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CM:BN Screenshot Thread #2

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Unlike Crommers I've never actually been to Worcester. We do have a little Abbey down the road. I haven't thought about smashing it up, but I have been tempted to go down there and ask "Why don't you brew beer here?"

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B Company of 82nd Airborne Division trying to capture the bridge.....

And Fire Superiority wins :D 

Edited by kr0114

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I am always impressed when anyone can find a use for a jeep-mounted 50 cal.  Ideally one wants to be well over 500m from the enemy.  On most CM2 maps that isn't possible and the jeep dies quickly if deployed as above.

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You have to know how to use them right. all the troops survived enemy was fleeing under suppression, jeep survived was hull down in hedge...

Edited by user1000

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On 6/11/2017 at 3:32 PM, Erwin said:

I am always impressed when anyone can find a use for a jeep-mounted 50 cal.  Ideally one wants to be well over 500m from the enemy.  On most CM2 maps that isn't possible and the jeep dies quickly if deployed as above.

This is my goal. I have already taken out a tank with my half track by hitting the back of it with the .50. My next goal is to take out a tank, with the .50cal jeep. You can do it with a veteran jeep crew, and 50 will knock out a tanks engine if you are close. Hope they don't back away from armor like regular jeeps do. :D

Edited by user1000

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Yes, the AI self-preservation routine can sometimes be frustrating.  But I do love playing with the very light "weaponized" vehicles like jeeps and the numerous technical and land rover variants used by the Brits in CMSF.

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Fighting around Prummern, November 20, 1944


The weather is beastly as the troops begin to advance.  It is cold and wet and foggy, and of course, it is raining.  Visibility is bad.  Everything is bad.  Being in Germany is bad, and especially being around Prummern right now is very bad.  Mahogany Hill my a$$, mutters Major Semken to himself.

He has A Squadron of Sherwood Rangers Yeomanry armor split across the front, both east and west of the road leading to Beeck.  Sherman V tanks with 75mm cannon – not good.  Not good at all.  They won’t be able to open up the Jerry heavies with those, he reflects quietly.  Only two Fireflies among the lot of ‘em.  It will have to do.

The radio crackles to life.  Sound contacts dead ahead.  The American scouts are reporting a very loud enemy vehicle, probably a tank.  Any idea of what type? he asks.  No, just very loud.  Well, that’s helpful.  Americans!  He sighs with annoyance. 

Leftenant Colonel Vidal calls to Semken, tank-to-tank.  He advises that Semken should begin bringing up his Troop 1.  Why the Leftenant Colonel would want to still be in a tank is beyond Semken’s thinking.

Semken has his radioman pull up the armor net.  “Troop 1, Troop 1, report of vehicle activity on the right flank.  All units east of the road move forward cautiously.  And for God’s sake, nobody bog!!!”  Semken adds that last as a warning and admonishment, all in one.  The rain is relentless and has turned the ground into mush.  The drivers are going to have to be extra vigilant.

Semken’s Sherman moves smoothly ahead, the driver leaving it in low gear and gently easing the tank through the patches of mire.  Moments later, out of the left vision ports he sees a Sherman skid to the right, then throw rooster tails of muck, and finally pieces of track.  The tank turns its turret to the left to cover the advance.  It is done.

“Bloody Hell,” we are one down now!” he exclaims.  “Cathcart’s out of the game.”  Cathcart is assigned to the Yeomanry HQ and reports directly to the Lieutenant Colonel, so no one says anything on the air.

“E ‘as a new drivah,” shouts Melrose, Semken’s loader, over the roar of the engine.  “Met ‘im meself two days ago.  Good sort, but greener than green.”

Well, that explains the bog, Semken says to himself.

“Watch out for the contact, Lads.”  Semken doesn’t say tank but that is exactly what his crew is looking for.  Anything less than a tank and they can all breathe a little easier.

The radio lights up again.  It is the Leftenant Colonel on tank-to-tank.

“I say, Majah, the American’s are all riled up.  Say it’s a Tiger, for Heaven’s sake.  What dya say to that, eh?  More “Tiger Fright?”

“Can’t see anything yet through the bloody fog and rain,” is Semken’s reply.  “If it is any sort of tank, we’ll be at ‘em with bloody knives.  Visibility might be 400 meters.”

“Roger that…carry on.” 

At this moment a blurry shape emerges from the near tree line.  Semken’s tanks are spaced out and in an irregular line, so not everyone sees the shape clearly.  It has squared lines but the fog is playing games with any sort of accurate identification. 

Major Thomson’s radio operator makes a single transmission as a frightful flash lights up the fog around the enemy contact.  “We’re Buggered” is all he gets out.

Semken sees the flash of Thomson’s cannon in his peripheral vision and then suddenly a terrible fire envelops Thomson’s tank.  The horrible crump of metal on metal is heard and the ensuing explosion gently rocks Semken’s tank. 

“Bloody Hell!” gasps Semken. 

“What was that?” asks the gunner, eyes glued to the gunsight and straining to get a target. 

Semken recovers his composure and announces quietly over the intercom that Thomson’s tank is for it.  He tells them that three got out.  He doesn’t tell them that they had to climb out of a flaming tank.  They’ve been burned for sure.  Last he saw through the aft vision portals the three of them were running back to the rear.  He couldn’t tell how badly they were burned.  He doesn’t want to know.

“Skipper, ‘es backing up.  Popped smoke and ‘es backing up into it.  Can’t get a good line.  Not sure what it was.  Maybe a 4?”  The gunner’s voice tone is hopeful.  If it is the German Mark IV, then they’ve got a good chance to open it up with their 75mm gun.  If it is a Tiger…all the hope in the world won’t help.

Smoke is billowing around the trees now.  The enemy tank, whatever it was, backed up into the trees and the smoke.  It was a hit and run.  Semken now has one tank immobilized and one tank burning.  Not an auspicious start, for sure.

“Keep moving forward,” he orders over the radio.  “Someone tell me what the hell that tank is.”  His transmission is met with silence.



Sgt. Erickson’s 3rd squad hears the noise of the German tank engine revving up again.  They saw the tank stride through the tree line, stop, and then fire at something to the rear…and hit it.  The tank also machine-gunned the squads to their right.  Then it dusted smoke and backed away, like a frigging wraith, some sort of vengeful ghost.  He knows his squad of new guys are swallowing hard and thinking about bugging out to the rear.

He is sure it is a Tiger.  Every tank they see is a frigging Tiger.  Better to report the worst because then the officers will send proper support, like something that can take out a Tiger or anything less than one.

“It’s coming back,” shouts Erickson.  “Hey, Bazooka Joe, get ready pal, cause you are about to be the hero.”   

Joe’s mouth is dry and he has a death grip on the bazooka.  He knows he is about to die.  He tries to call out to the Sergeant that the damn Tiger tank will be too far away for his bazooka.  His mouth is so dry he can only croak out some sounds that don’t resemble words.  Then the tank bulls through the trees and into view again.  All eyes are on Joe.


The tank really is a Tiger.  The initial reports were actually correct this time.  “Tiger Fright” is justified for a change.



[The enemy Tiger can just be seen emerging from the smokescreen, directly in front of Thomsen's burning tank]

Semken’s gunner now shouts, “Tiger, Tiger, 12 o’clock, dead ahead!  E’s about 350 for range!”  Semken can see the blocky shape of a Tiger, which has pulled right through the smoke and is now hunting them once more.  A bloody knife fight, he mutters.

“Gunner, you may fire when ready,” he announces, trying to stay calm.  Other tanks nearby must have gotten the sighting before them.  He hears other tank guns go off just before his own tank roars in anger.



“It bounced!” the gunner announces.  No surprise there, thinks Semken.  They’ve nothing better than AP rounds and they’ll be bouncing off the front armor of that frigging beast all day long. 

“C’mon, Kevin,” he says, almost as a prayer.


Corporal Kevin Ward runs his tank like an old man-o-war from the Royal Navy.  Fore and aft, starboard and larboard.  Just like a ship.  His crew bought in and wouldn’t have it any other way. 

His crew and he have demonstrated such skill that he was assigned the only Firefly in Troop 1.  He’s just a corporal, but he has the most powerful gun they have going, and not one of the other crews complained when he was given that tank.  They know that they’ll eventually come up against something that they can’t kill, so they want the best killer in the Troop to have the only gun that will save them all.

“Skipper, it’s a Tiger all roight,” sings out their gunner.  “FIRE!” screams Ward over the intercom.  Everyone’s ears start ringing, before the gun speaks and smoke gusts into the interior.

They were still moving slowly when the gun fired, as the driver hadn’t had time to stop the tank.  The shot misses.

“High, way high!  Stop the bloody tank, you sot,” screams Ward at the driver.  Benny is already locking up the brakes and the tank squashes heavily to a stop in the mud.   

Ward hears the clang of a spent shell casing hitting the turret bottom and the familiar slam of the breech as another shell is slammed home.  Maybe five seconds, thinks Ward – damn good. 

Ward hears the guns outside of his tank roaring as every tank in the troop is now firing. 

“Skipper, corrections, permiss…”

“FIRE!” roars Kevin again.  The gun roars, sending another 76mm cannon shell downrange.




Major Semken has been watching shell after shell bouncing off the Tiger.  The enemy tank had turned its turret away from his tank, but now it is turning the turret back. 



[This ricochet is from dead center between the machine gun and the headlight where the gouge is]

“Skipper, ‘es churning up the mud,” reports the radio operator.  “I think e’s bogged right up.”

Before Semken can reply, his gunner fires again.  The gunner and loader are on total autopilot now, and the only way he could distract them would be to physically grab them. 

“Ohhh, Damn, bounced again,” mutters the gunner.




“Skipper, HIT!” calls out Ward’s gunner.  “Pour it on,” he retorts.

Ward sees several more ricochets from other tanks but their next shot is another good hit.  “I think that gored ‘im,” calls the gunner.  “MORE!” shouts Ward.

Their gun roars again.



[The kill shot]



[Another shell can be seen racing towards the tank as the crew bails]

“Flames! ‘E’s brewing up!” shouts the driver.   There is a collective roar from the crew and Semken sags in his seat, allowing himself a moment to collect his thoughts.   Thank-you Kevin Ward he whispers as his crew slaps each other on their backs.


“Skipper, E’s burning!” reports Ward’s gunner.  “Their crew is bailing out.”

“Machine gun them!” shouts Ward.  “They are specialists.  Kill ‘em or they’ll just get another bloody Tiger.”  The machine guns start pounding rounds at the two enemy tankers who dash around their tank for cover and then run for the tree line. 

“Three cheers for the Skipper!” shouts the driver.  “Huzzah, Huzzah, Huzzah!”



[Several hits below the tracks on the right side are not visible in this shot]


Major Semken’s driver quietly remarks to no one in particular, that he thinks he counted 17 hits on the Tiger. With grim realization the Major sees that the only kill shots were on the Tiger's flank.

“Semken’s tank-to-tank radio comes alive again.  It is Leftenant Colonel Vidal.

“I say, Majah, damn good gunnery.  That got ‘im…right up a treat.  Give the lads a hearty well done.  Then have them move out.  We are behind schedule.  Carry on.”

Semken shakes his head at this.  He looks up and sees the face of his driver, looking expectantly at him.  Damn, he looks so young, thinks the Major.

“Slow, if you please…and don’t bog,” he says.  The driver turns with a smile on his face and starts to let out the clutch.


The war goes on…





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Sgt. Squarehead,

  Yeah, me either but I thought I would try to include some verbal "colour," so to speak, to make sure the readers knew the tankers were Brits.  :D

  My heart sank when I saw that frigging Tiger emerge from the smoke screen the second time.  Intel said there was no enemy armor to speak of.  Bah, they were wrong.  I was sure I was going to have 7 smoking wrecks in a few minute's time.  I already had one that was burning -Thomson's tank - and that was a single shot by the Tiger.

  Glad you liked it.


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I figure if you are going to go for that technique you need to read some Irvine Welsh and then go the full Glaswegian.  ;)


Third time lucky.  It wis like Sick Boy telt us: you’ve got tae know what it’s like tae try tae come off it before ye can actually dae it.  You can only learn through failure, and what ye learn is the importance ay preparation.  He could be right.  Anywey, this time ah’ve prepared.  A month’s rent in advance oan this big, bare room overlooking the Links.  Too many bastards ken ma Montgomery Street address.  Cash oan the nail! Partin wi that poppy wis the hardest bit. The easiest wis ma last shot, taken in ma left airm this morning.  Ah needed something tae keep us gaun during this period ay intense preparation.  Then ah wis off like a rocket roond the Kirkgate, whizzing through ma shopping list.

Irvine Welsh - Trainspotting

The moral of this (very enjoyable) story.....Keep your Fireflies handy.  :D

Edited by Sgt.Squarehead

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  Glad you enjoyed it.  Your campaign is excellent.

 The battle is still going on.  After all the Major's grousing about bogging, Major Semken's driver managed to mire his tank several minutes later and they are out of the battle...unless there is another tank rush on their flank, in which case they'll be sitting ducks.  :unsure:

  Corporal Kevin "Killer" Ward's Firefly is still in the game.  They have slowed up their advance and are waiting for the left flank to reduce some big AT guns there.


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2 hours ago, Heinrich505 said:




I was always taught that in writing "less is more".  So, I applaud Heinrich's economy of words.  Let's hope others follow his xnt example.  ^_^

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  Still laughing.  I was going to post something but hit enter before I typed anything.  Then I couldn't figure out how to delete it.  Ugh.


  Having trouble with Tinypics.  I can't upload the screenshots for a short vignette I just put together.  Tinypics won't upload my shots.  Kind of frustrated.



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Pillbox At Beeck, Germany 1944


Damn this Seattle weather, he thinks to himself.  Cold rain, geez how he hates it.  Mike Ryan has grown up in the Pacific Northwest and feels he has had his share of cold miserable rain.  When he was made a Lieutenant, he hoped he would be sent to the desert, or anyplace, for that matter, that didn’t remind him of wet, cold rainy forests.

What does the Army do?  Sends him to Europe.  He gets the tail end of a summer and then…cold miserable rain and forests.  Frigging Army.  Figures. 

Lt. Ryan has gotten his platoon – well, most of it – into the wooded copse on the right flank.  Beyond that is the ridgeline that he has orders to secure.  It was harrowing getting across the open ground.  He lost quite a few men to minefields and enemy fire in the process.  His radioman and his second in command were both wounded, but they’ve stayed with him.  He is cold, wet, tired and angry.  He knows his men are too.

They are trying to take the area around the lousy German town of Beeck.  First Battalion, his, has the ridge line and Second Battalion gets the town.  Everyone gets the cold rain and stinking mud.

On their mad dash across the field he saw a British Churchill tank take two shells to the front, knocking it out.  The shells came from the woods.  He has steered his men into the woods away from where the enemy shells took out the tank.  There has to be an AT gun in there somewhere.




And now he sees what they are up against.  A frigging pillbox with an AT gun sticking out of it.  Damn their luck.  Where are the engineers? he wonders.  They were with his men when everyone started their rush across the open field.  They got lost somewhere.

He turns to his wounded command staff, telling them to get word to bring up the engineers.  There are plenty of tanks all around but they are apparently worried about something up on the ridge, so they stopped to concentrate their fire.




The men know what comes next.  Their Lieutenant orders them to break up into small groups and start moving towards the pillbox.  They are wet, cold, and miserable.  They grudgingly comply, but only because it is LT Ryan.  Anyone else…well, they’d be dragging their feet.  The word goes out that engineers are being summoned, so there is hope they won’t actually have to assault the damn pillbox.

Sgt. Voight quickly moves out first, bending his squad around to the flank of the pillbox.  His men smile to one another.  Because he moved them out so fast, the other teams will have to move to their right, directly at the maw of the pillbox. 




Sgt. Faulkner slithers through the heavy underbrush, leading his small group and getting fairly close to the front slit of the pillbox.  His thought is that he might be able to toss a grenade through the opening, but the heavy underbrush and thick trees will make that a risky move at best.  At worst, suicide.

As if the gun crew was reading his mind, the enemy cannon opens up, the shells going over his head and exploding further behind him.  He hears screams and knows that other teams have been hit.  Men are yelling for medics.  He holds his position, waiting for further orders.

LT Ryan had finally located the engineers and sent them forward.  There must have been too much movement in the woods, as the AT gun spoke and broke the assault, for now.




As Ryan’s hearing comes back to him from the near miss explosions from the enemy cannon, Bradley, his second in command, is gesturing wildly.  Now Ryan hears it.  It is a damn tank.  Miracles do sometimes happen, he thinks.  The tank is one of those wild contraptions the Brits are so fond of.  This one is pulling a trailer.  He is not sure what that is for – maybe extra shells – but he could care less.  A tank means he has a chance to save his men from some crazy assault that has only a small chance of success.

Leftenant Lear has seen the wild arm gestures from a large crowd of Yanks at the back edge of the woods on the right flank.  He knows exactly what they want.  They want the Brits to bail them out of some tight fix, as usual.  He orders Stanley, his driver, to veer away from their present course, that being their attempt to stalk a Panther on the ridge. 

Lear is sometimes referred to by his crew as “King” Lear because he reads Shakespeare in what little free time he has between battles.  Lear has confidence in the armor of his Churchill VII Flamethrower tank.  But, he’s seen Panthers do some nasty things to tanks of all sorts, so this little “diversion” might be a good idea.  Gets them out of the nasty line of fire for a moment, eh wot?

The Leftenant knows that there is a lethal gun of some sort in the woods.  He saw Artie “buy it” on the right flank as his Churchill was gaffed by heavy AT fire earlier.  Now he wants payback.  Artie was a good bloke.  He hopes the Yanks will provide some covering fire as Stanley crunches their tank over a wall and steers into the wood along a small path.




“Stay close to the Yanks,” Lear tells Stanley.  “We don’t want any surprises from Jerry.”  Stanley steers slowly down the wooded path, trusting his fellow crewmen to direct him around the squishy friendlies.  Stanley has a terrible fear of crushing soldiers of his side – he has no problem driving over Germans though, living or otherwise.

The tracks start to slip.  Dammit, no bogging, not now! thinks Lear, as his stomach starts to rise up his throat.  “Stanley,” he cautions in a low tone.  “No problem,” Stanley calls back on the intercom.  Lear can see that Stanley is sweating more profusely than usual for the inside of their already warm tank.

Stanley gently slips the gears back and forth and the tank suddenly lurches forward as the tracks make purchase. 

Just outside of the tank, Sgt. Voight’s men see what is about to happen.  Gus is directly in the path of the tank and his buddies scream at him to get up and move.  He has time.  “Move Gus, DO IT NOW!”  Surely he has to know the huge tank is right behind him.  Gus is actually paralyzed with fear, shaking uncontrollably and unable to make his arms and legs move.




Stanley banks the tank to the right slightly to get away from the soft ground that bogged them momentarily.  He can’t hear the Yanks screaming to get his attention, as he has engaged the lower gear and the roar makes it hard to hear anything on the intercom as well. 

Now Gus manages to get out a high pitched scream but it is too late.  The tank rolls right over him, the forty-ton monster mashing him into the mud.  He turned his head at the last minute and that saves his life.

Incredibly, Stanley has managed to steer his tank over Gus, with the treads coming inches away from tearing him apart.  Instead, he is squashed into the mud and with his head turned sideways, his mouth is still above the mud.  Gus stops screaming and concentrates on breathing and surviving.




Eddie Fox, the flame operator, starts smacking Stanley in the arm, yelling for him to stop.  Eddie sees the pillbox, directly ahead and maybe around 30 yards shy.  They don’t usually get this close, but the underbrush and overhanging trees were blocking their vision.  Leftenant Lear can just barely see the pillbox through overhanging branches from his elevated position in the turret.  He trusts Fox to stop them when necessary for matters involving their terrifying weapon.




Lear’s gunner opens up with the machine gun in the turret.  They have no bow machine gun as that is where the flame nozzle goes.  He does this as ranging shots to give Fox an idea on how to arc the flames.




“Do your worst, Red” Lear sings out on the intercom.  They all call Fox “Red,” due to his flaming red hair.  Fox gets to the task of unleashing Hell with brisk businesslike motions.  He charges the fuel line and with practiced authority, he releases the fuel flow while triggering the igniter.

Sgt. Faulkner sees a gout of flame launch from the British tank, splattering against the side of the German pillbox. 

Lear can feel the back-wash of heat from the ignited propellant at his station well back in the tank turret.  He wonders how Fox can handle the heat, sitting right behind the nozzle and controlling the spray of fuel.

What none of the crew know, or will ever know, is that Fox is silently mouthing a prayer for those about to die and asking for Divine Forgiveness for his actions.  It is how he keeps from going insane from seeing the horror he unleashes every time he ignites the fuel.




In the space of mere seconds flaming death splashes against the side of the German pillbox.  Fox moves the nozzle slightly and the flames wash towards the opening where the gun protrudes.




Feldwebel Griess hears a peculiar hissing sound and his last coherent thought is wondering what is making that sound.  The front opening of the pillbox suddenly lights up with an unholy brilliance as heat, followed by hideous flame, washes into the pillbox a second later.




The hungry golden flames slosh through the pillbox slit, sucking all the oxygen from inside the enclosure, and igniting the Feldwebel and the closest men to the gun.  They have just enough time to scream in agonizing pain…




…when the ammunition stacked near the gun goes off in a massive explosion.  The air vents are blown out and the entire crew is consumed with the explosion.  It is all over in seconds.




LT Ryan watches the explosion, along with the wounded members of his command staff.  He is very pleased with the results of the British tanks flame attack.  It has saved the lives of many of his platoon.  He glances to his left and sees two of his men who were not lucky this time.




Sgt. Voight’s men have all ducked when the pillbox exploded.  They watch silently as flames roar from the vents on the top of the pillbox and from the rear door that was ripped open in the blast.   One of the men whispers, almost reverently, “What a hellova way to buy it.”  They did hear the screams.

Several of Gus’s buddies have pulled him from the slippery mud.  They wipe him off as best they can.  He is only slightly scraped and cut from the belly of the Crocodile, but his mind has stopped working.  Two men walk him back to the back edge of the woods where they will flag down some medics to look after him.  Gus has used up all his luck in one fell swoop.

“Well done, Red,” Leftenant Lear congratulates his flame gunner.  “Alright lads, it’s off to the next target.  Stanley, see about steering us out of this forest, eh?”  And as a cheerful afterthought, “Do be careful of the Yanks. They are everywhere.”

Eddie Fox quickly and carefully wipes the tears from his eyes with his uniform sleeve.  His fellow crewmates think he is just wiping the sweat from his face from the backwash of heat.  Then he sets about re-pressuring the fuel hose and resetting the igniter.  It is better to keep busy than to relive the horrifying visions he sees on a regular basis.


The war goes on.





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