Hill 88 (original short story)
Posted: 2007-06-08 09:27pm
Lemme know if I butchered anything, or otherwise need to fix it.
Hill 88
The orders came in. “We must take Hill 88. We leave in seventeen and a half minutes.” Magazines were filled, bayonets honed, and shields charged.
At thirty seconds to go, they filed out into the dropships. A whole company, over one hundred soldiers, to take this little hill. Briefing was en-route. “We need this hill as a refueling point,” they said.
A voice blared, telling them to hang on. Flack was coming up. Explosive fragments and anti air missiles flew past the hatch. The dropship began to buck and sway. They suddenly pitched down and rolled left. The shields had been penetrated.
They crashed exactly one hundred and seventeen and a half meters from the intended dropzone. They bailed out, into airbust shells and mortar fire. Screams and thuds indicated the first of the casualties.
Cover was sought. The were still short of the base of the hill. The needed counter battery fire. Rockets flew over their heads, into the hill. The enemy artillery stopped. Screaming a battle cry, the lieutenant charged up the hill. His platoon apprehensively followed.
The first of the machine gun nests opened up. Shields began to waver and crack. “get some fire in there” came over the com. The woman with the missile tube stood up. Tracer fire flew through her just seconds after the missile streaked off. It hit home. The nest exploded. Disoriented bodies crawled into the open. Rifle fire cut them apart.
Th sounds of gunfire cam from other parts of the hill. The charge continued. A platoon became a squad, and a squad, a fire team. Just four of the original twelve had made it. They were mere feet from the enemy command post, pinned in a mud hole by three heavy machine guns.
The rest of the hill echoed into silence. Just the three machine guns, pointed at their mud pit, still made sound. A frag grenade exploded. More fire, a scream, and a gun fell silent. The four were the only people who would help them left on that hill.
“Cease fire! Cease fire!” A voice with a thick accent spoke. The machine gun fire stopped. The leader of the four was a lowly corporal. He motioned for them to fix bayonets. He pulled the pin from a grenade, pushed the detonator, and threw it. The charged up. One more machine gun had died. The last gun opened up, and four became one. “CEASE FIRE!” The commander and the private behind the machine gun moved around the corporal, the last of Charlie Company.
The corporal reached behind him, and flicked the pin from his last grenade. “Your weapons, please,” said the commander. The corporal handed over his rifle. “And the explosive” The soldier thumbed the detonator of the grenade, and dropped it into the outstretched palm. The explosion ripped the commander in half, decapitated the private, and knocked the corporal back. As he exhaled his last breath, he smiled. He had captured Hill 88.
To anyone who gave their lives for freedom.
Hill 88
The orders came in. “We must take Hill 88. We leave in seventeen and a half minutes.” Magazines were filled, bayonets honed, and shields charged.
At thirty seconds to go, they filed out into the dropships. A whole company, over one hundred soldiers, to take this little hill. Briefing was en-route. “We need this hill as a refueling point,” they said.
A voice blared, telling them to hang on. Flack was coming up. Explosive fragments and anti air missiles flew past the hatch. The dropship began to buck and sway. They suddenly pitched down and rolled left. The shields had been penetrated.
They crashed exactly one hundred and seventeen and a half meters from the intended dropzone. They bailed out, into airbust shells and mortar fire. Screams and thuds indicated the first of the casualties.
Cover was sought. The were still short of the base of the hill. The needed counter battery fire. Rockets flew over their heads, into the hill. The enemy artillery stopped. Screaming a battle cry, the lieutenant charged up the hill. His platoon apprehensively followed.
The first of the machine gun nests opened up. Shields began to waver and crack. “get some fire in there” came over the com. The woman with the missile tube stood up. Tracer fire flew through her just seconds after the missile streaked off. It hit home. The nest exploded. Disoriented bodies crawled into the open. Rifle fire cut them apart.
Th sounds of gunfire cam from other parts of the hill. The charge continued. A platoon became a squad, and a squad, a fire team. Just four of the original twelve had made it. They were mere feet from the enemy command post, pinned in a mud hole by three heavy machine guns.
The rest of the hill echoed into silence. Just the three machine guns, pointed at their mud pit, still made sound. A frag grenade exploded. More fire, a scream, and a gun fell silent. The four were the only people who would help them left on that hill.
“Cease fire! Cease fire!” A voice with a thick accent spoke. The machine gun fire stopped. The leader of the four was a lowly corporal. He motioned for them to fix bayonets. He pulled the pin from a grenade, pushed the detonator, and threw it. The charged up. One more machine gun had died. The last gun opened up, and four became one. “CEASE FIRE!” The commander and the private behind the machine gun moved around the corporal, the last of Charlie Company.
The corporal reached behind him, and flicked the pin from his last grenade. “Your weapons, please,” said the commander. The corporal handed over his rifle. “And the explosive” The soldier thumbed the detonator of the grenade, and dropped it into the outstretched palm. The explosion ripped the commander in half, decapitated the private, and knocked the corporal back. As he exhaled his last breath, he smiled. He had captured Hill 88.
To anyone who gave their lives for freedom.