*wipes sweat from forehead*
*closes window...it became fresh in here*
Would someone please take out that monster...
(Arajs would surely volunteer!
)
![:[]](./images/smilies/icon_study.gif "Study"){kind=icon}
So....My Tank Corps in Prussia...
Moderator: Commissar D, the Evil
Take out the monster ? ... as in presenting flowers to the hairy beast, and catching the late movie and later a drink or two together in some dimly lit Bad Frostberg beerkeller ?M.H. wrote:Would someone please take out that monster...
(Arajs would surely volunteer!
No, No, NO.
The best bet would probably be someone sneaking out and planting a swastika flag on the Commissar's command post, along with a crudely lettered "Wolfsschanze" sign. After all we are in Prussia - the Tommy bombers would level it without a second thought.
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Commissar D, the Evil
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What's a few JS-2s between enemies?-
Commissar D, the Evil
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The Bad Frostberg Caption Contest!
To get the gray cells working till David has the next chapter ready maybe you have a better idea for the speech bubbles?
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Commissar D, the Evil
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phylo_roadking
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“Clackety, clankety, clackety, clank”, Hansen said idly, hugging his panzerfaust as the Stalin tanks advanced. “You have to admire the glory of steel………….”
Arajs, sharing the same shell hole, looked at him with great skepticism.
“It was the same in Kiel”, Hanson offered. “Some poor fool drilled the hole, I plugged it with a rivet and another man flattened out the head—but it was all steel against steel, an honest business of making the steel into what it should be.”
Arajs watched the huge Soviet tanks close slowly but remorselessly on their position.
“So, what do you think, Arajs?” Hanson asked.
“I think only that they have chased us out of our homes and homeland. I will defend this hole to the end. I’m sick of retreating, I’m sick of running.”
Hanson looked at him, with some sympathy. “So, you take all of this seriously? I don’t. This is simply the matter again of steel versus men and we will always lose such a fight. Steel always conquers men, no matter how much effort you make to shape or bend it. Rivets don’t hold, welds don’t hold, steel answers only to itself.”
Arajs heard him, but he busied himself adjusting the sights of his panzerfaust. “Steel can be bent and holed. “ Arajs said, finally. “I’m here to destroy Red tanks—nothing more. Are you going to help or has the war changed you from a soldier into a philosopher?”
Hanson laughed heartily. “Well then, infidel, let’s die in our little hole as you insist, while we debate the superiority of flesh versus steel!”
And these were surely steel. Forty-five tons of steel each, with 122mm canon to top it off. If the edges of a map were in olden times labeled "And here lie Dragons", than their appearance on the outskirts of Bad Frostberg could be easily understood. A mere man counted less to them than a wooden stick as they drove forward in a perfectly straight line abreast formation, blasting everything that moved or towered above the height of a man with their guns.
Houses collapsed in humble obedience to their shellfire. Streets trembled and threw up their cobblestones under their bombardment. Fear drove the mass of German defenders deeper into the town and only the real die-hards, like Hanson and Arajs, remained in their freezing shelters to counter the Stalin tanks.
Every now and again, the Stalin tanks would stop in their tracks, but only to pour more shells into their objective. Really hardened troopers remained steady under the immense fire, tucking their heads under their stahlheims and pushing their bodies against the ground of their shelters, but many lesser men fled and no one in the thin German line could find it in their hearts to blame them as the ferocity of the assault intensified.
Arajs, sharing the same shell hole, looked at him with great skepticism.
“It was the same in Kiel”, Hanson offered. “Some poor fool drilled the hole, I plugged it with a rivet and another man flattened out the head—but it was all steel against steel, an honest business of making the steel into what it should be.”
Arajs watched the huge Soviet tanks close slowly but remorselessly on their position.
“So, what do you think, Arajs?” Hanson asked.
“I think only that they have chased us out of our homes and homeland. I will defend this hole to the end. I’m sick of retreating, I’m sick of running.”
Hanson looked at him, with some sympathy. “So, you take all of this seriously? I don’t. This is simply the matter again of steel versus men and we will always lose such a fight. Steel always conquers men, no matter how much effort you make to shape or bend it. Rivets don’t hold, welds don’t hold, steel answers only to itself.”
Arajs heard him, but he busied himself adjusting the sights of his panzerfaust. “Steel can be bent and holed. “ Arajs said, finally. “I’m here to destroy Red tanks—nothing more. Are you going to help or has the war changed you from a soldier into a philosopher?”
Hanson laughed heartily. “Well then, infidel, let’s die in our little hole as you insist, while we debate the superiority of flesh versus steel!”
And these were surely steel. Forty-five tons of steel each, with 122mm canon to top it off. If the edges of a map were in olden times labeled "And here lie Dragons", than their appearance on the outskirts of Bad Frostberg could be easily understood. A mere man counted less to them than a wooden stick as they drove forward in a perfectly straight line abreast formation, blasting everything that moved or towered above the height of a man with their guns.
Houses collapsed in humble obedience to their shellfire. Streets trembled and threw up their cobblestones under their bombardment. Fear drove the mass of German defenders deeper into the town and only the real die-hards, like Hanson and Arajs, remained in their freezing shelters to counter the Stalin tanks.
Every now and again, the Stalin tanks would stop in their tracks, but only to pour more shells into their objective. Really hardened troopers remained steady under the immense fire, tucking their heads under their stahlheims and pushing their bodies against the ground of their shelters, but many lesser men fled and no one in the thin German line could find it in their hearts to blame them as the ferocity of the assault intensified.
Last edited by Commissar D, the Evil on Fri Aug 31, 2007 9:08 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Death is lighter than a Feather, Duty is heavier than a Mountain....
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Commissar D, the Evil
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Ursula, whose poverty and circumstances reduced her to scavenging from garbage cans, lit a small fire under a pot containing half-eaten meat-bones, spoiled cabbage and shards of potato skins.
A Russian shell burst near her, blasting two German machine-gunners into shreds and showering her in their blood. She sobbed, uselessly, and stoked the fire, as even an unsavory meal rightly meant more to her, at the time, than another person's life.
Rossselsprung and Gruber were already in the front lines, going from house to house, hole to hole, to give encouragement to the defenders. Those men that faced the attack had assumed the faces and attitudes of granite statues and, rooted into their positions, barely replied to the two senior officers' blandishments, even as they stiffly prepared themselves for an obviously one-sided and fatal battle. The men that did speak were mostly amateurs, raw Volksturm who had returned to the line or S.S. Poletzei who had never endured nor envisioned a Soviet Tank assault.
But Rosselsprung and Gruber did their best and didn't spare themselves any danger.
At a thousand meters from the town, the Stalin tanks stopped again and opened up with their full force, aided by hordes of T-34s firing from behind them over open sights and quite unafraid of any reply from the town.
At the time, only Phylo's Panthers, Jan-Hendrick's Jagdpanther and a few Hetzers comprised Bad Frostberg's only armored defense. Under Rosselsprung's orders, they all held their fire and saved their scarce ammunition, even while the town blew up around them and Russian shells shattered the walls and roofs that hid them.
But even the very hard Russian Tankists of the Guards Tanks Corps never attempted to describe the sights they saw as the entire Southern portion of Bad Frostberg exploded under their shells--great homes, roads, bridges and stores rising into the air and disintegrating into red-brick and grey-white fragments.
Although the Commissar's artillery wasn't on hand to complete the destruction, certainly his men thought that the hammering executed by the mass firing of 122mm and 85 mm shells had obliterated any obvious target, much to their cheers. The Tankists, without much worry about the Commissar's orders, intended, at this stage of the war, to raze anything German and only advance into objectives that had already been pulverized by their guns.
Ursula only managed to devour a few slurps of her improvised soup before the shell-fire drove her deeper into the town. Filthy and blood-stained, she crept off to find more food and escape the shower of raining death.
A Russian shell burst near her, blasting two German machine-gunners into shreds and showering her in their blood. She sobbed, uselessly, and stoked the fire, as even an unsavory meal rightly meant more to her, at the time, than another person's life.
Rossselsprung and Gruber were already in the front lines, going from house to house, hole to hole, to give encouragement to the defenders. Those men that faced the attack had assumed the faces and attitudes of granite statues and, rooted into their positions, barely replied to the two senior officers' blandishments, even as they stiffly prepared themselves for an obviously one-sided and fatal battle. The men that did speak were mostly amateurs, raw Volksturm who had returned to the line or S.S. Poletzei who had never endured nor envisioned a Soviet Tank assault.
But Rosselsprung and Gruber did their best and didn't spare themselves any danger.
At a thousand meters from the town, the Stalin tanks stopped again and opened up with their full force, aided by hordes of T-34s firing from behind them over open sights and quite unafraid of any reply from the town.
At the time, only Phylo's Panthers, Jan-Hendrick's Jagdpanther and a few Hetzers comprised Bad Frostberg's only armored defense. Under Rosselsprung's orders, they all held their fire and saved their scarce ammunition, even while the town blew up around them and Russian shells shattered the walls and roofs that hid them.
But even the very hard Russian Tankists of the Guards Tanks Corps never attempted to describe the sights they saw as the entire Southern portion of Bad Frostberg exploded under their shells--great homes, roads, bridges and stores rising into the air and disintegrating into red-brick and grey-white fragments.
Although the Commissar's artillery wasn't on hand to complete the destruction, certainly his men thought that the hammering executed by the mass firing of 122mm and 85 mm shells had obliterated any obvious target, much to their cheers. The Tankists, without much worry about the Commissar's orders, intended, at this stage of the war, to raze anything German and only advance into objectives that had already been pulverized by their guns.
Ursula only managed to devour a few slurps of her improvised soup before the shell-fire drove her deeper into the town. Filthy and blood-stained, she crept off to find more food and escape the shower of raining death.
Death is lighter than a Feather, Duty is heavier than a Mountain....