft behind for Tolga to crush, Tom instructed O’Sullivan to drive into the lone standing hangar. After shooting a dozen or so terrorists, the armored car came to a halt in front of the giant fuzzy dice. Tom elevated the 20mm, but hesitated for a moment.
“Well shoot, ye sorry twit”, he heard O’Sullivan say over the intercom.
“Not so fast, I just had a thought for after the war. Wouldn’t these make nice decorations, hanging from the mirror in a motor car?” Tom said.
“If your balls were as big, we wouldn’t be stuck in this bleedin’ tiny deathtrap, ye milksop”, O’Sullivan replied.
Tom kept a large wrench handy for emergencies like this and, reaching under the gun, clunked O’Sullivan on the head with it. Then he blasted the giant fuzzy dice into smithereens.
Last edited by Commissar D, the Evil on Mon Oct 06, 2003 6:21 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Death is lighter than a Feather, Duty is heavier than a Mountain....
