Firestorm: Red Thunder

Captain Dogwood takes the field again in another gauntlet mission. Backed up by the return of Second Lieutenant Bridgewater-Smythe and his Scimitar reconnaissance troop. Packing an almighty eight troop carried Milan missiles, and fielding four Spartan MCTs (returned from the field mechanic), he seeks to cut off the Soviet advance across the Dutch town of Apeldoorn.

The mission was once again Gauntlet from the Short Missions pdf.

Captain Dogwood sat on the edge of the train platform in the quaint Dutch town of Apeldoorn, the trains having been long stopped from this station. He snapped his newspaper into shape and grunted, reading with a squint, before giving a chuckle, before setting down the copy of the 'Berliner Zeitung'.

"Something amusing, sir?" Lieutenant Horseham asks, returning from inspecting the Spartan MCTs that were being unloaded in the nearby gas storage yard, beside where the battery of Abbot self-propelled artillery were parked in the shade of the factory building about 300 yards from where the train station was.

"Aye, my German isn't the best, but get a load of this nonsense: 'Our happy(?) troops are within pissing distance of Amsterdam'. Seems they're talking 'bout some of them roamin' aroond Amsterdam as if we're no even here!" He gestures a hand round at the surrounding countryside. Across the road to their north sat a thick wheat field, for the moment absent of Soviet tanks.

"Very amusing sir, but we all know the power of propaganda in keeping morale up." Horseham points out, passing him the cup of coffee he was still holding.

"Nae sign of II Corps yet? Thought we were supposed to be gettin' some lads from far aff places." Dogwood asks, the train station beginning to bustle with Irish and Scots voices as the lads began to set up.

"No sir, but we do ha-..." A loud roar of engines cutting the Lieutenant off again as a troop of familiar Scimitar recce vehicles rolled up the opposite side of the track.

"Aye... him... again." Dogwood sighed and sipped his coffee as the lanky officer dismounted from the lead tank and hopped across the tracks towards them, almost tripping on the middle rails. He snapped off a sharp salute, which Dogwood returned lazily.

"Sah! An absolute bloody pleasure to see you again, Sah" The cavalry commander smiled broadly, offering Dogwood a hand, which the surprised commander shook out of habit.

"Aye, we needed ye last time, let's hope we don't as much this time." Dogwood replies, before a crackling radio cuts them off.

"This is Willow 2-1-9, Come in Whisky Command, over."

"Whisky Command reading you, Willow 2-1-9, over."

"Whisky Command, Soviet spearhead spotted two miles east of your position, prepare for hostiles. Good luck, over."

"Roger than Willow 2-1-9, out." Dogwood replied, tossing his coffee and rising to his feet. "Well Lieutenant, since ye're here, ye may as well make yersel' useful. Lads! Set up! We're gettin' guests!"

He called to them, the men scrambling into positions with shouts and clatter of equipment being moved around.

"Right then, let's see what these boys are like..."

The Scimitars mounted up and raced off as the infantry around the train station dug themselves in between the tracks. The Milan teams setting up at every available window they could. Over the top of the station, Dogwood could just about see the top of the factory building overlooking the crossroads in the middle of town, and hunkered nearby would be the Forward Observation Officer for the battery of Abbots. He crouched, waiting to see what showed up, his plan to spring a barrage of Milan missiles as soon as the attacking force stuck their nose out from behind the old Lutheran church to the north of the town. The radio coming to life again;

"Longbow to Whisky Command, hostiles spotted moving towards our position. What appears to be a troop of BMP carriers, followed by... what the devil are those? T-... T-64s? My my, I've not seen them before, very nice."

"Whisky Command to Longbow, less admirin' the tanks, an' more dealin' with them, over!"

"Yes sir, holding position until ready, I don't think they've seen us, sir. Over."

Dogwood handed the radio back and leaned on his elbows.

"What I wouldn't give to actually see what the hell's goin' on over there." He grumbled as the sound of fire filled the air. Somewhere else things were kicking off in a big way.

Dogwood watched as the Scimitars rolled into the wheat nimbly. Only the turrets of the troop visible over the top. He couldn't see what they were engaging, the church was blocking him off. But it seems something was there as the troop opened up with a torrent of well timed, accurate fire. As one gun fired, the next fired, rolling fire down the line so that as the last fired, the first was reloaded and ready to fire again. Dogwood had to admit, he was impressed with the firing drill from the Cavalry.

"Longbow to Whisky Command, BMP troop neutralised, though it seems they were only a scout troop, no infantry sighted upon destruction, over."

"Roger that, Longbow, keep yer heads doon an'-..."

Dogwood's words were cut off as no.3 of the troop took an almighty blow from an unseen cannon, sending the top spinning off.

"Fu-... Disengage! Longbow, disengage, over!" Dogwood shouted down the comm, but no answer came back as to his right from the town, the sound of Milans hissing, Abbots firing and the heavy 'thump' of larger guns echoed through the streets. Seems like the Soviets had spotted a gap in their line.

The comm crackled back into life, and for a moment Dogwood though the Dragoons had managed to get their radio back, but instead an unfamiliar voice came through:

"Whisky Command - Kestrel 9-9 on attack run - prepare for splash in 3... 2... 1..."

The roar of jet engines accompanied the sight of two Harrier Jump Jets streaking across the sky, the report of machine-gun fire chasing them as they swooped in low, a trembling explosion was soon followed by a large black cloud drifting up from behind the church.

"Reporting one down, Whisky-Command. Confirmed by FOO."

The jets racing off into the distance as Dogwood could do nothing but watch as another of the cavalry troop were picked off.

"Son of a-... Sergeant McLellan! How are your boys doing, report!"

"We're okay here sir, engagin-" A hiss from a Milan cut the words for a moment, before the comm came back to life "no. 4 Abbot is out of it, gun wrecked, crew falling back to a safe position, continuing to hold, over."

"Hold there, lad, ye're doin' well."

The air was filled with thundering echoes from the town, another Scimitar going up, but the radio finally crackling into life.

"Longbow to Whisky Command, we are holding out. A few casualties, but we'll hold them here, over."

"Yer a damn fool! Disengage! Over!"

"No sir, we will hold them to the end, it is our job, out."

The radio fell silent as plumes of dirt rose into the air around the remaining Scimitar, the crew inside huddled into position, ready to continue to act as a distraction.

"McLellan to Whisky Command: We're reporting a success. They got no.2 gun too, but they've been dealt with, Command. Those new toys you've got have paid off, over" The Belfast man reported, sounding relieved, a slight crackle of burning accompanying his words.

"Good lads. Hold position, there's still more oot there." Dogwood informs them, holding position. He was yet to see a single tank himself, the church blocking his view of the action, but this was the plan, and so far, it was working.

"They can't have much left in them, surely?" Dogwood asks, Lieutenant Horseham lifting his head from the ground and taking his fingers out his ears.

"Can't honestly say sir. Don't know how many are round there." He replied, shrugging as the sound of jets heralded the return of the Harriers.

This time, it didn't all go to plan as the machine-gun fire found its mark, one of the jets jerking and beginning to smoke, the canopy popping off and the pilot ejecting as the other aircraft veered sharply and pulled away, put off his bombing run.

"Well damn... We'll have tae go get him after this one." Dogwood commented as yet more round were put into the field. The wheat burning in places, and the ground churned up, but the little Scimitar still snuggled deep inside, holding position.

The air began to calm, but engines roared again from behind the church. Dogwood scurried forward into the line of Milans.

"Alright lads! Here we go, make them count... on mah mark!" He settled, pulling out his binoculars, raising them to the side of the church, through the gap in the hedgerow. A few tank barrels sticking out. He tensed his body, ready to give the order.

Then, they were gone, the barrels pulled back and the radio crackled into life again;

"Longbow to Whisky-Command, they're withdrawing, sah! Mission Achieved, and all that rot! Over." The excited tone of Bridge-Water Smythe was a welcome sound, but Captain Dogwood couldn't help but feel a pang of disappointment from missing out on the action again. From the withdrawal from Bremen, when the Soviets pulled back just before his assault, to now, when he and his platoon didn't even fire a shot in anger.

"Ah need a drink... an' no bloody coffee!

Captain Dogwood sat at the table with his other officers. They had gathered in the church basement whilst the field was cleared of destroyed vehicles and the casualties and wounded were tended to. He had a double measure of some knock-off malt masquerading as something finer. To his left sat Second Lieutenant Bridgewater-Smythe, who had managed to rustle up some gin for himself and Lieutenant Horseham. They had invited Sergeant McLellan, grudgingly to join them, he too was sitting with a whisky.

"Ah know ye'll knock it back, McLellan, but there's a chance to be bumped up to an officer for this one." Dogwood informed the stout Irishman.

"To be honest, sir, I'm not into it. No offence and all that, but I'm happier as a sergeant." He replied, taking a gulp of his drink, instantly refilled by Dogwood.

"We can't all be officers, too many chiefs, not enough indians, so they say." Horseham chimes in, Bridgewater-Smythe nodding in agreement.

"And without those Indians, we'd never have held the field. So, to the 'indians'." He raised his glass.

"The 'indians'." His words were echoed by the others

Dogwood knocked back his drink, the lads were doing him well. They'd get well rewarded for this one, maybe even get in the newspaper, though probably not the 'Berliner Zietung'.

So, you'll notice the Rapiers in the army list, but due to the lack of air power from my opponent they started the game off the table as per the 'Left Out of the Battle' rule in the Team Yankee rulebook. This was also my opponent's first game with Soviets, and were learning their nuances. However, he is a semi-experienced Team Yankee player already, so knew roughly what was going on. No doubt the small points, and the lack of infantry (for now) on his part didn't help matters. Add into the mix the Scimitars decimating the BMPs in turn two and surviving the torrent of T-64 fire until the end, things just didn't go his way. Though in turn five the dice for both of us seemed to love the number '2'. Blitzing, hitting, firepowers, 2 all over.

Until Dogwood rides again!