The Warriest War Story Ever

Discussion in 'The Book Club' started by Rocketeer, Mar 29, 2010.

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  1. Chapter One:

    Bob was in a tight spot. His bare toes were cramping against the veneer covered particle board of the closet in his Holiday Inn Select room. His calves were cramping from sitting on his haunches in the small space and his, still damp , back was rubbing against the cupboard insert as he held himself still. Although he was in pitch black, he knew that the shelves contained nothing to help him, only a fiberfilled pillow, a synthetic fleece blanket and a lightweight travel iron which he had already dismissed as a poor weapon of opportunity.

    Moments before he had been flopped on the twinbed wrapped only in a scratchy bath towel, reassembling his Sig Sauer he had field stripped before taking a hot shower. Maybe he was being paranoid, but he was sure his instincts weren't wrong when he heard the suspicious footsteps in the hall. They were definitely not from someone searching for their room, but of someone moving hesitantly from door to door, stopping to listen at each one before moving on.

    He had scrambled to finish the Sig and insert himself into the closet. He allowed himself a small smile at the thought that he had probably beaten his personal best in putting the automatic back together as he rubbed his hand on the bevelled grip, making sure, again, that the magazine was locked properly in.

    No, he was sure, now, that he had heard correctly the sound of the cocking bolt being drawn back and a safety catch being flipped off an AK-47 outside his door.. And a real Kalashnikov as well, from the ping of the metal spring, not a Pakistani or Iranian knockoff.

    He tensed, fully alert, as he heard the PBS muffled short burst from the rifle his would be assailant used to take out the card reader and door lock in quick succession. Bob strained to hear the rapid footsteps of his attacker as he entered the room and sprayed the bed and washroom but was caught off guard when he heard nothing.

    Bob suppressed a grunt as he heard and almost felt a heavy boot kick open the door and a snickt and ting of a pin and safety being pulled from a grenade and the soft thud as it hit the carpet and rolled into the room.

    " Sh!t, " he thought, " This is going to hurt. "

    [ Okay you Tom Clancy/Robert Ludlum wannabees :Next!... take it away ]
  2. He was right. it exploded, tearing out his right eye. That didn't matter too much in the grand scheme of things as a bfo piece of the grenade hadtaken out his chest cavity, rendering his entire cardiovascular system null and void..

    The End
  3. Or was it? He awoke to find himself in a top secret military clinic, a clinic that to the public provided nothing more exciting than boob-jobs to serving split-arses with low self-esteem but was in fact the headquarters of the Supadupa Soldiers research establishment, and he was now just another reanimated killing machine, ready to fight for queen and country once again
  4. Yes. He was very definitely deaded.
  5. geez sfub.. who shoved rebar up your hindquarters? Always with the negative waves...
  6. Ignore it Rocketman, I am working on something here... But I must ask, in order to keep to the same stylee..."snickt and ting" :?
  7. Sounds as exciting as getting caught in Wallop officers mess waitress quarters on a sunday afternoon by a very very butch wrac sergeant, who it turns out was not above a bit of the other herself 8) but it was in the days before the scout when Skeeters and Austers were the dogs Whatsits and the Cooks Club was the best night out in the area :lol:
  8. Serve him right for hiding in the closet, dumb bastard.
  9. "... and there was nothing on the altimeter but the maker's name, and that was upside down and covered in blood..."
  10. ...that had been spat there manfully between Bob's teeth, which were now clenched crushingly on the stem of his pipe as he wrestled heavingly with The Collective of the 'Black Ops ArmPitt's Special' in his thrillingly butch effort to stop it from crashing crashingly amongst the serried ranks of Romanian orphans below.

    Heedless of the life or death prose being played out above their heads, they gawped trustingly upwards as the 'Flying Shed' yawed, pitched and chundered in a thoroughly cinematic welter of beige tracer, as Bob sought magnificently to deliver his cargo of Mc Obesity humanitarian aid...
  11. My negative waves are a thing of beauty, but on reflection I am going to use the words "snickt and ting" at the slightest opportunity.

    And btw, Bob's STILL deaded and in little pieces.
  12. ha! thought Bob, as the majority of the shrapnel inbedded into his stash of Frey Bentos, spraying him in the thick gluteness gravy and grissly meat chunk, the after shock harmlessly rippled against his mighty paunch 'god bless the RLC TA training regieme'
  13. ...Bob's lantern jaw flexed like a mating Taipan as he ground his blindingly white, photogenically orthodontic teeth on the stem of his pipe.

    For Bob's pipe was no ordinary pipe!

    Shit no!

    It was a family heirloom, passed down reverently through the generations from his Great Grandfather, Major Domo Sir Hannibal 'Gnasher' Steelshank, VC and Bar, DSO and Baguette, KCMG, PTO, ALDI and QWERTY. Bob's pipe had parachuted into Arnhem with Gnasher (who was then a Mortarman with the 7/19th Lady Gaga's Welsh Backscuttlers) and had played a vital, yet unassuming role (much like Gnasher himself), as it allowed the staunch surviving 'Scuttlers to withdraw in good order behind a smokescreen that even the Waffen-SS couldn't penetrate...
  14. Bob suddenly shuddered and shot his man fat down the shower trap. It had all been a dream.

    Time for him to get dry, dressed and out onto the town with Kiwi Bob, Fijian Bob and Bobby "Two Combs". He quickly pulled on his white disco jeans, his desert boots and marron tee-shirt, then paused. Too obvious? they were undercover in Aldershot after all? He quickly swapped the marron tee-shirt for a khaki one and then pausing only to drop the SIG, pick it up, stuff it into his North Face puffa, drop the puffa, pick it up and pick up the SIG. Then go back for his wallet. Oh and the keys to the Range Rover.

    The rest of the Bobs were waiting in reception. Fijian bob was on his Iphone giving earache to his literary agent by the sounds of it. Kiwi Bob was on his Nokia talking to one or possibltyy two of his girlfriends. Bob "Two Combs" was using a small but exquisite hair brush. Strange but that was Bob all over.

    "We off out Bob?" asked Bob. "No Bob, the Rupert wants a word before we go out on the town...who does he think he is? Bloody university degree, passed top on his PCBC, tour in Basra with an MC, two tours in Helmand with a bar to his MC and a Bronze Star, passed selection and recommended for Staff College and early promotion. Fcuking muppets, green as grass!"

    "Yeah fecking woodentop - bloody Guards" added Kiwi Bbb.

    "No mate he was in 2 PARA."

    "Actually he was in the ranks for three years before his scholarship to Cambridge in 1 PARA so has plenty of SFSG experience in addition to his time with the BRF in Helmand" added Bob.

    "Yeah but he's still a Rupert despite his expedition to the north Pole for Cancer Research and sub-olympic time for the London marathon. He may have a black belt in karate and be OC of the Regiment's shooting team but what good is he going to be in a fire-fight with his public school nonsese?"

    "He went to a comp actually Bob."
  15. Sensible Brian began to fume.. Fijian Bob wasn't a good driver at the best of times but, at this rate, they'd never make it and he'd been only able to book the girls for an hour.. Not that it mattered to Jock much as ever since " the accident" he always went off half-cocked.

    Bob thought he could hear a droning noise. He was pretty sure it wasn't part of the normal engine noise -though, to be fair to Brian, the engine never ran normal since they day the tractor was bought - it being the last of the line manufactured by Leland at the old WWII factory at Birmingham.

    then he realised what it was.. no one could mistake the puketa puketa throb of the wankel motor of a Heinkel - it was old Fritzi starting a strafing run on them as they travelled down the A646.

    " Incoming!" he shouted. Jock, catching on to what he was about cried, " Put your foot down, man! ".. but Fijian Bob knew that doing that would put the accelerator through the rusted floor board and they'd be caught in no time.. Only one thing to do, slam on the brakes and roll the vehicle. At least then they could use it as cover and hope it could absorb the onslaught of .50 cal heavy metal rain while they steadied the RPG he'd throughtfully stashed in the glove compartment next to the wrapped bacon sarnies and Jock's slightly used condoms.