Wesforce
03-20-2004, 01:33 PM
(I just knocked this up... We need some more RA2 biker action here!)
Field Marshall Anthony Wiberforce-Smythe took off his glasses and reclined in his great leather chair. Harsh yellow unshaded light from the ceiling stabbed at his eyes and he closed them, rubbing them.
'Oh dear. Oh dear oh dear.'
He leaned forward again. Strands of his receding, greying hair fell out of place. He smoothed them back down - Getting hair oil all over his hands, rather distastefully - And reseated his peaked cap.
The situation was not looking good. In fact it was a downright disaster. But ever the optimist, the Field Marshall could see a way out. A light at the end of the tunnel, as it were.
Looking at all the red Soviet icons encroaching upon Allied territory on the map on his desk, this light would have to come very soon to be any good.
He reached for his telephone, and spoke with crisp, clear authoritative public-school tones.
'Wilberforce-Smythe. Transmit this to CinC Northern front, if you please. I'm going to need a dispatch rider...'
When he was finished, he lay back again.
It was going to be close...
***
Corporal Armstrong Tilsley gripped the handlebars of his Norton Commando, giving the throttle a comforting twist. The engine roared like a live thing, eager to get going. A cloud of smoke filled his rear view mirrors.
A Sergeant in a Military Police redcap rushed from the manor he was parked outside, clutching a bundle like a baby - Like it was the most precious thing on this Earth. Maybe it was.
'You’re the dispatch rider?'
'Yes Sergeant' Tilsley replied, muffled by his rider's helmet.
The Sergeant buckled the package securely onto the back of Tilsley's bike without a word. Then he showed Tilsley a map. They hadn't told him where he'd be going until the last possible moment, for reasons of secrecy.
The map showed a red line snaking erratically from here to the Main Allied HQ. A line that snaked between Allied Territory, alarmingly close to the Soviet Armoured thrusts.
'Sarge!' Tilsley protested. 'This map is old! The Soviets will have advanced across this route by the time I get there!'
The Sergeant's eyes were cold, pale grey.
'You'll deliver this package laddie, or you’ll be sorry. The whole war effort may depend on you getting this to HQ in time! No on yer bloody bike!'
Cowed by the Sergeant's harsh tone, Tilsley twisted his throttle-grip and roared off, kicking dust up all over the redcap.
The stately manor grounds gave way to a dusty country lane. Signs at the side of the road said things like 'Dust means death! Keep your speed down!' and 'Don't let Ivan know what’s what - Keep your papers secure in your vehicle!’ Tilsley passed a vehicle ground where Prism tanks were being warmed up and given their dispersal orders. Soviet armour would be coming here shortly - He hoped the allied vehicles would be able to get here in time. A soldier waved his SA-80 at Tilsley, who was riding too hard and fast to be risk waving back.
He clattered over a wooden-slatted bridge -The redcaps on the checkpoint there waved him through. They'd been told to watch for him. Tilsley roared over it, his powerful bike's Speedo hardly wavering.
More Allied troops marched up a hill road further on. He saw them in the distance.
Then he saw a plume of dust and smoke erupt suddenly. The troops scattered off the road, going to ground to the left and right at the bequest of a frantically waving Officer. More plumes, fiery-red in intensity. One man was sent flying, arms and legs flapping like a broken rag-doll.
'****!' Tilsley said, though he couldn't here himself or the artillery hits over the roar of his Norton Commando.
The troops scraped themselves into little foxholes with entrenching tools, more shells hitting near them. Some men were hit, some got into the craters left by the hits. No-one touched the dead men.
Close enough now to see the white of fear in the troops eyes, the Officer (who wore a cap and not the berets or helmets of the rest of his men) waved angrily at Tilsley. Tilsley read his gestures easily. They said
'Get the hell out of here you bloody fool!'
And like a nightmare from the depths, Tilsley saw his first Soviet tank. Dark brown and green camo, wide tracks, low body. Two monstrous 120mm Cannons. A Rhino - Upgunned from the earlier models which had only sported one cannon. Immediately sparks flew from the turret as a British machine-gunner opened up on it from his fox-hole. The bullets pattered off like rain, doing no good but to keep the Tank commander down in his vehicle.
The tank ad guns too. The twinguns fired, just overshooting the machine gunners. But now the riflemen were adding their fire.
With a puff of smoke, a Milan anti-tank missile leapt from the concealed launcher. Only after it left the tube a few metres did its rocket-engine ignite. Tilsley watched fascinated as the missile bounced and skipped through the air and -WHAM! - Through the lead tank's turret.
The tank stopped dead in its tracks, smoke pouring from the back. No crewmen emerged from the oddly serene-looking wreck.
But then the second tank rose over the hill, catching the British troops as they redeployed. A machinegunner on the turret top caught half a dozen men in the open, and rolled over the bodies.
By Now Tilsley had taken the Officer's advice, and kick-turned off the road. He bumped and jounced over the rugged field, but his bike was made for this kind of punishment. The Army wouldn’t have issued him it otherwise. Something slammed supersonically through the air whet felt like inches from his head, but he ignored it. A bike rider looked where he was going, or the going got him - Or so the saying went
At the end of the field was a small copse - Backing onto the river Tilsley had just crossed on the bridge. Following it would lead Tilsley behind the Russian advance guard. He broke out in a cold sweat but held his course - No-one had told him this was going to be easy, and he couldn’t very well turn back now, would he?
Tilsley throttled down some approaching the copse through the long grass. He was a good rider, but charging headlong into the trees wouldn’t be helping his chances, and he didn't want to attract any unwanted attention from the Soviet troops not so far off.
Movement! There in the trees!
A longcoated figure in the shade raised something to his shoulder -The next instant stuttering muzzle flare erupted, and the ground behind Tilsley’s bike rippled with bullet-hits. But Tilsley was already leaning hard over. Being only a few yards from the trees he knew to turn now would be suicide. The shooter was close. He chose to open the throttle again and smash on through. Leaves and branches whipped at him, tearing at his leathers. The bike hit a bump and flew a few feet.
A masked Soviet conscript appeared out of nowhere. Tilsley's bike caught him in the gut and he grunted, flung aside like an applecore.
And then Tilsley was out of the trees, panting, pale and frightened out of his life. But alive.
***
Field Marshall Anthony Wiberforce-Smythe took off his glasses and reclined in his great leather chair. Harsh yellow unshaded light from the ceiling stabbed at his eyes and he closed them, rubbing them.
'Oh dear. Oh dear oh dear.'
He leaned forward again. Strands of his receding, greying hair fell out of place. He smoothed them back down - Getting hair oil all over his hands, rather distastefully - And reseated his peaked cap.
The situation was not looking good. In fact it was a downright disaster. But ever the optimist, the Field Marshall could see a way out. A light at the end of the tunnel, as it were.
Looking at all the red Soviet icons encroaching upon Allied territory on the map on his desk, this light would have to come very soon to be any good.
He reached for his telephone, and spoke with crisp, clear authoritative public-school tones.
'Wilberforce-Smythe. Transmit this to CinC Northern front, if you please. I'm going to need a dispatch rider...'
When he was finished, he lay back again.
It was going to be close...
***
Corporal Armstrong Tilsley gripped the handlebars of his Norton Commando, giving the throttle a comforting twist. The engine roared like a live thing, eager to get going. A cloud of smoke filled his rear view mirrors.
A Sergeant in a Military Police redcap rushed from the manor he was parked outside, clutching a bundle like a baby - Like it was the most precious thing on this Earth. Maybe it was.
'You’re the dispatch rider?'
'Yes Sergeant' Tilsley replied, muffled by his rider's helmet.
The Sergeant buckled the package securely onto the back of Tilsley's bike without a word. Then he showed Tilsley a map. They hadn't told him where he'd be going until the last possible moment, for reasons of secrecy.
The map showed a red line snaking erratically from here to the Main Allied HQ. A line that snaked between Allied Territory, alarmingly close to the Soviet Armoured thrusts.
'Sarge!' Tilsley protested. 'This map is old! The Soviets will have advanced across this route by the time I get there!'
The Sergeant's eyes were cold, pale grey.
'You'll deliver this package laddie, or you’ll be sorry. The whole war effort may depend on you getting this to HQ in time! No on yer bloody bike!'
Cowed by the Sergeant's harsh tone, Tilsley twisted his throttle-grip and roared off, kicking dust up all over the redcap.
The stately manor grounds gave way to a dusty country lane. Signs at the side of the road said things like 'Dust means death! Keep your speed down!' and 'Don't let Ivan know what’s what - Keep your papers secure in your vehicle!’ Tilsley passed a vehicle ground where Prism tanks were being warmed up and given their dispersal orders. Soviet armour would be coming here shortly - He hoped the allied vehicles would be able to get here in time. A soldier waved his SA-80 at Tilsley, who was riding too hard and fast to be risk waving back.
He clattered over a wooden-slatted bridge -The redcaps on the checkpoint there waved him through. They'd been told to watch for him. Tilsley roared over it, his powerful bike's Speedo hardly wavering.
More Allied troops marched up a hill road further on. He saw them in the distance.
Then he saw a plume of dust and smoke erupt suddenly. The troops scattered off the road, going to ground to the left and right at the bequest of a frantically waving Officer. More plumes, fiery-red in intensity. One man was sent flying, arms and legs flapping like a broken rag-doll.
'****!' Tilsley said, though he couldn't here himself or the artillery hits over the roar of his Norton Commando.
The troops scraped themselves into little foxholes with entrenching tools, more shells hitting near them. Some men were hit, some got into the craters left by the hits. No-one touched the dead men.
Close enough now to see the white of fear in the troops eyes, the Officer (who wore a cap and not the berets or helmets of the rest of his men) waved angrily at Tilsley. Tilsley read his gestures easily. They said
'Get the hell out of here you bloody fool!'
And like a nightmare from the depths, Tilsley saw his first Soviet tank. Dark brown and green camo, wide tracks, low body. Two monstrous 120mm Cannons. A Rhino - Upgunned from the earlier models which had only sported one cannon. Immediately sparks flew from the turret as a British machine-gunner opened up on it from his fox-hole. The bullets pattered off like rain, doing no good but to keep the Tank commander down in his vehicle.
The tank ad guns too. The twinguns fired, just overshooting the machine gunners. But now the riflemen were adding their fire.
With a puff of smoke, a Milan anti-tank missile leapt from the concealed launcher. Only after it left the tube a few metres did its rocket-engine ignite. Tilsley watched fascinated as the missile bounced and skipped through the air and -WHAM! - Through the lead tank's turret.
The tank stopped dead in its tracks, smoke pouring from the back. No crewmen emerged from the oddly serene-looking wreck.
But then the second tank rose over the hill, catching the British troops as they redeployed. A machinegunner on the turret top caught half a dozen men in the open, and rolled over the bodies.
By Now Tilsley had taken the Officer's advice, and kick-turned off the road. He bumped and jounced over the rugged field, but his bike was made for this kind of punishment. The Army wouldn’t have issued him it otherwise. Something slammed supersonically through the air whet felt like inches from his head, but he ignored it. A bike rider looked where he was going, or the going got him - Or so the saying went
At the end of the field was a small copse - Backing onto the river Tilsley had just crossed on the bridge. Following it would lead Tilsley behind the Russian advance guard. He broke out in a cold sweat but held his course - No-one had told him this was going to be easy, and he couldn’t very well turn back now, would he?
Tilsley throttled down some approaching the copse through the long grass. He was a good rider, but charging headlong into the trees wouldn’t be helping his chances, and he didn't want to attract any unwanted attention from the Soviet troops not so far off.
Movement! There in the trees!
A longcoated figure in the shade raised something to his shoulder -The next instant stuttering muzzle flare erupted, and the ground behind Tilsley’s bike rippled with bullet-hits. But Tilsley was already leaning hard over. Being only a few yards from the trees he knew to turn now would be suicide. The shooter was close. He chose to open the throttle again and smash on through. Leaves and branches whipped at him, tearing at his leathers. The bike hit a bump and flew a few feet.
A masked Soviet conscript appeared out of nowhere. Tilsley's bike caught him in the gut and he grunted, flung aside like an applecore.
And then Tilsley was out of the trees, panting, pale and frightened out of his life. But alive.
***