The Great Tank That Could

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: War and Military  |  House: Booksie Classic
Praise reactive armor and pass the depleted uranium.

Submitted: June 30, 2015

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Submitted: June 30, 2015





Rrar rrar rrar. Crunch crunch crunch. The little Humvee patrolled the perimeter of the coalition FOB. It was a content little vehicle. Its cab and bed could protect at least six personnel of all sorts: soldiers, Marines, personnel on patrol, personnel delivering supplies, and even civilian contractors, at times. It was a well-equipped Humvee. Its armor was significant, its air conditioner held against the desert heat, and the fifty-cal mounted atop it destroyed the enemy to satisfaction.

But that was not all. The little Humvee carried things to eat and drink, and ammo, too. Stomach-curdling but nutritional MREs, 5-gallon water jugs that rank of mold, and ammo, lots of ammo: 5.56 in 30-round mags, and belts of 100s and 200s for all the good American infantry in need. The little Humvee carried all these things in its diligent patrol of the FOB.

“How terrible would it be for the enemy to see me,” the little Humvee thought. “They will suffer the wrath of Ma Deuce that I bring.”

But all at once the Humvee came to a sudden stop. It couldn’t move. There was a slight, acrid, burning smell emanating from the little Humvee’s hood, along with a wisp of steam.

“Oh hell,” thought the little Humvee. “Who forgot to pull proper PMCS this time?”

The Humvee tried to start again, but the NCO in the little Humvee’s passenger seat yelled for the little Humvee’s driver to quit being a dumbass, else the whole engine would blow.

“We can help,” said the little Humvee’s passengers, who climbed out to pop the little Humvee’s hood, and was promptly repelled by a geyser of steam.

“You’re such dumbasses,” observed the little Humvee’s gunner. But the gunner’s keen observation did not help the problem any.

Just then, a mighty MRAP rumbled around the perimeter.

“Hey, maybe that guy can give me a tow,” thought the little Humvee. The gunner waved down the mighty MRAP.

The MRAP slowed to a stop beside the poor little Humvee.

“My engine’s fucked,” the little Humvee told the mighty MRAP. “Can you please tow me back to the motor pool? If you don’t, I'm going to be stuck out here for a while, and it’s getting hot as hell out here without the air conditioner.”

The mighty MRAP was a bit friendly. “You want me to tow you?” the MRAP asked. “I don’t do that. I carry personnel and protect them from IEDs. They sit in my uncomfortable seats and peer through the bulletproof, plexiglass windows, wary of ambush. They even take turns napping while we rumble down the road.

“Pull your little ass?” the MRAP said. “Hell no. I am a mighty MRAP. I would pull your bumper off as easy as pie.”

Off went the MRAP. The little Humvee’s personnel grumbled and swore.

Then the little Humvee’s gunner called out, “Here comes a LAV! Maybe he can give us a tow.”

The LAV rolled to a stop beside the broken-down little Humvee.

“Hey, can you give us a tow?” the little Humvee’s personnel called out. “Our engine’s overheated, and we need to get back to the motor pool, because it’s getting hot in here without the air conditioning.”

But the big LAV did not want to help. “I don’t tow vehicles like yours,” the big LAV said. “I carry combat personnel into firefights, and my cannons chew the enemy into unrecognizable bits of gibs and pulp. I have no time for you; there’s a battle about to brew nearby. I require a mission briefing, pre-combat checks, an ammo resupply, a polish, worship of my crew members, and blood sacrifice of a multitude of camel spiders before I can attend to the enemy. Good day, sirs.”

The big LAV drove away without another word.

The little Humvee’s personnel were furious. The expletives and blasphemy did not bear repeating.

But the little Humvee’s gunner noticed the mighty trembling of the earth that shook his fifty-cal on its turret base.

“Oh,” the little Humvee’s gunner said. “I think that’s an M1 Abrams coming out of the main gate ahead.”

The great, desert-schemed tank appeared from the mouth of the FOB. It was a very content and confident tank, unperturbed by the distant sounds of small-arms fire emanating from the hill beyond the FOB’s main gate.

“You think…” the little Humvee’s gunner started to say.

“Hell no,” the little Humvee’s Sergeant said. “He’s got bigger fish to fry.”

The big war engine was employed to the war zone for such crushing work as it was built for by God-blessed American hands and ingenuity, to crush and destroy the freedom into the enemies of liberty.

It stood silent sentinel over the FOB until a long convoy of soldiers exited the main gate, and asked the big war engine to escort them over Hill 449—there were enemies need killing.

“I can,” said the great war engine built for destruction.

Then the tank asked other Humvees and light armor to join it from the FOB, only to hear excuses: “I’m not armored enough for that job.” “It’s not in my equipment-use description.” “It’s against doctrine.”

“Pussies,” the tank murmured as it took over as convoy lead.

The tank rolled over Hill 449. “I know I can, I know I can…” the tank blasted its enemies with DU, HEAT and HEAP rounds until nothing was left but slag and misery. “…fuck you all up.”

The tank rolled back to its defense position outside of the FOB, the job complete, silently congratulating itself, “I knew I could, I knew I could…”


© Copyright 2019 Jack Motley. All rights reserved.

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