Wesforce
06-29-2004, 04:06 PM
(First RA2 story I've done for a while :color1: Work in progress)
It was just another day in the trenches West of Chicago for the men of the British Expeditionary force. Sent here when the war was fresh and the US looked like collapsing under the strain of Soviet Air bombardment, armoured thrusts and psychic assaults, loyal ally Britain had sent all the men she could spare from her far-flung empire: Among them, Sergeant Jack O'Brien and his section from the 3rd Battalion Staffs&Bucks.
That was a long time ago now, when the war was very different. Now the US wasn't in immediate danger, but the large numbers of Soviet troops on US soil weren;t about to pack it in and fly home in time for the cosy Russian winter.
Waiting to see what happened next, the troops in line had little to do but sit in there advanced fortifications - Including a French-designed 'Michigan Line' series of Grand Cannon forts - Count the rad clicks from poor, nuked Chicago,. and wait for the Russkie's next move.
'Sarge, when are we goin' home, like? Me girlfriend's gave birth last year and I ain't seen me son yet, like.' Grumbled Private Alder.
'Yeah sarge, I'm bored here eh, do we get R&R any time soon, eh?' Said Private McKenzie.
'And I'd really rather be at home with my Fuchias, if that makes any difference.' Said Corporal Philips in his rather limp-wristed fashion.
'It doesn't.' Sergeant O'Brien reassured him, in his big-gutted, bombastic Irish fashion. 'We're here fer the duration of it yer wee malingerers.' But he didn't sound convincing - Not even enough to convince himself. Truth was, he was sick and tired of this war, too. There was nothing he wanted more than to eat food that hadn't been wrapped in foil for the last twenty years (even though he was lucky to have even that in the starving United States). He wanted to see a plane that wasn't trying to kill him. He wanted to be able to walk on grass, not a cratered moon-surface pockmarked with sucking watery holes you could easily drown in. He wanted to spend his evenings down the pub with some Guiness, watching Man United lose to Stevenage again.
Yes, he'd sell his right arm to get out of here. So would most of his men.
But not all of them.
'Sergeant, your conduct sickens me.' Said Lance-Corporal Cheevs, a stuck-up little bastard from darkest Brighton. 'I shall writ a letter to Colonel Sopel immediately, and request you be court-martialled for ineptness of command and concealed defeatism.'
'You do that, Cheevs, ye little fecker. The rest of you can piss arf noo, like. I'm going to have a wee nap.'
The Sergeant didn't get more than three steps before the world turned red. Not red in the Soviet fashion, but an eerie red-purple way. The light seemed to be coming from the sky, and bathed the whole section of trench.
'Jings an' helpmaboab!' Exclaimed McKenzie. 'Wee bastards 'ave gone an' used some o' their Yuri tech on us!'
A vortext of blue-white light manifested. The light seemed attracted to their bodies, and sought out each of the men, dissapearing into their skin.
'Run!' Screamed Cheevs, far too late.
But O'Brien couldn't run anyway. He bent and doubled over as if about to throw up - His stomach burst into pain. Even so he got up, only for bloood to burst and spatter out of his nose in an explosive nosebless. His head felt like a football was jammed into it, and began throbbing rhythmically. He screamed - All his men were screaming.
He saw them - writhing about on the floor. Something was happening to them... Something so completey unnatural and dehumanising that O'Brien tried to reach for his .454 service revolver and shoot himself through the head.
Alder was down, scratching frantically at something that moved under his uniform. McKenzie screamed Scottish obscenties at the top of his voice while his muscles rippled under his skin, swelling him to a ludicrous size - His camo jacket split, webbing belts and weapon sling pinged off.
It was happening to all O'Brien's men now. They were becoming huge, purple-skinned mutant giants before his very eyes.
And it was happening to him now...
O'Brien blacked out, mercifully.
***
'Body?' What the hell kind of name is that for an American?' Snarled the US Marines Lieutenant.
'Sir - its "Bodhi'", pronounced "bode-e".' Said his Sergeant, adding 'Sir!'
'Humph. Well lets get this over with.' Said the Lt, walking up to the screen dorr of the small recreational stucco house. He knocked three precise times. A muffled curse was heard from nearby, then the sound of something glass falling over. Thirty seconds later, and thrty seconds too late for the Lieutenant, the door was opened by a very large, jarheaded man, naked but for a towel around his waist. Muscles rippled across his sweaty torso - emblazoned with the US Marines eagle anchor and globe emblem in black ink. The Marine went shock-pale and came to attention quickly, almost dropping the towel as he saluted.
The Lieutenant was livid.
'Marine, WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT? Last I checked, whena marine officer knocks on your door, you answer it, FLANK! Because if you don't, he's liable to break it doan go primal on your ass, DO YOU HEAR ME?'
'SIR YES SIR!' Shouter the marine.
'Not only that, marine, but you look a disgrace! Good thing you're not wearing the unform, because it'd take you two freakin' weeks to pull it out of your stinking fat ass after I've finished with you! DO YOU HEAR ME?'
'SIR YES SIR!'
'Marine Studibagel - Marine Bodhi Studibagel?' Asked the Sergeant.
'Yep, thats me.'
'ADDRESS THE SUPERIOR OFFICER PRESENT NUMBNUTS!' The sergeant screamed. Studibagel faced the Officer quickly.
'SIR! MARINE BODHI STUDIBAGEL SIR! REPORTING FOR DUTY SIR!'
'NOT LIKE THAT YOU'RE NOT! GET BACK IN THERE AND CLEAN YOURSELF UP, FLANK!' Screamed the red-faced officer, almost at the end of his tether. 'DO YOU HEAR ME?'
'SIR YES SIR!'
'ON THE DOUBLE!'
Studibagel began frantically double-marching on the spot. The towel dropped, but he ignored it, doubled into the house, cleaned himself up, got into uniform in record time, and was at the front door again, where the Lt was regarding his watch extemperously.
'Despicable, Marine. Despicable and sloppy. Drop and give me thirty.'
'SIR YES SIR!!' Screamed Studibagel, obediently dropping to start his push-ups.
'COUNT THEM OUT!'
'SIR YES SIR!' Puffed Studibagel. 'ONE SIR! TWO SIR!'
For an added incentive, the Lieutenant applied his weight to Studibagel's back via a boot so polished it was almost a mirror. But in doing so he had to step forward, and saw inside Studibagel's house. He saw a bed, the covers rumpled. And in that bed, lonely and pale...
He fell silent. Studibagel stopped doing his press-ups.
Traffic went by. The Sergeant and the Lieutenant looked at each other.
Then they both looked at Studibagel. The Lt's voice was a shocked whisper.
'Marine... Were you about to have sex with a minor in there?'
'SIR YES SIR!' Studibagel said before he could catch himself. Then, 'Uh, NO! NO SIR NO!' He gestured frantically, but stopped as the Lt raised a hand.
'Enough Studibagel. Come with us.'
The Officer and NCO took Marine Studibagel away from his rest-house and underage lover to their Olive-green Lincoln for the ride to base. Oddly, the atmosphere between the men had thawed somewhat. They explained to him that, due to his exceptional service record and specialist bodyguard training, he was being pulled off R&R for a special mission,
'One of great national Importance.' Said the Lt.
'SIR YES SIR!' Screamed Studibagel automatically.
'Glad you agree.' Said the Lt, and he smiled.
It was just another day in the trenches West of Chicago for the men of the British Expeditionary force. Sent here when the war was fresh and the US looked like collapsing under the strain of Soviet Air bombardment, armoured thrusts and psychic assaults, loyal ally Britain had sent all the men she could spare from her far-flung empire: Among them, Sergeant Jack O'Brien and his section from the 3rd Battalion Staffs&Bucks.
That was a long time ago now, when the war was very different. Now the US wasn't in immediate danger, but the large numbers of Soviet troops on US soil weren;t about to pack it in and fly home in time for the cosy Russian winter.
Waiting to see what happened next, the troops in line had little to do but sit in there advanced fortifications - Including a French-designed 'Michigan Line' series of Grand Cannon forts - Count the rad clicks from poor, nuked Chicago,. and wait for the Russkie's next move.
'Sarge, when are we goin' home, like? Me girlfriend's gave birth last year and I ain't seen me son yet, like.' Grumbled Private Alder.
'Yeah sarge, I'm bored here eh, do we get R&R any time soon, eh?' Said Private McKenzie.
'And I'd really rather be at home with my Fuchias, if that makes any difference.' Said Corporal Philips in his rather limp-wristed fashion.
'It doesn't.' Sergeant O'Brien reassured him, in his big-gutted, bombastic Irish fashion. 'We're here fer the duration of it yer wee malingerers.' But he didn't sound convincing - Not even enough to convince himself. Truth was, he was sick and tired of this war, too. There was nothing he wanted more than to eat food that hadn't been wrapped in foil for the last twenty years (even though he was lucky to have even that in the starving United States). He wanted to see a plane that wasn't trying to kill him. He wanted to be able to walk on grass, not a cratered moon-surface pockmarked with sucking watery holes you could easily drown in. He wanted to spend his evenings down the pub with some Guiness, watching Man United lose to Stevenage again.
Yes, he'd sell his right arm to get out of here. So would most of his men.
But not all of them.
'Sergeant, your conduct sickens me.' Said Lance-Corporal Cheevs, a stuck-up little bastard from darkest Brighton. 'I shall writ a letter to Colonel Sopel immediately, and request you be court-martialled for ineptness of command and concealed defeatism.'
'You do that, Cheevs, ye little fecker. The rest of you can piss arf noo, like. I'm going to have a wee nap.'
The Sergeant didn't get more than three steps before the world turned red. Not red in the Soviet fashion, but an eerie red-purple way. The light seemed to be coming from the sky, and bathed the whole section of trench.
'Jings an' helpmaboab!' Exclaimed McKenzie. 'Wee bastards 'ave gone an' used some o' their Yuri tech on us!'
A vortext of blue-white light manifested. The light seemed attracted to their bodies, and sought out each of the men, dissapearing into their skin.
'Run!' Screamed Cheevs, far too late.
But O'Brien couldn't run anyway. He bent and doubled over as if about to throw up - His stomach burst into pain. Even so he got up, only for bloood to burst and spatter out of his nose in an explosive nosebless. His head felt like a football was jammed into it, and began throbbing rhythmically. He screamed - All his men were screaming.
He saw them - writhing about on the floor. Something was happening to them... Something so completey unnatural and dehumanising that O'Brien tried to reach for his .454 service revolver and shoot himself through the head.
Alder was down, scratching frantically at something that moved under his uniform. McKenzie screamed Scottish obscenties at the top of his voice while his muscles rippled under his skin, swelling him to a ludicrous size - His camo jacket split, webbing belts and weapon sling pinged off.
It was happening to all O'Brien's men now. They were becoming huge, purple-skinned mutant giants before his very eyes.
And it was happening to him now...
O'Brien blacked out, mercifully.
***
'Body?' What the hell kind of name is that for an American?' Snarled the US Marines Lieutenant.
'Sir - its "Bodhi'", pronounced "bode-e".' Said his Sergeant, adding 'Sir!'
'Humph. Well lets get this over with.' Said the Lt, walking up to the screen dorr of the small recreational stucco house. He knocked three precise times. A muffled curse was heard from nearby, then the sound of something glass falling over. Thirty seconds later, and thrty seconds too late for the Lieutenant, the door was opened by a very large, jarheaded man, naked but for a towel around his waist. Muscles rippled across his sweaty torso - emblazoned with the US Marines eagle anchor and globe emblem in black ink. The Marine went shock-pale and came to attention quickly, almost dropping the towel as he saluted.
The Lieutenant was livid.
'Marine, WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT? Last I checked, whena marine officer knocks on your door, you answer it, FLANK! Because if you don't, he's liable to break it doan go primal on your ass, DO YOU HEAR ME?'
'SIR YES SIR!' Shouter the marine.
'Not only that, marine, but you look a disgrace! Good thing you're not wearing the unform, because it'd take you two freakin' weeks to pull it out of your stinking fat ass after I've finished with you! DO YOU HEAR ME?'
'SIR YES SIR!'
'Marine Studibagel - Marine Bodhi Studibagel?' Asked the Sergeant.
'Yep, thats me.'
'ADDRESS THE SUPERIOR OFFICER PRESENT NUMBNUTS!' The sergeant screamed. Studibagel faced the Officer quickly.
'SIR! MARINE BODHI STUDIBAGEL SIR! REPORTING FOR DUTY SIR!'
'NOT LIKE THAT YOU'RE NOT! GET BACK IN THERE AND CLEAN YOURSELF UP, FLANK!' Screamed the red-faced officer, almost at the end of his tether. 'DO YOU HEAR ME?'
'SIR YES SIR!'
'ON THE DOUBLE!'
Studibagel began frantically double-marching on the spot. The towel dropped, but he ignored it, doubled into the house, cleaned himself up, got into uniform in record time, and was at the front door again, where the Lt was regarding his watch extemperously.
'Despicable, Marine. Despicable and sloppy. Drop and give me thirty.'
'SIR YES SIR!!' Screamed Studibagel, obediently dropping to start his push-ups.
'COUNT THEM OUT!'
'SIR YES SIR!' Puffed Studibagel. 'ONE SIR! TWO SIR!'
For an added incentive, the Lieutenant applied his weight to Studibagel's back via a boot so polished it was almost a mirror. But in doing so he had to step forward, and saw inside Studibagel's house. He saw a bed, the covers rumpled. And in that bed, lonely and pale...
He fell silent. Studibagel stopped doing his press-ups.
Traffic went by. The Sergeant and the Lieutenant looked at each other.
Then they both looked at Studibagel. The Lt's voice was a shocked whisper.
'Marine... Were you about to have sex with a minor in there?'
'SIR YES SIR!' Studibagel said before he could catch himself. Then, 'Uh, NO! NO SIR NO!' He gestured frantically, but stopped as the Lt raised a hand.
'Enough Studibagel. Come with us.'
The Officer and NCO took Marine Studibagel away from his rest-house and underage lover to their Olive-green Lincoln for the ride to base. Oddly, the atmosphere between the men had thawed somewhat. They explained to him that, due to his exceptional service record and specialist bodyguard training, he was being pulled off R&R for a special mission,
'One of great national Importance.' Said the Lt.
'SIR YES SIR!' Screamed Studibagel automatically.
'Glad you agree.' Said the Lt, and he smiled.