alternatehistory.com

This is just something I was kicking around in my head and ended up writing in about five minutes. For shit's and giggles I'm putting it in post-1900 as opposed to the Writer's Forum because it's closer to what is done here. Hope you get a kick out of it and I hope it sparks some debate. I might continue it.




Forward Staging Area
British 29th Armoured Brigade
19th December, 1944


Lieutenant Jeffrey MacCaulay pulled his stocking cap on and leaned over the fire. The jeeps filled with wounded men had begun rolling in a few hours ago, and they were waiting in a line backed up from the field hospital that stretched almost back into the woods. The line would occaisionally shorten in spasms, as a doctor wandered out of the tent and seperated out those too wounded for surgery or those just in need of splints and light dressings: there were some just sitting on hoods of the jeeps they came in on trying to stay warm.

"How many were there?" Asked Sergeant Harlin, handing a cup of tea to the man sitting at the fire with them. The Corporal took the tea haltingly and adjusted the bandage underneath his cap. He brought the cup up to his lips and blew on it, then waited. With his eyes closed, he blew on the cup of tea again. "Do you need something?"

"I don't know who they were. Somebody said they were Wehrmacht and they weren't SS. They had everything. Fucking Screaming Mimis, halftracks. They were in behind us before we knew what was going on." He blew on the tea again, and openned his eyes. "And those fucking Tigers..." The man pulled off a pair of headphones and lay them on the ground. "...god damn it. God damn it."

The Corporal stared out at the line of jeeps pulling in with the wounded. Men were beginning to stream in now on foot, helped along by their comrades. Whatever was happening up at the front, it was collapsing and the Germans were pushing in all the right places. Jeff hadn't seen men look this bad since the fighting in the Gap.

The Corporal finally took a halting drink of the tea. "We need more than Fireflies. Those god damned Tigers were...something."

MacCaulay looked back over his shoulder at his unit, waiting for the order to move east and resisted the urge to smile on such a depressing occaision. They'd come a long way to get here: offloaded in a hurry two weeks ago at the Pas de Calais, they'd run at full steam to get to the 11th Armoured Division's rear areas where they were taking on reenforcements and new equipment. But now, it seemed that they wouldn't be taking on that much more before they were moving back out to stop the German attack.

With a huff, he stood up and stretched his legs as an Humber Armoured Car drove through the gates of the camp. A sinking feeling hit him in his stomach as the 4x4 seemed to float over a bump in the road without slowing. As it began to approach a turn in front of a line of Sherman Firefly tanks, the vehicle pivoted sharply on it's axis but kept it's original course.

"Get out- Get out of the way!" MacCaulay started waving his arms, running towards the accident he knew was coming. "Move! Bloody move!"

It seemed to happen in slow motion: the Humber's front end seemed to dip as it's driver braked harder and harder, then finally it popped back up as the brakes finally gave up and locked a few feet from the front of the Firefly. The contact was violent, but in an alien sort of way; almost akin to pinball games that he'd played many times in Corsham while on leave from Salisbury Plain. The ice that had led the two armoured behemoths towards each other now deflected them away, pushing the car a dozen feet back and finally letting it come to rest in the center of the roadway with it's front glacis plate bent and the driver's hatch dented shut.

MacCaulay had stopped running towards the two vehicles once they collided. There was nothing to do until they came to a rest. Now he watched as a lone medic walked out of the tent and towards the armoured car, being led by two soldiers obviously posessed of more energy than him. He was about to begin running towards the accident again when a voice stopped him.

"Lieutenant? Lieutenant! There's a message coming through for you!"
He turned around, and walked back towards his track commanders who were gathered around the radioman. "What's going on, Eddie?"

"We've got orders to pack up as soon as possible. The entire squadron. They want the whole freaking unit out by morning to counter attack towards the Meuse, somewhere around....Jee-vay?"

Jeff took a sip of the now cold tea. "Yes. Givet." He sighed. It had taken a long time to get to this point, and a lot of pushing to get the new unit up this far so they could be in position for the 1945 push into Germany. Now, it seemed they'd be going into battle a little early. "Any word about what's ahead?"

Sergeant Harlin nodded. "Initial intelligence says...2nd Panzer Division." He stubbed out his cigarette. "They're saying there's a bulge in a lines south of us. The Americans are getting pushed back by dozens of miles. The Germans are gaining ground they haven't held for months."

He didn't want to smile. Not now. He'd been through enough to know this wouldn't be enjoyable, but being the cavalry riding to the rescue gave him a surge of guilty pleasure. "Alright, boys: load up. We're out of here with the first company of soldiers that's leaving in that direction."

The track commanders nodded and headed towards their tanks. This isn't going to be like Goodwood, all 10-to-1 odds and they still outgun you. They won't get away this time. They're out of their entrenchments, where we can surround them. Those damn Krauts just shoved themselves into a bag.

Four tanks lined up on the apron comprising his troop. Beyond them were four more. In the snow somewhere beyond, with their headlights already shining, was the rest of the sabre squadron. As a dusting of white powder fell, he finally allowed himself the smile he'd been fighting: the Centurions look better in the dark than they do in the day.
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