Post by Admin on Apr 25, 2019 0:22:04 GMT 10
Wrote this one back in 2008 or so after I did a profile of the WZ-10 attack helo.
Asian Ally One – Baptism of Fire
The 38th Parallel, Korea, 2022
The two young Marines sat within the confines of the watchtower, overlooking the bleak expanse of the 38th Parallel separating the two Koreas. Fencelines, minefields and a dirt road gave the landscape a dreary, almost Western Front look.
“Man this is some seriously boring shit, who the hell decided on our unit pulling duty here!” One Marine griped to his companion.
“You know it’s all down to the brass, numbnuts, hell, you signed on for this, didn’t you?” The other replied, leaning back against the cold concrete of the tower.
“Yeah, but hell, they don’t spin you these stories on the Island, do they? Join the Marines, defend Freedom, sit in a cold freaking tower in the middle of the 38th Parallel for some hours”.
Just then, the door swung open.
“Attention on deck!” the second Marine cried, bringing himself to attention. The two Marines snapped to, staring into nothing as an older man joined them.
“Well Jesus H. Christ! Rodriquez and Martin, why the hell aren’t I surprised? Do you two turds even realise what in the living hell you’re doing here?” the newcomer asked, a grim faced Marine wearing Gunnery Sergeant stripes.
“Sir yes Sir!” Rodriguez, the first Marine, barked.
“Roger that Gunny!” the second, Martin followed.
Gunnery Sgt Hartmann eyed the two youngsters up and down, a fierce gleam in his eye. “How in the hell did you two shitbirds even get through basic, let alone ending up in my unit! Ya know, the saying goes ‘life wasn’t meant to be easy’, but it seems the dear Lord, Buddha or Allah has decided to make it just that notch harder for me! It’s not the glamorous life you were told about I’m sure, but it’s duty and that’s enough for most Marines. SOP dictates that one of you should be sweeping the area with the NVD whilst the other mans the .50cal, I don’t remember it saying anything about bitching and whining about being a freaking Marine in the first place!”
“Aye Aye Sir!” Rodriguez replied, still trying to bluff the older man.
“At Ease, shit-for-brains” Hartmann replied.
The two youngsters slouched back, their weapons sitting across the other side of the small room.
“Listen hard you two. You know that we have some serious political crap going on right now with those lovely lads across the way. A pre-emptive strike is very much something that the NKs would just love to pull whilst convincing us of their ‘peaceful’ intentions. Don’t you two read history?” Hartmann growled, eyeing off the two young Marines.
“History sir? Why read history? We’re Marines not history teachers”
“Yeah well, that maybe so, but history has one god-awful way of biting you on the ass if you’re not careful! Now stand to and make sure you’re still doing it when your replacements arrive!”
Hartmann stalked out of the tower, trotting down the steps.
“Sheeit, that guy’s a hardass!” Rodriguez grimaced, slowly pushing his eye into the NVD.
“Man, hardass or no, I’ve got a bro in intel that knows a little about Gunny Hartmann.” Martin replied.
“Really, like what?” Rodriguez swung away from the scope again.
“Like he’s no lifer like you know. Word is he was Force Recon during Op Continuing Freedom in A-stan.”
“A Recon Marine, hell, that is nasty, what the hey is he doing back with the Division then?”
“Don’t know the full story, but it’s been said that he got a Silver Star for ‘undisclosed duties’ and ended up seriously in the hurt locker on his final op. Funnily enough, my intel bro tells me that Hartmann mustered out of Force Recon around the same time as OBL got nailed back in 2020, after that whole BS story about the SEALs smoking his ass years earlier”.
“Osama, you mean he smoked that puto! Jesus Christos, I knew he was bad, but I didn’t know he was that bad!”
“Well nobody’s saying much, but all I know is that every parade we’ve ever had in A class hasn’t been with the Gunny wearing a Silver Star.” Martin replied.
Down the stairs, Hartmann walked towards his Humvee, limping slightly. The cold Korean air blowing across the desolate landscape did little to ease the constant pain of his shin and thigh, courtesy of a Taliban fanatic nearly ten years ago. He’d been asked to join Delta Force after some particularly hairy skirmishes in the Afghani mountainside. Comprised of some of the US military’s most capable soldiers ranging from Army Special Forces and Navy Seals to Force Recon Marines, the ‘D-Boys’ had gone from strength to strength during the campaign and Hartmann had been responsible for the death of the Saudi terrorist using a .50cal Barrett M95 ‘special applications rifle’.
The hit was perfect and deniable, but the extraction towards the LZ far from the Al-Queda stronghold had been horrendous. Hartmann and his spotter, a Seal by the name of Marcinko had ‘gotten out of dodge’ by the numbers but had fallen foul of a returning patrol that blundered into their line of march. In the ensuing firefight, both Deltas were wounded, but Hartmann had managed to drag the mortally wounded Marcinko into cover, before fragging the Taliban patrol with some well placed 203 grenades. Knowing full well that their asses were most definitely in the wind, Hartmann had taken the dying Seal away from the ambush site towards the LZ after tending to his own torn leg. Neither man would be considered recoverable if they weren’t within the confines of the LZ that SOCOM had detailed for the mission. Marcinko was fading fast, but Hartmann knew the propaganda victory the Taliban would score if they were captured, whether alive or dead, so he struggled on oblivious of the now dead SEAL on his back.
Marines never left their fallen on the battlefield and Hartmann wasn’t going to make an exception, so it was quite a disturbing image as he crawled into the LZ, keying his mike for the arranged pickup.
Suffice to say, his leg had suffered tremendously and his own hold on the silver cord of life was tenuous at best during the helo ride back to safety, but after three long, painful years in the Veteran’s Hospital back in the States, he had defied all expectations by walking out on his discharge.
Further proving the medicos wrong, he had returned to the Corps, albeit within a regular Infantry Division as opposed to his previous Force Recon post. But still he was a Marine, first and forermost, that meant enough.
Suddenly, a disturbingly familiar sound interrupted the Gunny’s reverie. A high-pitched whistling pulsing in the night sky. Staring into the darkness, Hartmann felt the uneasy feeling of the grim reaper’s presence. ‘Helos!’ he thought, remembering a similar sound when Marine AH-1s had charged into battle over his Recon team’s heads during a particularly hairy firefight.
Swinging his M8 carbine up, he peered through the rifle’s sight, not a true NVD, but certainly better than the naked eye. The shape of an attack helicopter loomed in the darkness above the blasted terrain of the Parallel, it’s rotors whirling.
“Holy Shit!!”, he cried, turning back towards the tower, when suddenly a pair of FFARs howled out of the night tearing the building and the young Marines inside asunder. The blast spread across the night, lifting Hartmann off his feet and slapping him onto the gravel road. Dazed, the veteran Marine groped around for his carbine, just as a thumping stream of heavy cannon fire laced the Humvee. Another detonation spread out, bathing the Marine in smoke and debris and pushing him towards the ruined tower.
High above in the night sky, the Shenyang WZ-10 of the 10th Helicopter Assault Brigade of the North Korean People’s Army swooped towards the stricken guardpoint as other helos lashed out along the line of towers, searching the ruined Humvee and tower.
Hartmann crawled out of sight of the enemy helo, clutching at a shard of steel that stood out from his body-armour. He looked at the piece of metal knowing without fear that it had penetrated his body and was a mortal wound. He would have little chance of a medic’s attention and even less of survival. Grimly picking up his carbine, he dropped the magazine out of the weapon. Feeling among his ammo pouches, his hand rested upon one magazine with a band of electric tape around it. Pulling the mag out, he slipped it into the well of the carbine, cycling the action to load it.
“God-damn SOBs, let’s see how they like it when their target fight’s back, the wounded Marine growled, glad of his decision to ‘borrow’ a mag of 5.56mm AP rounds.
Sliding around the ruined tower, he noted the hovering helo, it’s gun and optics tracing over the damage it had wrought.
“Still looking, well here-the-fuck I am!” he snarled, shouldering his weapon and pouring the contents of his magazine towards the helo. “Get some!!!!!!!!”
Initally, the gunner of the helicopter saw the muzzle flashes from the ground and laughed over the intercom to his pilot behind him. “Stupid American, he thinks a rifle can shoot us down?”
But the battle hardened Gunny wasn’t just spraying the helicopter in a last act of defiance as the gun swung towards him. He purposefully held his aim at the whirling rotor assembly, watching his rounds striking the delicate network of steel.
Just as the North Korean gunner leant against his scope to aim at the dying Marine, the helicopter’s pilot screamed over the intercom, “We are losing control, something is wrong!!”
With a rending scream, the rotor assembly disintegrated, pieces flying off in all directions. The stricken aircraft dropped like a stone onto the minefields and barbed wire of the Parallel, torn asunder by the detonating mines and it’s own weapons and fuel.
Back at the devastated guard point, their nemesis lay sprawled against the tower, his sightless eyes staring into the distance. He had lived the Marine life and had died in the same manner, duty, honour, Corps.
Asian Ally One – Baptism of Fire
The 38th Parallel, Korea, 2022
The two young Marines sat within the confines of the watchtower, overlooking the bleak expanse of the 38th Parallel separating the two Koreas. Fencelines, minefields and a dirt road gave the landscape a dreary, almost Western Front look.
“Man this is some seriously boring shit, who the hell decided on our unit pulling duty here!” One Marine griped to his companion.
“You know it’s all down to the brass, numbnuts, hell, you signed on for this, didn’t you?” The other replied, leaning back against the cold concrete of the tower.
“Yeah, but hell, they don’t spin you these stories on the Island, do they? Join the Marines, defend Freedom, sit in a cold freaking tower in the middle of the 38th Parallel for some hours”.
Just then, the door swung open.
“Attention on deck!” the second Marine cried, bringing himself to attention. The two Marines snapped to, staring into nothing as an older man joined them.
“Well Jesus H. Christ! Rodriquez and Martin, why the hell aren’t I surprised? Do you two turds even realise what in the living hell you’re doing here?” the newcomer asked, a grim faced Marine wearing Gunnery Sergeant stripes.
“Sir yes Sir!” Rodriguez, the first Marine, barked.
“Roger that Gunny!” the second, Martin followed.
Gunnery Sgt Hartmann eyed the two youngsters up and down, a fierce gleam in his eye. “How in the hell did you two shitbirds even get through basic, let alone ending up in my unit! Ya know, the saying goes ‘life wasn’t meant to be easy’, but it seems the dear Lord, Buddha or Allah has decided to make it just that notch harder for me! It’s not the glamorous life you were told about I’m sure, but it’s duty and that’s enough for most Marines. SOP dictates that one of you should be sweeping the area with the NVD whilst the other mans the .50cal, I don’t remember it saying anything about bitching and whining about being a freaking Marine in the first place!”
“Aye Aye Sir!” Rodriguez replied, still trying to bluff the older man.
“At Ease, shit-for-brains” Hartmann replied.
The two youngsters slouched back, their weapons sitting across the other side of the small room.
“Listen hard you two. You know that we have some serious political crap going on right now with those lovely lads across the way. A pre-emptive strike is very much something that the NKs would just love to pull whilst convincing us of their ‘peaceful’ intentions. Don’t you two read history?” Hartmann growled, eyeing off the two young Marines.
“History sir? Why read history? We’re Marines not history teachers”
“Yeah well, that maybe so, but history has one god-awful way of biting you on the ass if you’re not careful! Now stand to and make sure you’re still doing it when your replacements arrive!”
Hartmann stalked out of the tower, trotting down the steps.
“Sheeit, that guy’s a hardass!” Rodriguez grimaced, slowly pushing his eye into the NVD.
“Man, hardass or no, I’ve got a bro in intel that knows a little about Gunny Hartmann.” Martin replied.
“Really, like what?” Rodriguez swung away from the scope again.
“Like he’s no lifer like you know. Word is he was Force Recon during Op Continuing Freedom in A-stan.”
“A Recon Marine, hell, that is nasty, what the hey is he doing back with the Division then?”
“Don’t know the full story, but it’s been said that he got a Silver Star for ‘undisclosed duties’ and ended up seriously in the hurt locker on his final op. Funnily enough, my intel bro tells me that Hartmann mustered out of Force Recon around the same time as OBL got nailed back in 2020, after that whole BS story about the SEALs smoking his ass years earlier”.
“Osama, you mean he smoked that puto! Jesus Christos, I knew he was bad, but I didn’t know he was that bad!”
“Well nobody’s saying much, but all I know is that every parade we’ve ever had in A class hasn’t been with the Gunny wearing a Silver Star.” Martin replied.
Down the stairs, Hartmann walked towards his Humvee, limping slightly. The cold Korean air blowing across the desolate landscape did little to ease the constant pain of his shin and thigh, courtesy of a Taliban fanatic nearly ten years ago. He’d been asked to join Delta Force after some particularly hairy skirmishes in the Afghani mountainside. Comprised of some of the US military’s most capable soldiers ranging from Army Special Forces and Navy Seals to Force Recon Marines, the ‘D-Boys’ had gone from strength to strength during the campaign and Hartmann had been responsible for the death of the Saudi terrorist using a .50cal Barrett M95 ‘special applications rifle’.
The hit was perfect and deniable, but the extraction towards the LZ far from the Al-Queda stronghold had been horrendous. Hartmann and his spotter, a Seal by the name of Marcinko had ‘gotten out of dodge’ by the numbers but had fallen foul of a returning patrol that blundered into their line of march. In the ensuing firefight, both Deltas were wounded, but Hartmann had managed to drag the mortally wounded Marcinko into cover, before fragging the Taliban patrol with some well placed 203 grenades. Knowing full well that their asses were most definitely in the wind, Hartmann had taken the dying Seal away from the ambush site towards the LZ after tending to his own torn leg. Neither man would be considered recoverable if they weren’t within the confines of the LZ that SOCOM had detailed for the mission. Marcinko was fading fast, but Hartmann knew the propaganda victory the Taliban would score if they were captured, whether alive or dead, so he struggled on oblivious of the now dead SEAL on his back.
Marines never left their fallen on the battlefield and Hartmann wasn’t going to make an exception, so it was quite a disturbing image as he crawled into the LZ, keying his mike for the arranged pickup.
Suffice to say, his leg had suffered tremendously and his own hold on the silver cord of life was tenuous at best during the helo ride back to safety, but after three long, painful years in the Veteran’s Hospital back in the States, he had defied all expectations by walking out on his discharge.
Further proving the medicos wrong, he had returned to the Corps, albeit within a regular Infantry Division as opposed to his previous Force Recon post. But still he was a Marine, first and forermost, that meant enough.
Suddenly, a disturbingly familiar sound interrupted the Gunny’s reverie. A high-pitched whistling pulsing in the night sky. Staring into the darkness, Hartmann felt the uneasy feeling of the grim reaper’s presence. ‘Helos!’ he thought, remembering a similar sound when Marine AH-1s had charged into battle over his Recon team’s heads during a particularly hairy firefight.
Swinging his M8 carbine up, he peered through the rifle’s sight, not a true NVD, but certainly better than the naked eye. The shape of an attack helicopter loomed in the darkness above the blasted terrain of the Parallel, it’s rotors whirling.
“Holy Shit!!”, he cried, turning back towards the tower, when suddenly a pair of FFARs howled out of the night tearing the building and the young Marines inside asunder. The blast spread across the night, lifting Hartmann off his feet and slapping him onto the gravel road. Dazed, the veteran Marine groped around for his carbine, just as a thumping stream of heavy cannon fire laced the Humvee. Another detonation spread out, bathing the Marine in smoke and debris and pushing him towards the ruined tower.
High above in the night sky, the Shenyang WZ-10 of the 10th Helicopter Assault Brigade of the North Korean People’s Army swooped towards the stricken guardpoint as other helos lashed out along the line of towers, searching the ruined Humvee and tower.
Hartmann crawled out of sight of the enemy helo, clutching at a shard of steel that stood out from his body-armour. He looked at the piece of metal knowing without fear that it had penetrated his body and was a mortal wound. He would have little chance of a medic’s attention and even less of survival. Grimly picking up his carbine, he dropped the magazine out of the weapon. Feeling among his ammo pouches, his hand rested upon one magazine with a band of electric tape around it. Pulling the mag out, he slipped it into the well of the carbine, cycling the action to load it.
“God-damn SOBs, let’s see how they like it when their target fight’s back, the wounded Marine growled, glad of his decision to ‘borrow’ a mag of 5.56mm AP rounds.
Sliding around the ruined tower, he noted the hovering helo, it’s gun and optics tracing over the damage it had wrought.
“Still looking, well here-the-fuck I am!” he snarled, shouldering his weapon and pouring the contents of his magazine towards the helo. “Get some!!!!!!!!”
Initally, the gunner of the helicopter saw the muzzle flashes from the ground and laughed over the intercom to his pilot behind him. “Stupid American, he thinks a rifle can shoot us down?”
But the battle hardened Gunny wasn’t just spraying the helicopter in a last act of defiance as the gun swung towards him. He purposefully held his aim at the whirling rotor assembly, watching his rounds striking the delicate network of steel.
Just as the North Korean gunner leant against his scope to aim at the dying Marine, the helicopter’s pilot screamed over the intercom, “We are losing control, something is wrong!!”
With a rending scream, the rotor assembly disintegrated, pieces flying off in all directions. The stricken aircraft dropped like a stone onto the minefields and barbed wire of the Parallel, torn asunder by the detonating mines and it’s own weapons and fuel.
Back at the devastated guard point, their nemesis lay sprawled against the tower, his sightless eyes staring into the distance. He had lived the Marine life and had died in the same manner, duty, honour, Corps.
