Flashes of Thunder

(Starting with a scenario that turned out to be very short due to the chaos of the RNG that I mentioned in the introduction post. This is the "Flash, Thunder" scenario from Lock and Load Tactical Heroes of Normandy where scattered paratroops have to roll a random event at the beginning of each turn to determine if they find more friends... or enemies.)





Early morning, 06 June, 1944, somewhere on the Cotentin Peninsula, Normandy, France.

PFC Walter Hird softly cursed to himself as he looked at his watch. His platoon should be in position to move on the objective at Pouppeville in 15 minutes. If they did, he was unlikely to be joining them, considering he found himself all alone, and had no real idea where he was. The drops had been one huge SNAFU, with his unit scattered all over the Cotentin. He leaned deeper into the shadows of the hedgerow he crouched beside and angled his compass to try to catch the light of the full moon. If he just kept moving East, he’d probably bump into someone eventually, even if it was the 4^th Infantry boys coming up off Utah Beach. Unless, of course, he bumped into the Krauts first.

Just as he was about to move out, Hird’s ear caught a rustling on the other side of the hedgerow. Shifting his M-1 Garand to his left hand, he fished into his breast pocket for the “cricket.” These kid’s toys had been issued to the Airborne troops as a means to identify each other in the Norman darkness. He held it out, and squeezed gently: Click-Clack.

   

Five seconds. Ten. He began to raise his weapon when he heard a voice call out in a stage whisper:

 “Flash!”

“Thunder!” he answered, relaxing slightly as a figure pushed through the thick vegetation and slid head-first down the small earth berm that made up the bottom of the hedgerow, and into some short bushes at the base.

The figure spoke: “Walt, is that you?”

“Hey Ash,” Hird whispered, making out the lithe form of Wilton Ashley in wan moonlight. He had made the mistake of calling the man ‘Wilton’ once at a pub in England, and gotten a split lip for his trouble. Ever since he’d been just ‘Ash.’ “Why the hell didn’t you use you cricket? I almost drilled you.”

Ash grinned sheepishly, “Lost it. Came down in a pond. Good thing it’s summer.”

Hird noticed now that Ash was helmetless and wet. Despite his words, he was shivering a bit in the 52 degree night air. “Well, welcome to the party, such as it is. I haven’t seen hide nor hair of anyone since I hit. I figured to keep moving East, and maybe we’d find someone.”

“Good a plan as I’ve heard. How do you want to go?” Ash wiped his face with the top of his uniform blouse.

Hird looked around They were at the back end of an uncultivated field about 100 yards across, bordered by hedgerows, with openings to the South and Northeast. A road that he had scouted earlier ran roughly West-East beyond some scattered trees at the south opening.

“The Meeting”

“Let me go check out the road and make sure there aren’t any surprises waiting for us.” Hird put a hand on Ash’s soggy shoulder, “Wait here and then we’ll head out together.”

Before Ash could object, Hird took off across the field in a half-crouch, trotting with his rifle barrel pointed ahead. He reached the line of trees that partially obscured the field from the road, and sank into the shadows at the base of one. Scanning the road, Hird saw nothing but the moonlight reflecting off pebbles strewn about the dirt track as it snaked into the distance.

Meanwhile, Ash hugged himself for warmth as he squatted in the bushes at the base of the hedgerow. His mind drifted back to summer nights at his home near Atlanta; it would never be this cold in June in Georgia, he thought, even at night. Ash was roused from this reverie by the scrape of leather and the clank of a canteen approaching from the field.

“That was quick, Hird.” Ash stood and walked out of the shrubs and into the moonlit field. As he did so, he was startled to find 6 figures approaching at a leisurely walk. Ash’s heart leapt into his throat as he identified the silhouette of stahlhelms on the newcomers. He unslung his Thompson and directed a burst toward the group just as the closest German began voicing a challenge.

Three of the bunched soldiers fell, one figure sprinted away into the night, yelling, while one started unslinging a rifle from his shoulder. Ash swung the barrel of his submachine gun toward the Kraut as the latter struggled with his rifle strap. As he squeezed the trigger to fell the man, Ash realized there was one German unaccounted for.

Ash’s back suddenly erupted in a searing fire of pain as he frantically stepped forward and pirouetted to see a large Feldgrau-clad figure preparing for a second bayonet strike. He barely knocked the barrel of his adversary’s rifle aside in time, and brought the butt of the Thompson up under the big man’s chin. A sickening crunch was Ash’s reward as the German staggered back a step and dropped to his knees. A quick burst from the Tommy gun finished him.

Ash stared around at the remains of the Wehrmacht patrol. A couple of the figures were still drawing ragged breaths, but they didn’t seem to be threats any longer. As he started to shuffle toward the road, hoping Hird was still there, Ash’s head began to swim. His legs gave out, and he pitched forward, his face planting in the grass of the field. His breaths were becoming shallow and he was very cold; much colder than he had been a few minutes ago. “Just a little rest,” he thought, as darkness closed around him.

“Ash’s fight”

As Hird finished scanning the hedgerow lining the far side of the road, sudden shouting and a burst of fire made him whirl around. He just caught the muzzle flash of a second burst back in the field toward Ash’s position, and as he started forward, a third ripped the night. Then, just as quickly, silence descended on the field once again.

Cautiously, Hird retraced his steps into the field toward where he had left Ash. Before he had gone a hundred yards, he came across Ash lying motionless in the grass. As Hird turned him over, his hand came away from Ash’s back slick with blood. When he could find no pulse, Hird carefully laid Ash’s head down and pulled one dog tag from the soldier’s neck. Stowing it in his breast pocket, he headed back for the cover of the trees by the road, wiping his palm on his thigh.

Reaching the shadows of the trees once again, Hird noticed that the night insects had fallen silent. It could have been the short firefight that had quieted them, but something didn’t feel right. Peering down the road, he could just make out shapes in the middle. One was carrying something over his shoulder; something bigger than a rifle. A mortar tube, Hird realized. Just then, men came crashing through the Hedgerow across the road, pounding straight across the track toward the field. Straight toward him.

Hird lifted the rifle and squeezed off six or seven shots in rapid succession. How many hit, he couldn’t say, but the Germans scrambled for whatever cover they could find in the gullies at the roadside, leaving a few shapes lying in the road behind them.

“Germans try to cross the road”

Realizing that the shooting was likely to bring more enemies running, Hird began to back away from the road toward the Hedgerow behind him. Before he got ten feet, however, his foot caught on something and he went sprawling backward. Simultaneously, his world exploded in a cacophony of light and sound, he felt a sledgehammer blow to his left side and he found himself thrown sideways. Searing pain burned through his entire body, and he finally came to rest at the base of a tree, his head ringing like a church bell, and clods of dirt showering him. Shaking his head to try to clear it, he looked around to see a piece of ground several feet away completely torn up. There was no way the mortar had set up and found the range that quickly, he thought. Then, as he turned over, he saw the sign at the side of the road: “Achtung, Minen.”

“Achtung, Minen”

Hird slowly, painfully, came to a sitting position and propped his back against the tree trunk facing the road. His left leg wouldn’t obey him, and he couldn’t raise his left arm above his waist. Bending his right leg, he placed his rifle across it so he could at least fire in a tiny arc to his front. Just then, there was movement along the road, and Hird observed the mortar team running by to the West. He tried to fire in the direction they were moving, but his shots pluncked harmlessly into the ground or over their heads.  

It was then he noticed that he wasn’t alone. While he had been distracted by the mortar team, a German squad had advanced at an oblique angle and appeared among the sparse trees along the road.

“Throw your weapon down,” yelled an officer in heavily-accented English. “It is your only chance at survival.”

Hird thought a moment, and let the Garand fall out of his weakening hand. He doubted he could have held it much longer anyway. As the Germans approached carefully through the minefield, Hird leaned his head back against the tree trunk, closed his eyes and took a long, deep breath.

“It’s over,” he whispered.  

“It’s over”