A Trio Of Short Stories - Time, Stag, and Drip Drip.

[Herbiie]

Well, here's three short stories I've written with varying themes and twists.

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Time

This story was written to test out some ideas of mine & to take my stories away from the usual War theme, although still action based.


Tick, tock. Tick. Tock.

Edward Spencer was an ordinary man, with a fairly ordinary job. By ordinary I mean it was boring, repetitive, and the only highlight of his boring, repetitive, day was at half four, when he went home. He was a bank clerk. He sat behind the piece of glass protecting him from the outside world, and dealt with the old ladies, the youngsters starting their first account, and the people who spent their lives working hard, struggling to meet the payments on their loan.

This wasn’t an ordinary day for Edward Spencer.

It started off like usual. He left his flat, rented in a high rise apartment building, at eight in the morning, and walked the two miles or so to the city-centre bank. He got there at half past, smiled at Kate, the other clerk, and hung his coat on the back of his chair. He cleaned his desk, sharpened his pencil, and, for reasons known only to him, arranged his biros in order of how much ink they had left. While he did this, he flirted with Kate, and chatted with Michael, the manager. At exactly nine o’clock, the metal shutters in front of the door clattered into life, and the bank was open.

This is a story about time. Edward’s time. The time of his life. Or, to be precise, the time at which Edward’s dull, repetitive life ends. But it isn’t time for that now, we’ve got a good few hours to get through until then.

Edward’s first customer of the day was a young woman. She looked about nineteen, twenty. She was small, and, if you were being kind, you’d call her well built. If you’re not kind, like me, you’ll call her fat. She shyly slid a cheque over the counter, and, once they’d finished, she walked off, shyly. Well, waddled off shyly.

After that great excitement, nothing happened. Nine o’clock slid into ten o’clock, which dragged on into 11 o’clock. At twelve, Edward went to the shop across the road to get his lunch. He had a packet of crisps, a bottle of Pepsi, and a sausage roll.

When he’d finished, he flirted with Kate a bit more, and then when she went to get her lunch, he passed the time by spinning on his chair, and listening to the clock.

Tick, tock. Tick. Tock.

Kate came back. She smiled at Edward, and sat down to eat her own lunch, a salad. Another customer came in, this time an old man, who smiled at Kate and asked Edward if he could withdraw some money. Edward smiled, and reached for a slip.

Then Edward’s life was changed.

He didn’t really have time to notice, as it wasn’t going to last much longer.

Three men, two in motorcycle helmets, and one in a balaclava burst through the door. The man in the balaclava raised a short sawn off shot gun. The others took pistols from their belts, and one of them took a spray paint can and sprayed over the CCTV cameras. Edward’s hand reached under his desk, and pressed the silent hold up alarm button.
“Hands in the air, all of you. Now.” The gruff man in the balaclava barked.

Time passed. Not much had happened. Edward, Kate, Michael, and the old man, were sat in one of the upstairs rooms, with the three other members of staff, Tommy, Pete, and Sarah. Edward had his arm around Kate, who was crying. It was one o’clock. They’d heard lots of sirens, police sirens, outside. The bank robbers were getting angry. Things weren’t going to plan. One of them, one of the ones in the motorcycle helmet, though he was bare headed now, wanted to kill all of the hostages one by one until the Police let them pass free. The man in the balaclava, the leader of the group, told him to stop being so bloody stupid, and rang the police negotiator.
“You’ve got until three o’clock. Three o’clock to get us out of here, and on an untracked helicopter, we can fly one, so don’t supply a pilot. At three o’clock? People die. Three o’clock.”
The phone clicked down. One of the criminals prowled in front of the hostages. His hostile eyes flicked from face to face, before landing on Kate. She was a pretty girl, that Kate. Blonde hair tied back in a pony tail, a slim body and her face was gentle and calm, her eyes a bright crystal blue.

The armed robber walked on, his pistol held casually by his side. Kate cried harder, and Edward gently squeezed her until she stopped. The time trickled by. More sirens were heard, along with the repeating thud of helicopters piercing the silence every few minutes. All of the hostages had heard the robber’s threat, and all kept glancing nervously at the clock, but the more they looked the slower it went.

Tick, tock. Tick. Tock.

Half one came and went. Two o’clock was appearing on the horizon. The ominous 3 o’clock drew closer, and closer, and closer. The sirens stopped, and an uneasy silence drifted over the group. Kate had stopped crying, but she now clung to Edward like she was drowning. He soothed her, stroked her blonde hair and pretty face, and whispered to her. He told her that everything will be ok, that he’d look after her. She believed him, trusted him, even if Edward himself doubted that he could do much. He was terrified. You could see it in his eyes, even if he tried to keep a straight face. He was terrified of the robbers, and also terrified that he might be a coward, that he would not be able to look after pretty Kate.

Kate and Edward had a strange relationship. It was plain as day to their work mates, to the regular customers, and, I’m willing to bet, clear to you that they were interested in one another. Yet they weren’t together. Neither was quite sure why, but it was probably because neither was brave enough to admit it, for fear that everyone was wrong about how they felt. So they’d carried on, pretending to be just friends, for month after month, and the months faded into a year, one year into two. And every day, Edward thought, this’ll be the day I’ll tell her. And every day, Kate thought, this’ll be the day I’ll tell him. But they never did.

Now, it seemed to both of them, that it was too late. It was almost half two. In half an hour one of the hostages would be dead, perhaps all of them would be dead. Five more minutes trickled past. Kate sniffed and rested her head on Edward’s shoulder.

Tick, tock. Tick. Tock.

Bang.

The explosion downstairs caused the ground to shake. One of the robbers ran to the stairs. There was another explosion from the roof. The man with the shotgun shouted at the robber at the stairs to find out what the **** was happening. Instead, someone else answered. The voice bounced off the walls, it was loud, clear, and aggressive.
“Drop you weapons! Armed Police!”

The man at the stairs swore, and fired his gun. One of the policemen fired back, and the robber ran back down a corridor towards where the hostages were held. The other man who had been wearing a motorcycle helmet grabbed Kate and shoved her outside, ordering the rest of the hostages to follow him. An armed policeman got to the top of the stairs. The man in the balaclava fired.
“Man down! Man down!”

The robbers were using the hostages as shields, as they herded them towards the staircase. Stumbling and shoving, the gunmen forced them up, and into another room. There was a desk in the room, which the man with the shotgun turned over and crouched behind. At the rear of the room was another door, which led into an office. It had no more exits. A shadow moved in the doorway leading to the stairs. One of the gunmen fired his pistol. Another, also armed with a pistol, moved slowly towards the door. A gun flashed and banged from the doorway, the bullets striking the bank robber in the chest and head. His blood whipped onto the wall and ceiling. The shotgun roared, its pellets ripping the paint and wood from the door frame.

The surviving man with pistol grabbed Kate and dragged her into the small office, Edward followed, but the man hit him with the pistol, and Edward dropped to the floor, blood dripping from his temple. The man had his hand on Kate’s mouth, forcing her jaws closed so she’d stop screaming. He aimed the pistol at the doorway. The trio heard the shotgun fire again, then heard a policeman fire, follow by a grunt of pain. They heard movement in the other room, heard the police confirming that they’d captured one of the robbers, and that another was dead.

The door was closed. The robber was backed up against the desk. The computer on it had been knocked onto the floor, dragging the telephone into the bin. Edward was crouched in the corner, blinking his eyes, trying to make sense of what was happening after the heavy blow to his head.

The door moved.

The robber fired his pistol several times into the wooden portal, and then Kate struck. She managed to pull his hand down. And bit. Hard. The man screamed, and pushed her away, swinging his pistol to aim at her head. Then it was Edward’s time. Edward’s time to keep his promise. He leapt.

Edward grabbed the pistol, and the man’s arm. But Edward was still just a bank clerk; he was slim, but not very strong. The robber easily over powered him, fired again at the door, then put his pistol to Edward’s head. An armed policemen kicked the door open and burst into the room. He saw the robber holding Edward, his gun to the poor clerk’s head, standing underneath a clock.

Time slowed.

Tick, tock. Tick. Tock.

And I ground the pistol against poor Edward’s head, and pulled the trigger.

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Stag
Thought up most of this while actually on sentry during my Basic Training, in a huge thunderstorm, then wrote it when I got home.

They say patience is a virtue. But patience isn’t want was needed here. It was two o’Clock in the morning. It was dark, it was raining. It was Aldershot. Patience wasn’t needed here. It needed far more than patience for this.

I’d only been up for ten minutes, and already I was soaking wet. The lightning crashed overhead, illuminating the surrounding woods for a split second. Then the thunder; then back to the rain again. I could hear it drumming off my helmet, trickling down my waterproof jacket’s collar, which was turned up to protect me from the howling weather. My hands clasped the cold, harsh metal of my rifle, as me and the other soldier with me peered out into the abyss. I could smell the rain; almost overwhelming the tangy, metallic smell of cordite, the residue left when a weapon was fired. The adrenaline that had flooded my body during the fire fight of the day slowly drained away, washed out by the rain.

I knew that my comrade was barely a metre to my right, lying as I was in the soft, wet undergrowth, but I couldn’t see him. I could hardly see anything, just a few trees, but nothing more than a few metres away. I checked my watch. Still an hour and a half left. Patience wasn’t needed.

I was on sentry, which was called throughout the British Army as “stag”. You were out there, while the rest of your platoon, except for the other poor sods on stag, slept soundly underneath their shelters, simple affairs, just a sheet of plastic tied to two trees. You’re job was to stop anyone coming into the position who isn’t meant to be there. Most of the time, nothing happened. Most of the time.

It happened more than anything else, sentry duty, and so every soldier going through basic training learnt the skill. Switching off, without switching off. If you switched off fully, you wouldn’t notice the enemy creeping up on you, intent on sending you to the great parade in hell; or worse, you’d fall asleep, and the corporals could catch you. We were far more afraid of the corporals than the enemy. But even though you couldn’t switch off, you still had to be there for two hours or more. And that took something more than mere patience. Thirty minutes left.

When you were patient, you are waiting for something, feeling the excitement welling up inside you, but pushing it down. There was nothing to wait for here, except possibly sleeping amongst the bugs that crawled around the forest floor. There’s probably no name for what is needed, but whatever it is – you have to have it. Once you’d got it right, slowed your thoughts down almost to a stop, while other parts of your brain constantly scanned for any sign of the enemy, or worse, a corporal, the time would fly by. The rain hardened.

Time to wake up the next poor sod.

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Drip, Drip.

My first attempt at a Horror story, although its got a 500 word limit so most is left to the imagination.

Drip. Drip. The damp rope stretched slightly as he lowered himself into the cave. Drip. Drip. He could hear water in the distance, not the tinkle of solitary droplets falling from frozen rock stalactites, but the rushing roar of an underground river. Drip. Drip. One of his feet touched the solid rock of the cave floor. Drip. Drip.
“What do you see down there?” One of the explorer’s companions shouted from above, the voice echoing around the stone walls,
“Nothing yet!” He replied. More echoes. He turned on his head torch and saw that he was in a large cavern, perhaps a hundred feet wide. Drip. Drip. There was a tunnel leading off to one side. The man moved towards it. Drip. Drip.
“There’s a tunnel! Send the next man down I’m going to have a look!”

That was strange. Drip. Drip. He couldn’t see where the incessant dripping noise was coming from. But then again, with the massive echoes in the cave system meant that the source could be miles away. Drip. Drip. He set off down the tunnel, his head bowed low as he squeezed between the jagged rocks. Behind him he could hear another cave explorer easing himself carefully down the sheer drop into the cavern. The tunnel seemed to go on forever, so the man turned back, and saw that the next man wasn’t easing himself down the rope. More, she, was easing herself, down the sheer drop into the cavern. Drip. Drip.

The girl was pretty, blonde hair, green eyes, and a slim body. She was called Ellie, and was definitely the prettiest girl on the expedition. Drip. Drip. As she lightly jumped off the rope, a leathery noise was heard from above. Then a shout, and a scream. A long, piercing scream of basic, human terror. It lasted for a few seconds, before being sickeningly cut off by a loud crack that rattled around the caves. Drip. Drip. Silence. The man and Ellie called back up. No reply. They called again. No reply. Drip. Drip. Something fell down the hole, towards Ellie and the man. It was one of the head torches they wore. Drip. Drip. A shadow moved far above them. The rope slithered down to coil beside them like a snake. The shadow moved again. Drip. Drip.

They ran. They sprinted down the tunnel, not caring where it went, just so long as it went far away from the shadow. Drip. Drip. They darted through the small gaps, swerved round innumerable corners, the sounds of their footsteps drowning out the dripping noise which grew in intensity with every step they took. They came into another cavern, and stopped. Drip. Drip. The light from their torches was engulfed by the thick darkness. Drip. Drip. Something small dropped onto Ellie’s head. Drip. Drip. She looked up. Drip. Drip. And screamed. Drip. Drip. Crack. Silence.

A shadow moved, and the bodies of Ellie and the Man were dragged away.

Drip. Drip.

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Whatcha think?

[Captain Corrigan]

Not at all bad. The second piece is my favourite, although the colloquial style quite well suits the first. I can't believe I'm saying this (normally his tendency to write everything as if its a major film irritates me) but Dan Abnett's Ravenor might be worth a read through, simply because he did dramatise ordinary life very well.

My least favourite of the stories here was the third, something about it didn't seem as good as the other two. Not sure what though, I'll think on it.

-Corrigan

[Herbiie]

Yeah I don't like the third at all lol, not too good on Horror & 500 word horror stories are very hard to pull off well.

[Captain Corrigan]

Yeah I don't like the third at all lol, not too good on Horror & 500 word horror stories are very hard to pull off well.

Aye, I never like writing to word limits that tight, it prevents ideas from being developed effectively, and I'm not a particular fan of the horror genre myself, so I'm not especially well qualified to judge, but I would say that the story is hamstrung both by the short word limit (since the kind of tension needed to create fear requires a certain amount of description so that the details which are left to the imagination are more prominent - if you describe everything but one detail then attention is drawn to that detail, whereas if everything is left to the imagination then the reader doesn't know what they are meant to be focussing on) and by some less-than-convincing speech at the tail end of the first paragraph (“There’s a tunnel! Send the next man down I’m going to have a look!” , although not a stupid statement, doesn't feel lifelike, although that could perhaps be down to the lack of a comma or semicolon in there)

-Corrigan

[Herbiie]

Rather than make another thread, thought I'd post a couple more stories here:

Fist of Iron.

He hadn’t signed up for this. He realised now that the posters, the radio adverts, the stalls in the street, everything, were no more than propaganda. He’d left his job, his fiancé, his daughter, for this. This wasn’t the heroic, romantic warfare he had been lead to believe. No. The heat was unbearable; his clothes were drenched in sweat. His world was a small metal box, one of the hundreds of battle tanks that were deployed all along the Qinling Mountains. Over three hundred Challenger 2s. Feared by the PLA, it was a sixty-two and a half ton behemoth. A heavily armoured vehicle, moving across the rough ground of the mountains faster than any other tank like it. Its cannon was rifled, and could destroy enemy armour up to two miles away. Martin Wilson was a gunner in one of these man-made metal monsters.

He’d been in China for four long weeks now. He’d fought at the battle of X’ian, just north of the mountains. Not that he did much fighting. By the time his unit had gotten into position the enemy armour was in full retreat, their infantry not far behind. He hadn’t even fired a shell. Now his tank – which the crew had named Big Jodie after the commander’s wife – was concealed under camouflage netting, barely visible, covering the valley to make sure the Peoples Liberation Army didn’t try to counter attack, and to cover the garrison in the village next to the lake. They’d been here for 3 weeks. The enemy never came. They didn’t leave their vehicle except to take in the supplies that were dropped off at the start of every week. Horrible “Rat Packs”, designed to keep a soldier going no matter where he was, not designed to taste nice. Jerry, Martin’s loader, and closest friend, loved them for some reason. Their commander, simply known as Griff, was a veteran soldier. He’d done tours of Iraq, Afghanistan, Kosovo, and Northern Ireland. He knew every dirty, underhand trick, he could usually fix minor problems on Big Jodie fairly quickly, even under fire, and he always knew where to get more Rations.
“Got a choice here lads, Bacon and beans, Sausage and Beans, Burger, and beans. Or just beans.”
“Hard one Griff, I’ll go for the Bacon.” Replied Bill, the driver. The rations were handed out and the gas strove was lighted.
“Also, I’ve got a nice treat for you, lads.” Said Griff, smiling down from the hatch, where he was struggling to get his bulky body inside the tank. When he was finally in, he reached outside, and brought back down a black box. He opened it. There was a mini fridge inside.
“How the hell did you get a Mini Fridge?”
“Found it.”
“So you stole it?”
“Something like that, anyway let’s turn it on and we can have some nice cold water!” A few hours later, rations eaten, the crew were playing cards, enjoying cool water, and a disastrous attempt at Ice Tea, while Bill was on watch, making sure the PLA didn’t try anything sneaky. They wouldn’t. They never did. They were probably in a nice air conditioned barracks waiting for the British to attack by now.

Another week passed. Then another. There was virtually no sound in the mountains, save for the singing of the birds, the tank’s engines were all off, they were running on smaller electric generators to power the cooking facilities. Occasionally, the repeating chop of a Helicopter’s rotor blades seared through the valley like a spear, the only reminder to the men of the terrible war that was still going on. The only highlight of the long, boring, hot wait occurred when Martin was on watch. The low rumble of engines growled around the mountains. Martin stared through his binoculars towards the Chinese line. He couldn’t see anything. The rumble grew louder and louder, until Martin finally saw the source of it. A column of tanks and trucks was driving slowly along the road, towards the Chinese. They weren’t British. Martin called Griff up, who said they were Americans. The line of dark green vehicles stretched into the distance, all the way to the Horizon. It took four hours for the column to pass. Then silence reigned once more.

Three more days passed. Then it began. Dull thumps sounded from the direction of the PLA. Constantly. Griff knew what it was.
“Gun fire. Probably the yanks getting in a spot of bother. Doubt we’ll have to do anything.” He stated. Then the dull thumps were accompanied by the terrifying screech of Artillery rounds whizzing over head, fired from the Command centre in a fortified farm to the north east. The sound of jet engines pierced the din every hour or so, and the familiar sound of helicopters was common. The war was slowly becoming more and more real as the days trickled by. Yet still, no sign of the Chinese.

The sounds of the terrible battle being fought was loud in the soldier’s ears for months, so long that they grew used to it. Five long months after the battle began, something was happening in the valley. A Chinook helicopter was coming through, flying low. Its rear blades were smoking. It didn’t seem to be able to fly in a straight line; it kept zigzagging from side to side. Then it hit the ground. An almighty explosion pierced the air. The crew of Big Jodie looked on in silence, until a voice crackled through the radio.
“Stand to, all units stand to, cover the recovery team.” The crew ran back to their stations. They were not needed. A few Jackals drove over to the crash site, followed by a pair of Lynx helicopters and a Samaritan armoured ambulance. The downed helicopter stayed there until the end of the war, a grim reminder of what the men’s fate could be.

Then everything was back to normality. Another two months passed. Gradually the gun fire petered out, and no more shells, jets, or helicopters flew over head. A strange silence floated around the tanks. No one spoke. Then, after two days, the American column returned. This one took barely a minute to pass.

Another day came and went, then early one morning, as the crew were shaving and having breakfast, Griff was told over the radio that intelligence suggested that the PLA, buoyed up by their victory over the Americans were preparing to attack. The crew gathered as much supplies as they could find, did a final check on the Challenger’s camouflage, then closed her hatches and waited inside.

An hour passed. Two hours. Three. Then, for the first time in Martin’s life, someone was shooting at him.

The first shell slammed forcefully into the mountain side, barely fifty metres to the right of Big Jodie. Mud and rock flew through the air. Martin closed his eyes. He could hear the shrapnel and debris knocking against the side of the Challenger. It sounded like rain on an umbrella, or a car roof. A screech followed by a huge explosion marked the second hit. More rain. Martin was trying to stop his imagination. But it was no use. All he could think about was what would happen if one of the shells hit. Another screech, another boom. They were coming every second now. With every scream the image of twisted metal - of blood and guts – flashed across Martin’s brain. Bill looked through the driver’s screen.
“Jesus, the village is being hit hard, they’re already bugging out...” his voice trailed off in dismay. Bill’s hand reached inside his top pocket, fingering the last letter he had received from his wife. Jerry opened up one of the shell containers, and took out a picture of his beautiful girl back home. Martin was stroking the locket that was hung on his ID tags. Inside a picture of Alice, his fiancé, and Ani, his daughter. Both beautiful blue eyed brunettes. A tear dripped onto the cold metal floor of the tank. Griff had the legendary “thousand mile stare” that was common amongst soldiers at war. Staring into nothing, lost in deep thought. For a whole hour each man was in his own world. Griff broke the sad silence.
“Who’s turn is it to be on watch?”

***

Martin slept.

Martin awoke. It took him a while to figure out what was wrong. He was in soft, pure, white, linen sheets, looking up at a very familiar ceiling. It took him even longer to remember that it was the ceiling of his bedroom, at home. He relaxed a little, and looked at the girl lying next to him. It took him no time to recognise her. He stroked Alice’s hair. She finally responded to the petting after ten minutes or so. She smiled her cute little smile at him, and kissed his nose. Martin smiled back. He was home. At least, he thought he was. Something wasn’t quite right. They kissed. Something still wasn’t right. They kissed again. Martin finally worked out what was wrong. He was still in his grimy uniform, and was still filthy. This confused Martin. Then Griff walked into the room.
“Oi, Martin, your turn on watch, get up you lazy arse!”
Balls. Martin thought.

Martin awoke, to an altogether more uncomfortable reality. Griff gave him another kick.
“Up. Now. Your watch.” Martin grudgingly got up, and peered through the many sights that adorned the turret of the battle tank, still grumbling. The artillery had eased off slightly, though the PLA seemed prepared to level the entire mountain. Martin could see nothing, like usual. Occasionally he thought he could see heat signatures of enemy infantry, but assumed they were just animals. Certainly nothing to worry a mighty Challenger 2.

Dawn broke over the mountains. It gave each explosion a golden outline. It would be wonderful, if it wasn’t so deadly. The Peoples Liberation Army was still shelling the mountain side. A handful of Challengers had gone down, more were badly damaged. During the night some Chinese soldiers had patrolled into the village. The tanks had kept quiet. From the random shots from the artillery, command had decided that the location of the British armour was still unknown to the enemy. AS90s attempted to return fire with the PLA howitzers. Intelligence suggested that the PLA had over two hundred 155mm cannons raining death onto the British line. They also estimated at over a thousand enemy type 99s, the PLA’s Main Battle Tank. The Challenger 2s outclassed them now by far, but to the PLA, numbers were everything. Life hadn’t changed much in the belly of Big Jodie. Sad silence, interrupted by gloomy conversations. As the hours dragged on and on the war became more and more pointless. No one knew why they were there. Why the war had started. No one really cared. All anyone, including Griff, wanted to do, was go home.

Throughout the day the deadly barrage laid it on heavily, but the crew were already used to it. The fear that had numbed them the day before was subdued. Jerry was on watch. He caught a glimpse of something moving, behind a ridge. A barrel, a turret. A Type 99.
“Oh god, Enemy Armour sighted, seven-hundred metres, quarter left, stand to!” the crew rushed to their positions, Griff looked through his sight.
“I see it, aim for the edge of the hill, wait my order to fire.” He pushed the send button on the radio console, “Bravo Mike 0, this is Brave Mike 1-2, enemy sighted behind ridge November, over.” A few seconds pause.
“Roger, all units fire when ready, I say again, fire when ready. Out.”
“Up!” Shouted Jerry, as the shell was pushed into the chamber. The engine roared into life. Big Jodie was ready for a fight. Seconds tricked past. The rest of the Challenger 2s started up. Adrenaline was pumping through the crew’s veins. A minute went. Then two. Then Martin saw the hull of the Type 99. He identified one of the weak spots, and fired.

Martin’s vision blurred. The pressure of the explosion made his ears pop and ring. He heard an incredibly faint crump, as the APFSDS round slammed into the Chinese tank, blowing a huge hole in its side, rendering it useless.
“Up!” Martin shook his head and stared into the sight again. He couldn’t see anything. He heard another challenger fire. Then another. Then silence.
“Cease fire, all units cease fire, they're pulling back, good job lads. Out.” Martin closed his eyes again, and took a deep breath. There was a new feeling in Big Jodie. This was what they were there for, to fight the enemy, and to win. The men buzzed with anticipation, staying at their posts long after the order to stand down was given. They knew the enemy were there. The enemy knew they were there. It was only a matter of time before the Chinese launched another assault. The hours flew past.

An almighty explosion caused the tank to shudder. Another explosion, and more of the mud rain.
“What was that! What the HELL was that?” Yelled Bill,
“I don’t know I don’t know! Everyone check systems!” Griff screamed, and the crew busied themselves trying to find faults.
“Everything’s good. What was that?” said Martin,
“All stations this is Bravo Mike 1-2, what the hell just hit us? Over.” Griff calmly questioned over the ‘net.
“I think it was a missile, probably launched from the village, your deflector blew.” The deflector was a type of armour, which, when it sensed a missile coming towards it, fired, deflecting the missile away from the tank. “I suggest you change position, quick, before another one gets you. Over.”
“You heard him, Bill, get us out of here.” They reversed over the crest of the hill, and back towards the forward headquarters. They got out of their tank, and into a strangely calm world. Though they were barely eight hundred metres away from the front line, it seemed very distant. For the first time in too long, the men were able to stretch their legs as they replaced the blown deflectors. Griff disappeared into the commander’s tent, and the men relaxed on the tank, smoking, and waiting for orders. Griff reappeared half an hour later, with details of a new position to move into.

That night they drove along a re-entrant to the new position, hiding themselves from the Chinese. When they got there, they switched the engine off as quickly as possible, and put up new netting. By morning Big Jodie was invisible once more.

Two more days passed without incident. Another missile slammed into their old position, to persuade the crew not to return there. Their new position, however, was better, and they identified where the enemy who had fired the missile was. Three high explosive shells blew the position to pieces. The artillery eased off once more, with only a few rounds hitting every hour. British Jets and helicopters attempted to target Chinese positions, but were dissuaded by the enemy AA systems. The PLA’s own air support was facing similar trouble from the Rapier 3 missile systems the British had. Night came. Martin slept once more.

He was dreaming of Alice and Ani regularly now, dreaming of simple things such as the breakfast table, or taking Ani to school. She was nine now. The mail had arrived a couple of times since the start, and with one of the letters Alice had sent him was a picture of Ani’s birthday party. He looked at it every now and again. He feared not recognising his family when he got home more than he feared being killed. Sometimes he wondered if Alice had a new man by now, occasionally he wished she did. He felt that he should never have come out here in the first place, that he should never had abandoned his family. He wrote back to his loved ones every day, yet could only send the love-filled letters whenever the mail arrived for him. He cursed at himself for leaving them, they were his world. He had no other family, and before he joined the Army no real friends to speak of.

Martin had grown up on a council estate. He’d known Alice since he was 5 and she was 3. He used to look after her when she was Ani’s age. She used to follow him everywhere, she even followed him to University. Their romantic relationship was a long one, all starting from a kiss in the rain under a tree in the quad. He could still remember what happened. He even dreamt about it sometimes. It was winter, and they were at school, hanging around in the grassy area known as the quad, and it had turned from a beautiful day to a monsoon in the blink of an eye. Alice had seen him sitting under a tree, and run over to cuddle up to him. She’d been doing this whenever she was cold for as long as either of them could remember. He’d put his coat around her to keep her dry, and they’d just stayed there, until she looked up at him, and he kissed her. From there, there were more kisses, and when Martin was twenty nine, Ani came. The little girl brought a new joy into Martin’s world, even though everyone else’s was falling into ruin.

***

Something was strange. It was quiet. No engine noise, no artillery, not even any bird song.
“Stand To! All Units Stand To!” was the order, given by a cracking, panicky voice. Martin rushed to his gunner position, and looked through the sight. Type 99s without number were pouring across the valley, firing shells as they went.
“Wait for the order to fire, easy lads!” commanded Griff, in a soothing voice. This was it. The Chinese counter attack. “Fire!”.

Martin pressed the dark red button marked ‘fire’ and Big Jodie shook with the recoil. The shell missed and showered one of the PLA tanks in mud.
“Up!” shouted Jerry, and Martin fired again, this time on target, turning the piece of armour into a smoking wreck. Another explosion rocked the Challenger II, but Martin kept firing the cannon, taking out no less than four Type 99s in a matter of minutes.
For an hour the Challengers fired down into the valley. The Type 99s were finding it hard to find their enemy, and to fire at them while moving so quickly. When they were half way across the valley, they faced more problems. Their turrets wouldn’t elevate far enough to fire at the challengers. Shells rained down on the weak top armour. It was a slaughter. Then they began to fall back, and a single command was given to the British armoured units.

“Advance.”

Bill sent Big Jodie crashing forward, the camouflage netting ripping when faced with the immense power of the Main Battle Tank. Martin fired again, but missed. All along the valley, tanks were moving towards the panicking Type 99s. Their crewmen greatly feared the challengers, seeing their shells simply bounce off then time and time again. Every now and again each tank would be engulfed in flame and smoke as its massive 120mm cannon fired death itself into the PLA lines. Occasionally a Type 99 fired back. Missiles from Chinese Infantry also fired, but most of the men were fleeing.

The tanks were unstoppable. PLA jets and helicopters were seen off by rapier missiles. Big Jodie flew over the ridge once held by the Chinese. The rest of the armoured division also occupied the position. What they saw on the other side was a well planed armoured ambush. Type 99s without number were in well prepared positions, and an almighty tank battle began.

The line of Chinese MBTs fired almost simultaneously. Yet a British Armoured Division is a formidable creature, even when taken by surprise, and this one returned fire with everything it had. The British tanks worked in pairs, advancing together, using smoke to hide their approach. Despite using superior technology and tactics, the British were slowed by the sheer weight of shells slamming into them.

Big Jodie stopped. Martin looked down the sight, and fired again. He turned the turret to the right, and saw a flash as a Type 99 fired.

A second later he was thrown back in his chair.

He couldn’t see. He could feel unbearable heat on his shins. He could hear Griff calling to him and the crew to grab their carbines and get out. After prodding around himself, he managed to get a grip on his rifle, as he did so he felt a hand grab his shoulder, and pull him out of the burning wreck of Big Jodie.
Martin looked around him, he could see his crew-mates firing at the Chinese infantry who had moved up to harass crews forced to abandon their vehicles. He could see Big Jodie with smoke pouring out of the hatches. His ears were ringing, and his eyes stung. He took a hold of his Carbine, and saw two Chinese soldiers running towards him.

Screaming defiance he pulled the trigger, releasing a burst of lead into the two men, who went down. He managed to crawl to his comrades. Bill was dead. Jerry was wounded, blood pouring from a hole in his leg. Griff and Martin were trying to keep the PLA infantry at bay. They couldn’t hear a thing over the deafening din of the battle. Martin fired towards a group of enemies, and saw one fall to the ground. Griff took another down. They were quickly running out of ammunition, but the enemy were still there. Jerry fired a pistol, and the lifeless body of an enemy soldier fell on top of Griff. Martin heard an almighty bang, and everything went black.

***

Martin woke up. White linen sheets again. This confused Martin. It didn’t feel like a dream. He looked at what he was wearing. Hospital pyjamas. Strange. He looked to his side, and saw his wonderful daughter Anastasia looking at him. He smiled at her. Behind Ani was the beautiful figure of Alice, who leaned forward and kissed him. It felt real. Strange.
“Am I home?” he whispered, Alice smiled, and tried to speak, but tears of joy stopped her. Then a new voice came in, full of authority,
“Let him rest now, you can talk to him in an hour or so!” it was a nurse.

Ani and Alice walked away, and Martin watched them until they left. He turned to his other side, and saw Griff in the next bed along. His head was wrapped in bandages, yet he still managed a smile. Beyond him was Jerry, sitting on a chair.

Martin looked up and smiled. It was over.

[Captain Corrigan]

Right, this is nice, a longer piece at last that allows us to properly see how you write.

Firstly, what I do like. I do like the way in which you portray relationships between the troops, the camaraderie being something you yourself have personal experience of I would assume from your writing and a few educated guesses that suggest you've got some military background at least, if not actually in the army or territorials. This adds hugely to the piece and creates believable, human characters. Secondly, the descriptions of the drudgery of warfare in general is interesting and effective, while your knowledge of the modern British army is, of course, superb. The fighting from inside the tank is also well done, as is the first section in which he finds himself dreaming.

I do have criticisms though. Once Big Jodie has been destroyed, the limited fighting that follows lacks urgency or interest: good in a tank where war is just a repeated series of actions, but less so for the chaos of infantry warfare. Some sentences are also over-extended, I will post up an example tomorrow. The ending left me dissatisfied, it felt almost as if you had built the piece to a climax and then got bored with the idea and sought to finish it quickly.

Overall, a promising effort. You seem to have an aptitude for writing, so keep practicing.

-Corrigan

[Herbiie]

Yeah the penultimate scene needs to be re-written I guess, but I don't want it being too long - crews can't survive long outside of their vehicles!

Also I spent 2 years in the Territorials so I have a bit of experience.

[Captain Corrigan]

Yeah the penultimate scene needs to be re-written I guess, but I don't want it being too long - crews can't survive long outside of their vehicles!

Also I spent 2 years in the Territorials so I have a bit of experience.

That would explain it.

I understand crewmen don't last long once their vehicle is destroyed, since infantry die quickly in tank battles without sufficient equipment and cover, neither of which did they have, but it feels abrupt. I might be tempted to extend the piece anyway and instead have him take fire and he wounded badly but not so badly as to be completely combat ineffective and be picked up by another unit, perhaps dedicated infantry who then come under attack, giving you a chance to do better justice to infantry fighting, which should be intense and chaotic no matter what. Unless one side are genetically enhanced Adeptus Astartes warriors or come from an earlier age of warfare, infantry fighting is more changeable and less ordered and repetitive than armoured war.

-Corrigan

[Herbiie]

Hmm, I see your point about it being abrupt. Rather than extend the fighting on foot scene, might extend the actual escaping from the challenger into a couple of paragraphs & Martin recovering. Would rather keep the focus on the tank battle than an infantry engagement (I actually have another story that needs touching up based around Infantry combat).

Also I doubt an infantry unit would be sent to rescue some crewmen in the middle of a tank battle, afterwards perhaps but it'd be down to the tank's partner (They work in pairs) to cover the downed tank's crew. Perhaps could have another tank pounding it's way into the enemy infantry, but I like putting little plot holes in like what happens after Martin gets knocked unconscious by the HE round. Could just have the partner entering the fight then have Martin going down.

[Captain Corrigan]

Sounds good. Yeah, sorry what I meant with the i nfantry unit was that if he is initially left semi-conscious before being recovered by advancing infantry after the tanks have moved away.

I look forward to more writing.

-Corrigan