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squirrel dude

squirrel dude

9/12/2007 11:07:55 PM
Here's a story, read it, and tell me what you think. [i]This story does not support the [Hitler's Party] movement in any way. It is only a story. [/i] [b]Through Hell For Hitler.[/b] “Actung! Granate!” Feldwebel Corbec barked. He jumped out from behind the cover of the Panzer IV, grabbed the American grenade that had tumbled to a stop before him, and threw it with all his power back where it had came. The pineapple-like grenade flew through the open doorway of a small house by the side of the road and exploded. A plume of brick dust and shrapnel announced the end of the American troops hiding inside. He scrambled back behind the tank as an American machinegun started firing on him from a house down the dirt-track street. Feldwebel Corbec led a squad in the 22nd Composite Infantry Division. His was made of ten conscripts and veterans pinned down behind one of the divisions few remaining Panzers. The 22nd Composite Infantry Division, along with a Waffen SS Panzer Division, had been dispatched to this particular region of Northern France as part of an offensive devised by the Oberkommando Der Wehrmacht or OKW for short. This came almost a week after the final German troops trapped around Chambois surrendered, explaining why such an inadequate unit was being used for such a difficult task. The objective laid down by the General Staff was for the 22nd to hold the small rural town of Poisson from American forces encroaching on the area, and once the American attack had been blunted, allow the SS tanks to follow up with a counter attack supported by heavy artillery support and if necessary, a reserve sapper division. The town lay on the banks of the river, but at this point, it was shallow enough for tanks to just rumble right across. In the centre was the majority of the towns houses, forming a sort-of square facing the North and East. In the South-East, on the banks of the river sat a graveyard. Both the eastern wall of buildings and the graveyard were crawling with Americans and Germans fighting savage hand-to-hand battles with knives, gun-butts and sharpened spades. The tragedy was that the new German recruits would fight bravely and die viciously for a regime that would later send boys as young as fourteen into combat against professional soldiers, all just to prolong its lifespan for a few more days. It had to be said, that this was a far cry from the situation in the New Year, where the Germans had cheered “Prottis Neu Jahr!” Downed their bottles of Schnapps and French wine, while enjoying the hospitality of the pretty French girls. But those days were long gone, Corbec knew as much. He was not the most avid National Socialist to say the least, and had even dared the wrath of the Gestapo by sheltering a family of Jews in his cellar. He didn’t know where they were now, probably Switzerland, but he was sure he would never see them again. Corbec’s unit, and the Panzer they hid behind was on the very northern tip of town. They had remained static for the past hour or so and used up several Panzerfaust rocket launchers and belts of ammunition for their MG42’s in their defence. Despite killing around four Sherman tanks and dozens of enemy infantrymen on their part of town, those to the eastern edge had not been so lucky. The squads along that flank, and the west for that matter, were largely made of younger conscripts and green recruits. As such they panicked and fled the moment they spotted an American tank. Those that hadn’t been gunned down as they broke now made up most of the German troops along the “wall” of houses facing East. Currently, they were moving east along the northern dirt track to help clear out the American forces that so mauled their comrades. But their short advance was stalled. On a low rise sat a two-floored house, crawling with Americans. In one window, an American sat with his loader by a .30 calibre machinegun, and his friends crouched behind the low wall just before the house, inside the building itself and a few rotting hay-bales left behind by the French farmer who once owned the house. A little further on from behind that house sat two barns on a small hill. One on the edge of the hill, smaller than the other sitting further back. Both offered excellent vantage points on the town and the Americans were capitalising on this, having set up mortars to rain explosive death down on the Germans. “Reuber! Amerikaner machinengewehr im ersten stock!” Corbec shouted to the unit sniper. Reuber was a veteran who had somehow survived all the way from the Fall Of France, a quick tour in the Balkans and the retreat from Normandy. As the squad provided covering fire to force the Americans to duck and cover, he broke out from behind the tank and made for a bungalow just nearby. Staying low, he made his way around the back of the building, which was still burning thanks to an RAF air raid earlier on. Overhead, Luftwaffe Meserschmitts tangled with American warplanes, filling the air with the rattle of their machineguns and drone of propeller engines. Looking up, Corbec could see an Me 109 pounce onto the tail of an enemy plane, riddle it with lead then break off, leaving the dying craft to plunge to an explosive end, head first into the smaller barn on the hill. Germans across the town released a heartfelt cheer. Reuber, not yet spotted by the machine-gunner, settled down behind a pile of firewood logs and took aim. He used a Karabiner 98k bolt-action rifle with a powerful telescopic scope attached to it. He took aim, steadying his grip on the rifle. The machine-gunner still hadn’t spotted him, wasting ammunition on the Panzer, but it was already too late for him. Crack! The rifle blasted the gunner’s head into pieces and the man released his gun. Before he had even hit the ground, Corbec had ordered the unit to throw their hand grenades at the enemy position, and for a flammenwerfer to come forward. Half a dozen Stielhandgranate grenades dropped around the dug-in Americans and blew up almost simultaneously. Some defenders went flying, some were blown to pieces, the grenades even ignited the ammunition on an unlucky few and caused enough bodily damage to kill them ten times over. Then the Flame Thrower started up, with the reek of petrol hanging in the air, blazing lances of liquid lame grasped out to burn the enemy soldiers alive. The smell of petrol was soon replaced by the wretched stink of burning skin and fat. The flame thrower eased off and moved around the other side of the house, opposite the street to send more blasts of flame through the shattered windows. The rest of the squad burst in, MP44 sub-machineguns blazing at anyone who was still alive. An American stumbled by Corbec, blazing from head to toe in a wreath of flame. Corbec fired a burst from his Sturmgewehr 44 Assault Rifle and put him out of his misery. In under half a minute, the last two Americans had run from the house, only to be shot in the back by the spiteful German victors. “Urban!” Corbec shouted. He had stepped out of the now ghastly house he had taken to get some fresh air. “Ich komme sofort.” Unterofizier Urban replied, dashing over. He too was a veteran, and that showed. Because of people like him, the squad hadn’t lost any of it’s members when they stormed the building. “Und Reuber!” Corbec shouted, grabbing the sharpshooters’ attention. “Ja?” He replied. Corbec jerked his thumb upwards, gesturing for him to take position in the house. He did as he was told. Corbec turned back to Urban and explained that they needed Artillery support if they were ever to retake the hill the Americans were using. They checked map coordinates and had the squad radio operator come over. They got through to the commander of a Nebelwerfer artillery battery. Nebelwerfers were six-barrelled rocket launchers, capable of flinging rockets for up to four miles. The coordinates of the hill were relayed to the battery, and in moments, the rockets started to fall. With their distinctive screaming noise, five salvoes of six rockets devastated the hill, flinging cascades of dirt and soil high into the air. The barn took a direct hit and was converted into matchwood. Just as the final rocket pounded the hill, the squad rushed out from cover, roaring a fearsome battle cry. They were halfway across the street and almost at the foot of the hill when the mortars started firing again, and so did the machineguns. The first to die was the flame trooper, a bullet struck his fuel tank and turned him into a living torch. Americans with their machineguns raked back and forth in indiscriminate killing. The mortar shells ground the street up, filling the air with explosions and lethal shrapnel fragments. Corbec just reached the base of the hill when a shell exploded behind him. A shard of metal flew him in his thigh and he collapsed into a shallow crater with a yelp. Corbec had only just fallen in when someone landed on him. It was Urban, dead with more bullet holes in his chest than you could count. Corbec shoved his deceased comrade out of the hole

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