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Reminds me of a horrible song where they repeat over and over supersonic, electronic.
Yes I know that I am twisted.
Yes I know that I am twisted.
The supplies are limited, but unlike a certain other would-be world conqueror, Fu has enough sense to hoard his Wunderwaffen until he has enough of them to make a difference...
I'm sure they have. The blown up bridge should pose only a temporary delay. (Actually, I have serious doubts even Fu Manchu could hit a bridge with a 40s vintage cruise missile, but hey, somehow it damages infrastructure so...)
Thanks young Padwan, and welcome onboard! Always glad to have a new regular, which I guess I could count you as if you've bored through the thousand or so pages of this AAR...
Never worry. The oh so Germanic engineers of the DAK will have a pontoon bridge up in no time short. After all, the Germans are even better engineers than they are soldiers, right?
Now, now, they're not necessarily dead. As to their age, Biggles is according to canon 41 years old at this time. The others, except possibly Bertie, are younger.
That's this AAR in a nutshell. Horrific death and unspeakble, blasphemous things that should not be.
Of course you are. Would you be reading this otherwise?
And now, back for another peek at Indy and his B Company.
Last Chance, Colorado
United States of America
Thursday, August 28th 1940
Thirty minutes after the odd aircraft had passed by the positions of B Company, 1st Battalion of the 4th Colorado Volunteers, all hell broke loose. It was still before dawn, and the eastern sky was so dark mauve it was almost black. Everybody was up and awake, having been roused by the infernal scream of the flying machines.
It began with a horizontal line of white light appearing suddenly at the base of the black mass of the mountains. It stretched for a significant part of the field of vision. The first one to notice it was Private Billy Anson.
‘Look Cap’n!’ he said, pointing. ‘What’s that?’
Captain Henry “Indiana” Jones took one look and was instantly transported back in time and space to the Western Front in the spring of 1918, when the Kaiser launched his last desperate gamble to win the Great War.
‘Incooooming!’ he screamed at the top of his lungs and dropped to the bottom of the trench. His men looked at him with mouths hanging open for a second or two and then dropped too.
None too soon. Preceded by a chorus of shrill ululations, a storm of fire and hot steel crashed down on the B-company positions. Actually, Indy’s unit hadn’t been singled out and a similar deluge of artillery fire was pouring down on many sectors of the American lines outside Denver. But that was cold comfort for the men of the 4th Colorado Volunteers as the ground rocked and heaved, incoming shells whistled shrilly and detonations hammered their ears with unthinkable force. Cascades of loose earth fell from the sides of the trenches. Because there was little wood to be had in Last Chance, Indy hadn’t been able to have the trench sides properly braced. A near hit could easily bury the occupants alive. With this unpleasant thought never far from his mind, Indy did his best to imitate an earthworm, while his young men shrieked in terror, wet themselves and shouted for their mummies. They had taken artillery fire before, but nothing, NOTHING like this… The air was thick with cordite smoke and dust. Darkness was compact.
Nearby, a 10 cm shell landed inside the trench itself, or close enough that it made no difference. There was a deep thump followed instantly by a detonation so loud that it blotted out sound. Smoke, dirt, pieces of men and pieces of equipment sprayed in all directions. The shockwave travelled through a few bends and curves of the trench, punching the air out of the men laying there.
Indy was so groggy and his ears ringing so loudly that he almost didn’t realise the barrage was over. It had lasted less than two minutes, even if it felt like much, much longer. This was the most dangerous time of all – the enemy was coming, and if Short Round’s warnings were to be taken seriously, in immense strength!
He blew his whistle furiously! ‘Man the parapets! To the machineguns! Quickly, quickly! Do you want to die with a bayonet in your guts? Move, move, move!’
He led by example, pushing his head over the parapet and watched into no mans land. A huge roar from a thousand throats crashed over him. The plain was crawling with Pan-Asians, thousands upon thousands of them. Among them were a few Type 97 tanks.
‘Fire! Fire!’
He emptied his eight round clip in a matter of seconds, pumping out bullets as fast as he could, until a metallic ping told him he needed to reload. He had no idea how many, if any, he had killed. His men did the same, but their smattering fusillade did little to impede or diminish the human tsunami bearing down on them.
The two Maxims of B Company had thankfully not been put out of action. They finally opened fire. Their bullets scythed through the packed Pan-Asian masses causing slaughter.
Indy knew what the Pan-Asian response would be. Already the turrets of the tanks were traversing towards the Maxims, bringing their 57mm pieces to bear.
‘Anti-tank rifles! Damn it, are you asleep? Take out those tanks!’ he shouted. Nothing. Either the AT gunners had been incapacitated in the barrage or the weapons buried by it.
The archaeologist turned infantry Captain swore and ran down the trench towards where the nearest AT rifle was supposed to be. Sure enough, the boy tasked with operating it was there, but a pile of quivering, weeping jelly on the trench floor. Shell shock, bad case, Indy concluded quickly and picked up the weapon.
The Polish anti-tank gun looked much like an ordinary bolt action rifle, except for its ridiculously long barrel, oversized magazine and bipod. To Indy, it weighed a ton as he eased it over the edge of the parapet and searched for targets. A Type 97 fired its gun at a Maxim, but overshot. Indy aimed at the turret of that tank and pressed the trigger.
The recoil was like nothing he had ever experienced, but he hardly noticed. Hardly had he pressed the trigger before the Type 97 cooked of with all the fury of a small volcano. Indy felt like he had pointed with the Finger of God. Infantry dropped dead in a wide circle around it and a piece of track spun madly through the hordes further away, cutting men in half with blood-curling ease. The other AT gunner finally joined the party and knocked out another tank. This one didn’t blow up, but stopped, pouring smoke, as the crew bailed out.
The other tanks, not having discovered the American AT weapons, began to back off. Seeing this, the Pan-Asian infantry began to dive for cover; obviously they were not doped up on the Soul of the Dragon. A few American mortar shells landed among them, a mere pittance compared to the earlier barrage but unpleasant enough for men out of cover. The attack had stalled, but small arms fire continued unabated.
Indy considered his situation. The Pan-Asians would likely call in a new artillery barrage, and renew their assault right after it. This time, his men would be overwhelmed. There were just too many enemies too close and too few Colorado volunteers holding the line.
He considered his options. If he ordered a retreat now, the Pan-Asians would chase right after them and pick them off like rabbits. But if he waited… yes. And they would need some cover, just to get a head start.
Discarding the AT rifle, he ran back to his command post, where the wireless set stood ready. ‘Quickly, let Battalion know we have to pull back or be overrun!’
‘We are?’ the teen operating the set asked, looking aghast.
Indy ignored the question. ‘Short Round!’ he barked.
The young Chinese, pressed into service as Army Courier, never strayed far from his mentor’s side. ‘Yes Indy?’
‘Run down the line, tell the guys from me to prepare smoke grenades and to grab as much ammo as they can, and water bottles and rations. We’re going to bug out to the fall back line. Tell them that the command to run is “Salamis!”’
The young Chinese smiled. ‘Telly will like that Indy! Good one!’ He set off running, always crouched down to keep his head clear while Indy returned through a short communications ditch to the main trench line.
Young Billy Anson was there, calmly firing clip after clip against the crawling mass of enemies out in no man’s land. He had come a long way in a short time, Indy thought.
Indy waited two or three minutes. He had to time this perfectly. Throw the smoke too soon, and it would cover the enemy advance, not their own retreat. Too late, and… well, they wouldn’t get far.
‘B Company!’ he shouted when he judged the time right. ‘Deploy smoke!’
Smoke grenades went off with low puffs along the trench line. Instantly great white clouds bloomed up, slowly drifting back towards the trench.
‘Why don’t they storm us?’ Anson asked.
‘Because they’ve called down another artillery barrage on us, that’s why!’ Indy muttered. ‘No time to loose then! Salamis! Salamis!’ he shouted, and the men of B Company went over the top – backwards.
The enemy understood what was happening and fired blindly but ubiquitously through the drifting smoke. Some GIs fell, riddled by bullets. The others ran like madmen, Indy closest to Short Round and Billy. They hadn’t run two hundred yards when another massive artillery barrage fell down on the vacated trenches. It fell near enough than some of the B Company men were hit by flying shrapnel, but placed an impassable obstacle behind them.
It lasted for three full minutes, giving B-Company’s men time to reach the backup line established by D Company.
It was an improvised ditch with a sprinkling of fox holes, nothing like the elaborate piece of trench Indy had devised. The frightened B Company survivors nested in as best they could and prepared to repel the next attack. Survivors from the other companies were already in place, having been overrun and nearly destroyed in the first rush.
There were only the two Maxim’s of D company, and no anti-tank rifles. Indy felt oddly calm. There was no hope, but he had done everything that could be expected of him.
A horrific chorus of screams pierced the air. The dry, dusty ground shook.
A mass of riders in full gallop appeared behind the crest of a hill less than a mile away. They looked like they had sprung right out of another time – fur rimmed hats under their steel helmets, hardened leather cuirasses over their uniforms… they wielded lances and sabres, but also submachine guns, revolvers and hand grenades. They were thousands.
‘Mongols!’
There came a shriek of absolute terror from one end of the American line to the other. Despite official attempts to play down their fearsome reputation, the Mongol Cavalry were well known, even among the green teens of the Volunteer Regiments as the most ruthless of the Pan-Asian invasion forces. They had been the main executors of Karash operations leaving nothing alive in their wake. They rarely took prisoners, and when they did often used them for cruel sport.
The Americans opened up a frenzied fusillade with Garand rifles and machine guns. The Mongols charged undeterred, firing their guns as they went. Many dropped, but others took their place. Indy, who had read about cavalry charges so many times in dusty tomes, finally understood first hand just how frightening they could be. His insides turned to cold jelly. He felt like throwing down his rifle and running for his life. Of course, the same books made very clear that was the worst thing he could do.
‘Stand your ground!’ he shouted, firing his Garand. ‘It’s our only chance! Stand! Stand!’
It was useless. One man threw down his weapon and turned tail, then another, and another… and suddenly the remnants of the battalion had dissolved into a panicked mob, running desperately for the rear areas. After the merest hesitation, Indy swore and followed their example.
True to their reputation, the Mongols gave no quarter. Howling like devils they rolled over the American soldiers, shooting, stabbing, and slashing. Howls for mercy or arms lifted in surrender where ignored. GIs died spitted like chickens on lances, decapitated by flashing sabres, ridden down. It would seem the Mongols had a preference for traditional weapons when in close. There was little firing, but it was not a silent carnage.
His trusty old Webley revolver in hand, Indy turned to sell his life dearly. He shot a Mongol bearing down on him with a raised sabre. He never saw the lance point of another aimed at his head, but avoided it somehow. The shaft hit him instead as the Mongol horseman thundered by, filling his vision with stars. He fell. He felt Short Rounds arms around him as his mind fell down well of darkness. The last thing he heard was an angry shout in Mongol.
United States of America
Thursday, August 28th 1940
Thirty minutes after the odd aircraft had passed by the positions of B Company, 1st Battalion of the 4th Colorado Volunteers, all hell broke loose. It was still before dawn, and the eastern sky was so dark mauve it was almost black. Everybody was up and awake, having been roused by the infernal scream of the flying machines.
It began with a horizontal line of white light appearing suddenly at the base of the black mass of the mountains. It stretched for a significant part of the field of vision. The first one to notice it was Private Billy Anson.
‘Look Cap’n!’ he said, pointing. ‘What’s that?’
Captain Henry “Indiana” Jones took one look and was instantly transported back in time and space to the Western Front in the spring of 1918, when the Kaiser launched his last desperate gamble to win the Great War.
‘Incooooming!’ he screamed at the top of his lungs and dropped to the bottom of the trench. His men looked at him with mouths hanging open for a second or two and then dropped too.
None too soon. Preceded by a chorus of shrill ululations, a storm of fire and hot steel crashed down on the B-company positions. Actually, Indy’s unit hadn’t been singled out and a similar deluge of artillery fire was pouring down on many sectors of the American lines outside Denver. But that was cold comfort for the men of the 4th Colorado Volunteers as the ground rocked and heaved, incoming shells whistled shrilly and detonations hammered their ears with unthinkable force. Cascades of loose earth fell from the sides of the trenches. Because there was little wood to be had in Last Chance, Indy hadn’t been able to have the trench sides properly braced. A near hit could easily bury the occupants alive. With this unpleasant thought never far from his mind, Indy did his best to imitate an earthworm, while his young men shrieked in terror, wet themselves and shouted for their mummies. They had taken artillery fire before, but nothing, NOTHING like this… The air was thick with cordite smoke and dust. Darkness was compact.
Nearby, a 10 cm shell landed inside the trench itself, or close enough that it made no difference. There was a deep thump followed instantly by a detonation so loud that it blotted out sound. Smoke, dirt, pieces of men and pieces of equipment sprayed in all directions. The shockwave travelled through a few bends and curves of the trench, punching the air out of the men laying there.
Indy was so groggy and his ears ringing so loudly that he almost didn’t realise the barrage was over. It had lasted less than two minutes, even if it felt like much, much longer. This was the most dangerous time of all – the enemy was coming, and if Short Round’s warnings were to be taken seriously, in immense strength!
He blew his whistle furiously! ‘Man the parapets! To the machineguns! Quickly, quickly! Do you want to die with a bayonet in your guts? Move, move, move!’
He led by example, pushing his head over the parapet and watched into no mans land. A huge roar from a thousand throats crashed over him. The plain was crawling with Pan-Asians, thousands upon thousands of them. Among them were a few Type 97 tanks.
‘Fire! Fire!’
He emptied his eight round clip in a matter of seconds, pumping out bullets as fast as he could, until a metallic ping told him he needed to reload. He had no idea how many, if any, he had killed. His men did the same, but their smattering fusillade did little to impede or diminish the human tsunami bearing down on them.
The two Maxims of B Company had thankfully not been put out of action. They finally opened fire. Their bullets scythed through the packed Pan-Asian masses causing slaughter.
Indy knew what the Pan-Asian response would be. Already the turrets of the tanks were traversing towards the Maxims, bringing their 57mm pieces to bear.
‘Anti-tank rifles! Damn it, are you asleep? Take out those tanks!’ he shouted. Nothing. Either the AT gunners had been incapacitated in the barrage or the weapons buried by it.
The archaeologist turned infantry Captain swore and ran down the trench towards where the nearest AT rifle was supposed to be. Sure enough, the boy tasked with operating it was there, but a pile of quivering, weeping jelly on the trench floor. Shell shock, bad case, Indy concluded quickly and picked up the weapon.
The Polish anti-tank gun looked much like an ordinary bolt action rifle, except for its ridiculously long barrel, oversized magazine and bipod. To Indy, it weighed a ton as he eased it over the edge of the parapet and searched for targets. A Type 97 fired its gun at a Maxim, but overshot. Indy aimed at the turret of that tank and pressed the trigger.
The recoil was like nothing he had ever experienced, but he hardly noticed. Hardly had he pressed the trigger before the Type 97 cooked of with all the fury of a small volcano. Indy felt like he had pointed with the Finger of God. Infantry dropped dead in a wide circle around it and a piece of track spun madly through the hordes further away, cutting men in half with blood-curling ease. The other AT gunner finally joined the party and knocked out another tank. This one didn’t blow up, but stopped, pouring smoke, as the crew bailed out.
The other tanks, not having discovered the American AT weapons, began to back off. Seeing this, the Pan-Asian infantry began to dive for cover; obviously they were not doped up on the Soul of the Dragon. A few American mortar shells landed among them, a mere pittance compared to the earlier barrage but unpleasant enough for men out of cover. The attack had stalled, but small arms fire continued unabated.
Indy considered his situation. The Pan-Asians would likely call in a new artillery barrage, and renew their assault right after it. This time, his men would be overwhelmed. There were just too many enemies too close and too few Colorado volunteers holding the line.
He considered his options. If he ordered a retreat now, the Pan-Asians would chase right after them and pick them off like rabbits. But if he waited… yes. And they would need some cover, just to get a head start.
Discarding the AT rifle, he ran back to his command post, where the wireless set stood ready. ‘Quickly, let Battalion know we have to pull back or be overrun!’
‘We are?’ the teen operating the set asked, looking aghast.
Indy ignored the question. ‘Short Round!’ he barked.
The young Chinese, pressed into service as Army Courier, never strayed far from his mentor’s side. ‘Yes Indy?’
‘Run down the line, tell the guys from me to prepare smoke grenades and to grab as much ammo as they can, and water bottles and rations. We’re going to bug out to the fall back line. Tell them that the command to run is “Salamis!”’
The young Chinese smiled. ‘Telly will like that Indy! Good one!’ He set off running, always crouched down to keep his head clear while Indy returned through a short communications ditch to the main trench line.
Young Billy Anson was there, calmly firing clip after clip against the crawling mass of enemies out in no man’s land. He had come a long way in a short time, Indy thought.
Indy waited two or three minutes. He had to time this perfectly. Throw the smoke too soon, and it would cover the enemy advance, not their own retreat. Too late, and… well, they wouldn’t get far.
‘B Company!’ he shouted when he judged the time right. ‘Deploy smoke!’
Smoke grenades went off with low puffs along the trench line. Instantly great white clouds bloomed up, slowly drifting back towards the trench.
‘Why don’t they storm us?’ Anson asked.
‘Because they’ve called down another artillery barrage on us, that’s why!’ Indy muttered. ‘No time to loose then! Salamis! Salamis!’ he shouted, and the men of B Company went over the top – backwards.
The enemy understood what was happening and fired blindly but ubiquitously through the drifting smoke. Some GIs fell, riddled by bullets. The others ran like madmen, Indy closest to Short Round and Billy. They hadn’t run two hundred yards when another massive artillery barrage fell down on the vacated trenches. It fell near enough than some of the B Company men were hit by flying shrapnel, but placed an impassable obstacle behind them.
It lasted for three full minutes, giving B-Company’s men time to reach the backup line established by D Company.
It was an improvised ditch with a sprinkling of fox holes, nothing like the elaborate piece of trench Indy had devised. The frightened B Company survivors nested in as best they could and prepared to repel the next attack. Survivors from the other companies were already in place, having been overrun and nearly destroyed in the first rush.
There were only the two Maxim’s of D company, and no anti-tank rifles. Indy felt oddly calm. There was no hope, but he had done everything that could be expected of him.
A horrific chorus of screams pierced the air. The dry, dusty ground shook.
A mass of riders in full gallop appeared behind the crest of a hill less than a mile away. They looked like they had sprung right out of another time – fur rimmed hats under their steel helmets, hardened leather cuirasses over their uniforms… they wielded lances and sabres, but also submachine guns, revolvers and hand grenades. They were thousands.
‘Mongols!’
There came a shriek of absolute terror from one end of the American line to the other. Despite official attempts to play down their fearsome reputation, the Mongol Cavalry were well known, even among the green teens of the Volunteer Regiments as the most ruthless of the Pan-Asian invasion forces. They had been the main executors of Karash operations leaving nothing alive in their wake. They rarely took prisoners, and when they did often used them for cruel sport.
The Americans opened up a frenzied fusillade with Garand rifles and machine guns. The Mongols charged undeterred, firing their guns as they went. Many dropped, but others took their place. Indy, who had read about cavalry charges so many times in dusty tomes, finally understood first hand just how frightening they could be. His insides turned to cold jelly. He felt like throwing down his rifle and running for his life. Of course, the same books made very clear that was the worst thing he could do.
‘Stand your ground!’ he shouted, firing his Garand. ‘It’s our only chance! Stand! Stand!’
It was useless. One man threw down his weapon and turned tail, then another, and another… and suddenly the remnants of the battalion had dissolved into a panicked mob, running desperately for the rear areas. After the merest hesitation, Indy swore and followed their example.
True to their reputation, the Mongols gave no quarter. Howling like devils they rolled over the American soldiers, shooting, stabbing, and slashing. Howls for mercy or arms lifted in surrender where ignored. GIs died spitted like chickens on lances, decapitated by flashing sabres, ridden down. It would seem the Mongols had a preference for traditional weapons when in close. There was little firing, but it was not a silent carnage.
His trusty old Webley revolver in hand, Indy turned to sell his life dearly. He shot a Mongol bearing down on him with a raised sabre. He never saw the lance point of another aimed at his head, but avoided it somehow. The shaft hit him instead as the Mongol horseman thundered by, filling his vision with stars. He fell. He felt Short Rounds arms around him as his mind fell down well of darkness. The last thing he heard was an angry shout in Mongol.
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That was one hell of an attack. The Americans will have to get some artillery of their own if they're to stand a chance in future battles. Some air assets would be nice too.
Me, I'm curious about what's guiding those cruise missiles. Something has to be; I don't think even Fu could get those results out of standard 1940-vintage technology.
Biggles and any of his surviving wingmen would be by no means unique in flying during both World Wars. Unusual, yes. Unique, no.
Well, regarding japan history and the devotions of the panasian soldiers to their emperor I fear, it's not the question what is guiding those missiles, but WHO is guiding those missiles. Remember the oka suicide bombs. Maybe some panasian soldiers encouraged by some drugs pilot those.
Methinks the author has gone overboard with Fu love. That would have been pretty good results for modern missiles with pre programmed flight paths from satellite maps. Way, way over the top.
Never underestimate the genious of Master Fu! He built a laser beam at the turn of the century, he is immortal, and invented a lot things. I think this still lie within the realm of plausibility for the great Master Fu.
Nope, laser beams are pulp style mad science. I have no problem with that, I read the Spider
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Spider
the Fu cruise missiles are basically modern weapons that somehow work without computer tech or satellites. It's over the top and doesn't fit at all.
This can't be good, neither for Indie or for the USA in general. With the line in Colorado destroyed, I imagine its a straight retreat back to the Mississippi, or at least Saint Louis, where they might be able to make a prolonged stand in an urban area with a river to its back, vaguely Stalingrad-esque. But seeing as its pretty much straight plains from the Rockies to the Mississippi, the best the US can hope for is that their army finishes their long retreat in one piece.
Also, I'd imagine the supply lines are getting pretty tenuous, since things must be shipped to California, then trucked or put on railroads (which have probably been sabotaged) all the way across desert and mountains and plains, all of which have loads of partisans. Is that affecting the Pan-Asians at the front lines? (after all, their supply system would be much worse than the Germans at Moscow, which wasn't that great)
Also, I'd imagine the supply lines are getting pretty tenuous, since things must be shipped to California, then trucked or put on railroads (which have probably been sabotaged) all the way across desert and mountains and plains, all of which have loads of partisans. Is that affecting the Pan-Asians at the front lines? (after all, their supply system would be much worse than the Germans at Moscow, which wasn't that great)
My guess would be that Fu has some kind of biological guidance for those cruise missiles (nobody in setting would call them "cruise missiles," but that's the word for them today). Maybe not a living pilot; who knows?
Fu is a master of biology and biochemistry more than anything else, and this is one of the few ways to make that really useful for the military.
Fu is a master of biology and biochemistry more than anything else, and this is one of the few ways to make that really useful for the military.
Who are these limey pilots who just had their entire airbase obliterated?
Doesn't look good for Indy. If Short Round can't get him out, he's as good as dead.
Doesn't look good for Indy. If Short Round can't get him out, he's as good as dead.
Ah, but how do you know none of those things are involved? <hint hint>
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Wow. I somehow missed three updates. How did that happen?
Pleasant surprise though. Too bad Durn was terrified by the wolves. Still the look on Von Strasser's face when he reforms will be priceless. Durn then calmly picks up his enchanted dagger and eviscerates his lovely assistants. Or he doesnt have his dagger and runs away naked since his clothes were torn the shreds and even Durn can't take the lovely assistants on with his bare hands.
Pleasant surprise though. Too bad Durn was terrified by the wolves. Still the look on Von Strasser's face when he reforms will be priceless. Durn then calmly picks up his enchanted dagger and eviscerates his lovely assistants. Or he doesnt have his dagger and runs away naked since his clothes were torn the shreds and even Durn can't take the lovely assistants on with his bare hands.
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Thanks! I thought you'd like them, after all they are the Americans worst nightmare!
The Americans have those things if not as much as they would like and need. But here the Pan-Asians chose the place and time of battle and concentrated their strength. The militia holding the first line had no chance. It remains to see what reserves are in place to deal with the breakthrough.That was one hell of an attack. The Americans will have to get some artillery of their own if they're to stand a chance in future battles. Some air assets would be nice too.
Man, I wish I had thought about that earlier - Fu, creator of the first Cylons! Your description made me think immediately of those Cylon fighters from BSG, the re-imagined series with a biological "brain" flying them.
Heh. That is a possibility of course. Made me think of those Kaiten torpedoes no one in the US Navy could understand how the hell they were guided, until one was a dud - and they found a small jap inside.
Yes. They have gyroscopes too.
They're also a fair approximation of the effectiveness of HOI2 flying bombs. After all, if they can knock out infrastructure, they MUST be able to hit things like rail- and road bridges, railway stations etc. Perhpas not with every missile, like modern Cruise missiles, but at least given an enough number of them fired at a target. Off course, the V-1 couldn't do that at all. The Dragon missile does though, and how it achieves that will be explained in later episodes. I'll say only that it necessitates a leap ahead by 15 years or so in a single field, and can otherwise be achieved with 1940s vintage technology.
That's the spirit. Now let's chant together; YES, he can! YES, he can! YES, he can!
Partisan resistance IS a factor, but much diminished by the Karash policies. Also, not everything comes to the Pan-Asian armies in America across the Pacific. They run now exclusively on American-produced fuel, the surplus being shipped back to Pan-Asia. There are also ammunition factories running on the western seabord, manned by imported Chinese labour. As for the strain on the supply system, they fare much BETTER than the Germans because the United States has very good roads which go easy on trucks, whereas the Russian miserable excuses for roads shook Germany's captured civilian trucks to pieces. And they have captured thousands of trucks while they overran Western United States.
As Arilou pointed out, Biggles (James Bigglesworth) is a British teen pulp hero pilot from the interwar and post ww2 eras.
If he does, it'll be due to sheer blind luck.
Durhn doesn't need his dagger - he has other means at his disposal, as this update will show.
By the way, the update below is also my 3.000th post! I thought the day would never come... and now that it has custom avatars are disabled!
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