Climber
Platinum Member
- Joined
- Feb 12, 2001
- Messages
- 545
So, the Latest Busse Knife Contest is Over;
the Next Big Event Hasn't Yet Arrived.
So We're "In The Lull..."
That Means, It Is Time...
Time for a Story...
I wrote this back in 2001, but it needed a little editing;
Plus the Newbies haven't encountered it, yet anyone who owns or uses a Busse Combat Knife Needs to digest it, absorb it, assimilate it.
So if you joined the BF since 2002 or later (Definition of Newbie: Well, Not Really, Ha!...)
Then This Story's Incarnation is Dedicated To & For YOU...
So Kick Back, Open A Cold One --
Or if 19 inches of Snow dropped today like it did here --
Warm Up A Hot Cup with a Little Boom-Boom in it,
And ENJOY...
+ + + + + + + + + + + +
“How long have I been here...?”
“How long must I stay...?”
His mind was pounding from the questions never answered, reeling from the shock of yet another salvo that originated from beyond the enemy’s lines. That one was too close, he thought. “WHOOSH!” The air was split. “KUH-THUMP!” The ground shook, upsetting any balance gained from moments before.
“We must get under their line of fire....” The Leader spoke to his men.
He gritted his teeth as he muttered something nearly incomprehensible to his squad members:
“The only way out... is through...!”
Slowly at first, and painfully, the dark-clad assault squad made its way out of its protected nook in the trench, and moved under cover of night into the cool ocean air. They had already come this far, millions of “man-lengths,” as they counted distance here, led by their intrepid Captain. Refreshed by moving breezes of sea air, they quickened their pace and found brief shelters to re-group within the war-torn coastal village.
Moving steadily toward their goal, the enemy’s Command Headquarters, they encountered opposition. It was a band of ten silver-colored metallic beasts, brandishing various weapons, both ranged as well as close quarter: each nine foot at the shoulder. With the Captain there were five men, making six in all.
“Spears of wood, and knives of iron, against THAT?” one of the men whispered.
“It is enough!” the Captain calmly whispered back. “We have the element of surprise. USE your tools like I taught you. This is what you trained for!”
As the ten buzzing, metallic sentries rolled by in the center of the street, from two flanking positions, the six-man squad attacked. The gray-metal blades bit deeply into the silver hearts of machinery, lashed atop the wooden spear-shafts for added close-quarter safety clearance. Once the first six metallic beasts had been thrust through by the squad working as if it were one man, the death-throes began for the mighty machines. Spears were rapidly arced side-to-side that they might open the wounds further and bleed out the precious oils that allowed for their motivation. As the smooth whirring turned into short popping sounds, the enemy’s flailing metal limbs and falling “corpses” provided a barrier of metal for the now entrapped four that occupied the center of the attacked patrol unit. Rather than risk injury to their own by ranged auto-fire, the remaining four machines quickly calculated that close-quarter weapons were in order. Just like the Captain had said, the men thought.
Within that pulse-beat of time that the mechanical giants switched to long, thin, sharpened implements, the squad’s convex-edged spearheads were used to slash and break the mild steel weapons of their opposition, using their recently defunct “comrades” as shields to work behind. Just as quickly, they slashed upwards with a twisting motion to place the edge-on blade portion through the “head-thorax” junction with clean sweeps... In just a few brief moments, the battle was over; for now.
“Now that’s how its done, my friends.” The Captain spoke. “When all we have are knives.”
You see, the freemen hadn’t any guns left! Nor ammunition for them if they had. There were no factories to build them in. Some had, at first, manufactured their own out of small one-man workshops, but eventually these were raided and confiscated. That had been two wars ago, and the only range weapons of any real firepower had been those taken from the enemy.
The Enemy... or enemies: Machines who could reproduce themselves with the touch of an assembly-line button-switch. Machines had proved more useful even than clones, as the first war revealed.
With machines, the freemen and freewomen could be systematically eliminated, removing hope in the process. Most had lost any real hope of winning “the War,” but surrender never seemed an option.
Some would arise to “rally the troops” here and there, but always, they would eventually die.
But then, along came the Captain.
The Captain: now he was a real enigma. No one knew where he had come from, but he moved through the ranks quickly in this New Army. It was as if he had had all the training somewhere else, before he came. It was apparent to all that had fought beside him, that in the Art of War, he was NO NOVICE. A few times his fellow soldiers had heard him muttering something about an old world, a differing time; a time of peace, of contentment, where life was not lived as if every moment were your last. But those days were gone now, he would always conclude. “Gone,” he’d say, holding his head up with a faraway facial expression, like he forgot something important, “unless we could infiltrate and knock out the Command Center of the Adversary.” That was his plan; the plan of the Captain.
The HU had said it was impenetrable; impossible to get through. HU issued warnings to the men: stay in the trenches, don’t be a hero; the war would end soon. We were winning; it was only a matter of time.
The men had heard that time and again, all their lives. The mantra had long worn thin, but it was all the HUs had to bolster any sense of current hope...
HOPE was an antiquated word, with an archaic meaning: so out-of-date, so out-of-touch with the here-and-now of the gloom of unending war.
Then: Somehow, the Captain had gained audience with HU {Hi-Ups in the chain of Command} and gave them his “master plan” that he had cooked up.
They said that it wouldn’t work.
That is, until “the Demonstration.”
After that, there was no more argument. One HU agreed, then another, until finally, it was done: a decision had been made: a Command Decision. A squad would be formed; its purpose: to advance to the enemy line, cut through it, then march, for days, weeks, more than a month if need be, living on what they brought or could find, until the Power Center was reached.
Power Detectors had located it, but no one had been able to advance beyond the grim, unsmiling masks of their Enemy's Robotics Division outside Metal-Gate.
That’s what they entitled it, here in the freelands. Metal-Gate; an unmoving guardian of unknown origin, keeping back the people inside from the freelands and vice-versa.
Nothing had been able to get through that barrier; nothing on this side. No lock cylinder with tumblers to manipulate, so as to bypass that Strong-Hold of Oppression it kept watch over. Just unblinking metal, in the curious shape of a huge Eye, overlooking its domain, and with a view to beyond.
“Rather symbolic of oppression,” the Captain exhorted the men, “to always have an eye for what it could not contain.” It daunted the bravest of the freemen and freewomen who fought for others’ liberty.
HU had sent agents with satchel charges to “Bring Down The Door!” … but to no avail.
Each time, the metal robots would cut the agents down without mercy. Even most of the Hi-Ups – it became common knowledge -- had given up hope then.
But not so the Captain.
He had brought with him something, several somethings in fact, that could cut through the metallic sheaths of those hideous cyber-beasts, even slice through their steely exo-skeletons and penetrate their wiry steel hearts. That’s when the Hi-Ups decided, after he had demonstrated in their presence, in mock battle, the bashing, the piercing, the dominating factor of his weapons he had brought. The mock Cyborg was no match for the indestructible Blades pitted effortlessly against it. The Captain utilized every part of his weapons with efficiency against the Man-Machine, proving their Worth in Battle. When the melee was over, a pile of wreckage at his feet, the Captain uttered the brief but effective ultimatum: “Well...?”
The Hi-Ups collected their collective breaths and one spoke: “What do you call these... things that you use?”
From his dry and parched throat, the Captain spoke: “I call them my best friends. Some I call my brothers and sisters. And this one,” caressing his medium-large, smooth-edged hacker, “I even call my Mistress.”
At that point, it was settled.
He would go.
He was free to hand-pick the squad from the ranks of the rag-tag assembly --
Euphemistically termed: the Free Army.
[ To be Continued in the Next Post...]
the Next Big Event Hasn't Yet Arrived.
So We're "In The Lull..."
That Means, It Is Time...
Time for a Story...
I wrote this back in 2001, but it needed a little editing;
Plus the Newbies haven't encountered it, yet anyone who owns or uses a Busse Combat Knife Needs to digest it, absorb it, assimilate it.
So if you joined the BF since 2002 or later (Definition of Newbie: Well, Not Really, Ha!...)
Then This Story's Incarnation is Dedicated To & For YOU...
So Kick Back, Open A Cold One --
Or if 19 inches of Snow dropped today like it did here --
Warm Up A Hot Cup with a Little Boom-Boom in it,
And ENJOY...
+ + + + + + + + + + + +
In the Heat of Battle, you’ll know who your true friends are:
the ones who won’t let you down.
“IN THE HEAT OF BATTLE...”
the ones who won’t let you down.
“IN THE HEAT OF BATTLE...”
“How long have I been here...?”
“How long must I stay...?”
His mind was pounding from the questions never answered, reeling from the shock of yet another salvo that originated from beyond the enemy’s lines. That one was too close, he thought. “WHOOSH!” The air was split. “KUH-THUMP!” The ground shook, upsetting any balance gained from moments before.
“We must get under their line of fire....” The Leader spoke to his men.
He gritted his teeth as he muttered something nearly incomprehensible to his squad members:
“The only way out... is through...!”
Slowly at first, and painfully, the dark-clad assault squad made its way out of its protected nook in the trench, and moved under cover of night into the cool ocean air. They had already come this far, millions of “man-lengths,” as they counted distance here, led by their intrepid Captain. Refreshed by moving breezes of sea air, they quickened their pace and found brief shelters to re-group within the war-torn coastal village.
Moving steadily toward their goal, the enemy’s Command Headquarters, they encountered opposition. It was a band of ten silver-colored metallic beasts, brandishing various weapons, both ranged as well as close quarter: each nine foot at the shoulder. With the Captain there were five men, making six in all.
“Spears of wood, and knives of iron, against THAT?” one of the men whispered.
“It is enough!” the Captain calmly whispered back. “We have the element of surprise. USE your tools like I taught you. This is what you trained for!”
As the ten buzzing, metallic sentries rolled by in the center of the street, from two flanking positions, the six-man squad attacked. The gray-metal blades bit deeply into the silver hearts of machinery, lashed atop the wooden spear-shafts for added close-quarter safety clearance. Once the first six metallic beasts had been thrust through by the squad working as if it were one man, the death-throes began for the mighty machines. Spears were rapidly arced side-to-side that they might open the wounds further and bleed out the precious oils that allowed for their motivation. As the smooth whirring turned into short popping sounds, the enemy’s flailing metal limbs and falling “corpses” provided a barrier of metal for the now entrapped four that occupied the center of the attacked patrol unit. Rather than risk injury to their own by ranged auto-fire, the remaining four machines quickly calculated that close-quarter weapons were in order. Just like the Captain had said, the men thought.
Within that pulse-beat of time that the mechanical giants switched to long, thin, sharpened implements, the squad’s convex-edged spearheads were used to slash and break the mild steel weapons of their opposition, using their recently defunct “comrades” as shields to work behind. Just as quickly, they slashed upwards with a twisting motion to place the edge-on blade portion through the “head-thorax” junction with clean sweeps... In just a few brief moments, the battle was over; for now.
“Now that’s how its done, my friends.” The Captain spoke. “When all we have are knives.”
You see, the freemen hadn’t any guns left! Nor ammunition for them if they had. There were no factories to build them in. Some had, at first, manufactured their own out of small one-man workshops, but eventually these were raided and confiscated. That had been two wars ago, and the only range weapons of any real firepower had been those taken from the enemy.
The Enemy... or enemies: Machines who could reproduce themselves with the touch of an assembly-line button-switch. Machines had proved more useful even than clones, as the first war revealed.
With machines, the freemen and freewomen could be systematically eliminated, removing hope in the process. Most had lost any real hope of winning “the War,” but surrender never seemed an option.
Some would arise to “rally the troops” here and there, but always, they would eventually die.
But then, along came the Captain.
The Captain: now he was a real enigma. No one knew where he had come from, but he moved through the ranks quickly in this New Army. It was as if he had had all the training somewhere else, before he came. It was apparent to all that had fought beside him, that in the Art of War, he was NO NOVICE. A few times his fellow soldiers had heard him muttering something about an old world, a differing time; a time of peace, of contentment, where life was not lived as if every moment were your last. But those days were gone now, he would always conclude. “Gone,” he’d say, holding his head up with a faraway facial expression, like he forgot something important, “unless we could infiltrate and knock out the Command Center of the Adversary.” That was his plan; the plan of the Captain.
The HU had said it was impenetrable; impossible to get through. HU issued warnings to the men: stay in the trenches, don’t be a hero; the war would end soon. We were winning; it was only a matter of time.
The men had heard that time and again, all their lives. The mantra had long worn thin, but it was all the HUs had to bolster any sense of current hope...
HOPE was an antiquated word, with an archaic meaning: so out-of-date, so out-of-touch with the here-and-now of the gloom of unending war.
Then: Somehow, the Captain had gained audience with HU {Hi-Ups in the chain of Command} and gave them his “master plan” that he had cooked up.
They said that it wouldn’t work.
That is, until “the Demonstration.”
After that, there was no more argument. One HU agreed, then another, until finally, it was done: a decision had been made: a Command Decision. A squad would be formed; its purpose: to advance to the enemy line, cut through it, then march, for days, weeks, more than a month if need be, living on what they brought or could find, until the Power Center was reached.
Power Detectors had located it, but no one had been able to advance beyond the grim, unsmiling masks of their Enemy's Robotics Division outside Metal-Gate.
That’s what they entitled it, here in the freelands. Metal-Gate; an unmoving guardian of unknown origin, keeping back the people inside from the freelands and vice-versa.
Nothing had been able to get through that barrier; nothing on this side. No lock cylinder with tumblers to manipulate, so as to bypass that Strong-Hold of Oppression it kept watch over. Just unblinking metal, in the curious shape of a huge Eye, overlooking its domain, and with a view to beyond.
“Rather symbolic of oppression,” the Captain exhorted the men, “to always have an eye for what it could not contain.” It daunted the bravest of the freemen and freewomen who fought for others’ liberty.
HU had sent agents with satchel charges to “Bring Down The Door!” … but to no avail.
Each time, the metal robots would cut the agents down without mercy. Even most of the Hi-Ups – it became common knowledge -- had given up hope then.
But not so the Captain.
He had brought with him something, several somethings in fact, that could cut through the metallic sheaths of those hideous cyber-beasts, even slice through their steely exo-skeletons and penetrate their wiry steel hearts. That’s when the Hi-Ups decided, after he had demonstrated in their presence, in mock battle, the bashing, the piercing, the dominating factor of his weapons he had brought. The mock Cyborg was no match for the indestructible Blades pitted effortlessly against it. The Captain utilized every part of his weapons with efficiency against the Man-Machine, proving their Worth in Battle. When the melee was over, a pile of wreckage at his feet, the Captain uttered the brief but effective ultimatum: “Well...?”
The Hi-Ups collected their collective breaths and one spoke: “What do you call these... things that you use?”
From his dry and parched throat, the Captain spoke: “I call them my best friends. Some I call my brothers and sisters. And this one,” caressing his medium-large, smooth-edged hacker, “I even call my Mistress.”
At that point, it was settled.
He would go.
He was free to hand-pick the squad from the ranks of the rag-tag assembly --
Euphemistically termed: the Free Army.
[ To be Continued in the Next Post...]
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