Reham Mujtaba 9:21 PM (9

minutes ago)
to me

New story idea.

Title: The Beast and the White Lily.

Basic Storyline: During the second year of the Soviet Afghan War, a T-55 crew has to
deal with not only the heat and the Mujahideen, but also the care of a mysterious
white haired adolescent girl in the desert.

Cast of Characters:

Soviet 40th Army, 5th Guards Motor Rifle Division, 20th Tank Regiment, T-55 Tank
No. T5447.
Warrant officer Anastas 'Tank Boy' Daskal-Commander.
Konstantin Koverchenko-driver
Anton Golikov-loader
Filip Kaminsky-gunner
Abdul Samad-DRA Army Liaison.

Soviet Army.

Leytenant Maxim Kovalyov

501st JFW (In OTL)

Flying Officer Aleksandra "Sanya" Vladimirovna Litvyak

501st JFW (SWs Timeline)

Commanding Officer
Wing Commander Minna-Dietlinde Wilcke
Commanding Officer in battle
Squadron Leader Gertrud Barkhorn
Members
 Flight Lieutenant Charlotte E. Yeager
  Flying Officer Eila Ilmatar Juutilainen
 Flying Officer Erica Hartmann
 Flying Officer Perrine H. Clostermann
 Pilot Officer Francesca Lucchini
 Pilot Officer Hattori Shizuka

 Flight Sergeant (Surgeon Pilot Officer) Miyafuji Yoshika *

 Flight Sergeant Lynette Bishop

 Squadron Leader Sakamoto Mio.

Prologue.

The sun rose above the horizon as the small isolated mountainous region village in
north west Afghanistan began to wake up. The village rooster, a scrawny old stick of a
bird with a foul temper began to cry up in a croaking call to wake up. Before sunrise
though, the local imam and greybeards of the village had already been awake, praying
in the early hours of dawn. Those same old grandfathers were now squatting or sitting
down on vibrant coloured cots, smoking hookah’s , conversing among themselves and
drinking sweet milky chai.

The women of the village meanwhile quickly carried out their wicker baskets, clay
pots and various other items of their trade. Water would need to be filled up from the
well, the crops tended to, the animals sent to graze. Many, gathered up their infants
and placed them into slings, which would be then carried on their backs. They waved
goodbye to the old folk as they trooped down the dirt path to the well and crops. A
few of them also saw off the young boys who were goatherds, leading their flocks to
appropriate grazing grounds.

Aside from the Khan of the village, a few other men, the village seemed to be
populated mostly by the very old, the very young and the women. This unusual state
of affairs had a very reasonable explanation. Most of the adult, male population had
fled to the mountains behind the village, and had become Mujahideen. Freedom
fighters against the local communist Najibullah regime and his Soviet allies. The
khan’s brother, uncle and most of the other fighters had been gone for some time now,
a whole year as 1981, and the second year of the war began.

A young girl swept her house’s doorway, on the instructions of her mother who had
gone out to fill up water from the well. She’d resigned herself to yet another mundane
summer day without any excitement to entertain her energetic young mind. She gave a
sigh of relief as the last kernels of dust were swept away, and she leaned against the
wall in the cool shade, wiping away the perspiration on her forehead. Then she turned
and began to make her way back inside. With nothing better left to do, she decided she
might as well go rest.

Just as she was about to close the door however, her ears prickled. She could hear a
low drone, not unlike that of a large insect. Curious, she turned back and opened the
door to peek out the doorway. The sound was increasing in volume and tremor, it was
less like an insect now and more like the sound of a scream. A rapidly rising sound
filled with utter anger and rage. The little girl had never heard such a thing before in
her life, being in a rural area, but she’d heard of things from her cousin Yasmina,
she’d emigrated to Kabul a year ago with her family for a new life. Her letters often
told many wonderful stories, one of them was about something called an aero port.
From here, apparently flying carriages flew to the heavens, taking you around the
world!

Before the girl could ponder more on this. Two extremely fast blurs, racing by so fast
and loud that neither she nor the other villagers didn’t notice even the Red Star
emblazoned on the underside of the wings roared past. The plans were Sukhoi Su-25
ground attack fighter-bombers. With all the vengeance and brutality of Pre-Islamic
deities, the plans released their deadly payload on the nearby mountain causing great
balls of fire and dark smoke to erupt, the aircraft themselves changing direction and
shooting upwards into the sky. Before they turned back and flew over the terror
stricken village for another pass,

The pilots now opened fire on the village itself with unguided rockets and their
cannons. The cannon fire was the worst, the sound was like that of a saw or an axe
while the tracer rounds allowed the pilots to guide the trajectory of the projectiles with
pinpoint accuracy, almost as though they were using a garden hose.

Several unlucky villagers became victims of the aircraft, their bodies either torn to
shreds or smoking husks. The women working out on the outskirts gave a great cry of
horror. Dropping their things in alarm and hurriedly heading back to the now smoking
village.

Nobody noticed the 4 tanks charge out of the dust from the other side, Soviet T-
54/55s, the reliable workhorses of the Red Army. With a united roar of diesel engines,
the 4 Goliath’s trundled forward, their steel tracks kicking up huge clouds of dust as
they churned up the sandy ground. A few brave souls could even make out human
shapes on the skillet shaped turrets, although they looked less human as they came
closer, with their gasmasks and black tankers helmets.

Once they entered the village proper, the tan painted vehicles opened fire
indiscriminately, the sound of 100mm guns and 50. Cal DSKMs interspaced with
screams. The death toll began to rise as the Afghan tribesmen, had few weapons that
could deal with armoured vehicles. The Khan quickly ran up to an emplacement
where the only working AT weapon in the village (Ironically a captured Soviet SPG-9
recoilless rifle) was mounted and hidden among sandbags. Quickly, despite shaking
hands, he loaded the weapon and aimed. One of the tanks had separated itself and was
now wrecking havoc upon the meagre dwellings that had survived the initial aerial
assault. The man steadied himself and pulled the trigger.

BOOMMM!!! The weapon sent an armour piercing shell towards the oblivious tank
that did not realise the danger it was in. The explosion heard afterwards signalled the
impact. The man pumped his fist as he saw the tank disappear in a cloud of smoke and
dust. However his hopes were completely shattered just as quickly.

The tank, despite seemingly being destroyed, was actually quite unharmed. The Khan
realised that he’d missed and overshot, the projectile landing harmlessly away from
the tank. Quickly however, he began to reload the recoilless rifle, however his blood
quickly turned to ice in his veins as he looked out.

The tanks turret slowly turned towards his position, the whine of motors being heard.
He watched in morbid fascination as the cannon then elevated towards him slowly. He
thanked Allah as he jumped just in time, the rifle reduced to scrap metal.

Another tank meanwhile was rumbling down the road and was “attacked“ by a rather
surprising opponent. Enraged Afghan women.

The little mob of them were screaming and crying. Grabbing rocks, the tank soon
began to face a withering, but utterly harmless hail of stones. The commander gave a
contemptuous sneer in annoyance. The attack was a nuisance, more akin to deciding
to take on a wasps nest and kicking it. He merely barked an order to the crew man at
the coaxial machine gun.

Like the beat of a drum, the ‘Dushka’ 50 calibre coaxial mounted heavy machine gun
opened up mercilessly on the poorly armed group. The women, the lucky ones who
were few in number, were shredded and evisscerated in a blood red cloud. The rest
who were hit in the stomach or other places of their body that didn’t cause instant
death clutched at their wounds pitifully. Their intestines and innards were streaming
out, and they screamed for God or their husbands and fathers to release them from this
horrific slaughter. They would die slowly, bleeding out and painting the sand red and
purple.

Two lucky young ones, having jumped onto the turret before the slaughter began were
hitting the top hatches rapidly in an act fuelled by anguish, sorrow and desperation in
an attempt to save their comrades. The tank abruptly ground to a halt , tracks
squealing. The women continued on, not noticing the hatch on the bottom opening and
the gas canister releasing its green noxious fumes.

One of them, perceptively rea