DragonLovaFlygon101
12-25-2007, 08:28 AM
WARNING!: I am an amateur writer. In layman’s terms, I suck. This is a fictional story of events in WWII. All the fights, wars, characters, everything but maybe weapons are fake. So kids, don't write a report using this...
This story takes the perspective of Airborne Trooper Dean Felbart of the U.S. Army, and a tank driver named Ilbosh Goeltzenleutcher in the German Army.
Dean ran the briefing through his head as the large aircraft flew over open waters, coming into range of the small fishing village called Rutkans. The mission was simple: Three planes were to fly in, drop about twelve soldiers each, and those soldiers were to search the mayor’s home for the Nazi super weapon that a spy had led them to. They were to plant three Comp-8 explosive charges onto the weapon, in each room. This may have sounded easy, but over five hundred Nazi soldiers were posted here. What were thirty-six men expecting to do to this massive army. . .
Dean had no clue. He shook the fact that his chances were slim to none.
“Bart! You okay man?”
It was Dillon, his best friend. Dillon had known Dean for bout twenty-three years. His face was always stern and serious, and always had a sophisticated look to it Bart always had a knack of making other people laugh, but not today. His words were full of seriousness. He knew the dangers as well as Dean knew.
“I’m fine.” He said, showing no emotion.
That was the end of that. In fact, that was the last time Dean had talked to him. Anti-Aircraft guns began to tear the plane to pieces when they flew over. As they flew over head, he heard Gillingham yell, “Red Light!”, which was their cue to get ready for hell. All the men simultaneously stood up, and just then, a bomb shell slammed into the belly of the monstrous plane. Their was one casualty, Dillon. Dean stared at Dillon’s dead body, mouth gaping. Blood trickled down Dillon’s cold, dead face as he slid to the floor. The impact had slammed Dillon himself into the plane’s wall, making a dent. And, if the impact hadn’t killed him, the A-A Gun fire that cut through his seat and ripped him in two pieces did.
“GREEN LIGHT! GET OFF THE DAMN PLANE!”
Gillingham was the first off the plane, then Washell, Viktor, Jack, and then Dean. Dean couldn’t recall the other paratrooper’s names. They free fell for a few moments. Dean let the moment sink in. He and ten other men were all free falling towards hell in the form of a Nazi Armada. He felt the wind rush under his helmet and swish his hair around. For that few-second moment, he felt almost at peace. It may have sounded strange. . . But he enjoyed the feeling it gave him. The moment ended all to quickly, however. All the men simultaneously pulled the Parachute’s pin, causing the parachute to fly open.
“Look out! Enemy fire! Look out!”
The A-A Gun’s ammunition cut through the parachutes like a knife through butter. Dean’s chute’ was hit, and he swirled down quickly. He smashed through the roof of a home and had made a botched landing. As he hit the floor, he had not enough time to flare the chute’, so he fell to the ground. He got up quickly, ripped his chute’ off, and shouldered his M1 Garand. He briskly walked to the window, and looked out cautiously. There was a gun fight going on. There were about five U.S. Soldiers fighting twelve Nazi Soldiers. Dean looked through the scope, watching the Thompsons and MP40s blaze like a raging fire. Dean began to fire, picking off about three Nazis. As each one fell, the U.S. Soldiers pushed them back further. Dean jumped out of the window, which was only about four feet off the ground. He sprinted after the U.S. Soldiers. As he sprinted, he entered a tunnel that wasn’t very long. When he exited out the other side, he saw the soldiers pinned down behind a damaged APC.
About fifteen Nazis were firing, but the main threat was the mounted Machine Gun. The men noticed Dean, and the AMG began to fire at him. He began to sprint towards the APC. As bullets slammed against the hard soil under him, dust and dirt flew high up, almost over Dean himself. Dean dove for cover, landing next to Gillingham, a Captain.
“Bart! That AMG has us pinned! We can’t advance until it’s taken out! Try to lob a grenade into the nest! We’ll cover you!”
Dean hardly heard a word that came out of his captain’s mouth between cracks of M1 Garand fire and the AMG bullets ricocheting off the side of the APC. But he understood the sign language the captain gave him. He pulled the pin off the grenade and he counted five seconds. He threw the grenade over the hood of the now demolished APC, and it landed right in the nest.
The Nazis scattered, but not in time. When the explosion went off, he saw blood and limbs fly. Dean and his comrades picked off the rest of the men with a barrage of rifle and SMG fire. Gillingham ran up to take point, He got up against the side of the near building and looked over the corner. An assortment of machine gun clatter sent Giilingham flying back. Wesley, another friend of Dean, also a certified Medic, ran up to the captain.
“Gillingham’s dead! But we have to keep going or we’ll be next.”
Without any words, the small crew began to return fire on their enemies. Thirteen Nazis fell dead in seconds. More Nazis lied ahead in the next apartment complex. The men ran in blazing. Five Nazis fell before they had time to retaliate. They opened fire on the U.S. Soldiers now hidden behind a couch. Dean took his Thompson, and blindly fired over the couch as his accomplices began to devise another plan. He heard a Nazi hit the floor and smiled with satisfaction. As he sat and smiled, he hadn’t noticed Wesley throw a grenade at the enemies. He heard a boom, screams, and watched a hand land on his leg. He brushed it off, and sprinted to a box about six feet away.
Dean hoped their luck would get even better. Bad choice. Just as the thought “good luck” crossed his mind, a tank rolled in through the wall. It’s mounted machine gun fired wildly, and it’s barrel slowly aimed towards Dean’s position.
TO BE CONTINUED. . .
This story takes the perspective of Airborne Trooper Dean Felbart of the U.S. Army, and a tank driver named Ilbosh Goeltzenleutcher in the German Army.
Dean ran the briefing through his head as the large aircraft flew over open waters, coming into range of the small fishing village called Rutkans. The mission was simple: Three planes were to fly in, drop about twelve soldiers each, and those soldiers were to search the mayor’s home for the Nazi super weapon that a spy had led them to. They were to plant three Comp-8 explosive charges onto the weapon, in each room. This may have sounded easy, but over five hundred Nazi soldiers were posted here. What were thirty-six men expecting to do to this massive army. . .
Dean had no clue. He shook the fact that his chances were slim to none.
“Bart! You okay man?”
It was Dillon, his best friend. Dillon had known Dean for bout twenty-three years. His face was always stern and serious, and always had a sophisticated look to it Bart always had a knack of making other people laugh, but not today. His words were full of seriousness. He knew the dangers as well as Dean knew.
“I’m fine.” He said, showing no emotion.
That was the end of that. In fact, that was the last time Dean had talked to him. Anti-Aircraft guns began to tear the plane to pieces when they flew over. As they flew over head, he heard Gillingham yell, “Red Light!”, which was their cue to get ready for hell. All the men simultaneously stood up, and just then, a bomb shell slammed into the belly of the monstrous plane. Their was one casualty, Dillon. Dean stared at Dillon’s dead body, mouth gaping. Blood trickled down Dillon’s cold, dead face as he slid to the floor. The impact had slammed Dillon himself into the plane’s wall, making a dent. And, if the impact hadn’t killed him, the A-A Gun fire that cut through his seat and ripped him in two pieces did.
“GREEN LIGHT! GET OFF THE DAMN PLANE!”
Gillingham was the first off the plane, then Washell, Viktor, Jack, and then Dean. Dean couldn’t recall the other paratrooper’s names. They free fell for a few moments. Dean let the moment sink in. He and ten other men were all free falling towards hell in the form of a Nazi Armada. He felt the wind rush under his helmet and swish his hair around. For that few-second moment, he felt almost at peace. It may have sounded strange. . . But he enjoyed the feeling it gave him. The moment ended all to quickly, however. All the men simultaneously pulled the Parachute’s pin, causing the parachute to fly open.
“Look out! Enemy fire! Look out!”
The A-A Gun’s ammunition cut through the parachutes like a knife through butter. Dean’s chute’ was hit, and he swirled down quickly. He smashed through the roof of a home and had made a botched landing. As he hit the floor, he had not enough time to flare the chute’, so he fell to the ground. He got up quickly, ripped his chute’ off, and shouldered his M1 Garand. He briskly walked to the window, and looked out cautiously. There was a gun fight going on. There were about five U.S. Soldiers fighting twelve Nazi Soldiers. Dean looked through the scope, watching the Thompsons and MP40s blaze like a raging fire. Dean began to fire, picking off about three Nazis. As each one fell, the U.S. Soldiers pushed them back further. Dean jumped out of the window, which was only about four feet off the ground. He sprinted after the U.S. Soldiers. As he sprinted, he entered a tunnel that wasn’t very long. When he exited out the other side, he saw the soldiers pinned down behind a damaged APC.
About fifteen Nazis were firing, but the main threat was the mounted Machine Gun. The men noticed Dean, and the AMG began to fire at him. He began to sprint towards the APC. As bullets slammed against the hard soil under him, dust and dirt flew high up, almost over Dean himself. Dean dove for cover, landing next to Gillingham, a Captain.
“Bart! That AMG has us pinned! We can’t advance until it’s taken out! Try to lob a grenade into the nest! We’ll cover you!”
Dean hardly heard a word that came out of his captain’s mouth between cracks of M1 Garand fire and the AMG bullets ricocheting off the side of the APC. But he understood the sign language the captain gave him. He pulled the pin off the grenade and he counted five seconds. He threw the grenade over the hood of the now demolished APC, and it landed right in the nest.
The Nazis scattered, but not in time. When the explosion went off, he saw blood and limbs fly. Dean and his comrades picked off the rest of the men with a barrage of rifle and SMG fire. Gillingham ran up to take point, He got up against the side of the near building and looked over the corner. An assortment of machine gun clatter sent Giilingham flying back. Wesley, another friend of Dean, also a certified Medic, ran up to the captain.
“Gillingham’s dead! But we have to keep going or we’ll be next.”
Without any words, the small crew began to return fire on their enemies. Thirteen Nazis fell dead in seconds. More Nazis lied ahead in the next apartment complex. The men ran in blazing. Five Nazis fell before they had time to retaliate. They opened fire on the U.S. Soldiers now hidden behind a couch. Dean took his Thompson, and blindly fired over the couch as his accomplices began to devise another plan. He heard a Nazi hit the floor and smiled with satisfaction. As he sat and smiled, he hadn’t noticed Wesley throw a grenade at the enemies. He heard a boom, screams, and watched a hand land on his leg. He brushed it off, and sprinted to a box about six feet away.
Dean hoped their luck would get even better. Bad choice. Just as the thought “good luck” crossed his mind, a tank rolled in through the wall. It’s mounted machine gun fired wildly, and it’s barrel slowly aimed towards Dean’s position.
TO BE CONTINUED. . .