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B@d@ss of the Week
TNRabbitOffline
#21 Posted: Sunday, October 20, 2013 3:58:14 AM(UTC)
 
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TNRabbit

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"This army can't retreat. Gentlemen, I know of no better place to die than right here."
                                                    
                                                                                                                                                           
                                            

His friends labeled him a traitor. His home state forbade him from ever returning. His superior officers doubted his loyalty. His own family disowned him.

Nobody would have expected a Virginia General to be the man to save the Union Army from annihilation in the second-largest battle of the Civil War.

Born on a decently-baller-sized plantation in Southampton County, Virginia in July 1816, George Henry Thomas was just 15 years old when an understandably-pissed-off local slave named Nat Turner banded together with other disgruntled slaves, grabbed whatever face-stabbing farm implements they could find, killed their masters, and began an ultraviolent rebellion that left over 60 people dead in a brutal 48 hours of vengeful carnage.
In the opening hours of the rebellion, as Turner and his men were going house to house in Southampton County killing white families with everything from machetes to fence posts and freeing their black slaves in an effort to incite a widespread uprising, the teenaged Thomas sprung into action. First, being the only man in his house, he got his widowed mother and his sisters to a safe hiding place in the forest, then grabbed his coat, hopped on a horse, and bravely went on a wild Mr. Toad's midnight ride to warn his neighbors of the impending danger. Not only did he and his family survive, but he probably saved the lives of a couple dozen other families as well.

A tough farmboy with a passion for kicking ass in the name of his country, Thomas was appointed to West Point in 1840 (where he was roommates with William Tecumseh Sherman), and enlisted in the U.S. Army as an artillerist immediately out of school. He served the United States with honor for fifteen years, doing ferocious hand-to-hand battle with Seminole warriors in the knee-deep swamps of Florida, battling blood-raged tomahawk-slinging Apache in Texas, and directing grapeshot-packed artillery fire against Mexican Army soldiers at the Battles of Buena Vista and Monterey during the Mexican-American War. After a 4-year stint as a Professor of Artillery at West Point, Thomas decided that desk job crap was too boring so he went back into the field, serving as a Major in the 2nd Cavalry Regiment, where he was third-in-command behind Lieutenant-Colonel Robert E. Lee and Colonel Albert Sydney Johnston and not only survived taking an arrow wound to the face while battling Native Americans in 1860, but somehow went right back to work as soon as his massive head trauma had healed because crap like that didn't even BEGIN to affect his adventuring career.

When the Civil War broke out a year later, George Henry Thomas had a decision to make. His home state of Virginia had seceded from the Union in open revolt against the government. His two commanding officers, both southerners as well, declared their loyalty for their states, resigned their commissions, and now held high posts in the new Confederate Army. The rebel government offered Thomas a post as overall commander of all Rebel artillery across both fronts. Meanwhile, his own Federal government was calling for troops to battle the rebellion, and needed experienced men to lead them.
Choosing the North would be a betrayal of his state, his people, his family, and everyone he grew up with, and would put him in a position where he would need to fight and kill men who had once been his friends and neighbors. Choosing the South would be treason against his beloved country, a disgrace to the blue uniform he'd proudly worn for 15 years, and a violation of the oath he'd taken to defend his country "against all enemies foreign and domestic."
Thomas chose his country, his uniform, and his duty as an officer in the United States Army. His sisters never spoke to him again.

Even though his superiors doubted this Virginian's loyalty to the Union cause they were hard up for experienced commanders, and Thomas was put in charge of a Pennsylvania Infantry Brigade at the Battle of First Manassas in 1861. He was then transferred out West, where he defeated his former boss Albert Sydney Johnston at the Battle of Mill Springs in 1862 before repeatedly proving his allegiance to the cause with stalwart defensive fighting at Shiloh, Perryville, and a half-dozen other battlefields ranging from Kentucky to Tennessee. At the Battle of Stone's River, after Confederate assaults wiped out the Union and threatened to completely tear his Corps into bite-sized morsels, Thomas assembled every one of his subordinate officers, looked each one in the eyes, and told them that this Army was going to hold the line or die where they stood. Pumped up by Thomas's fearlessness, the Yankees dug into the freezing-cold December snow, clinging to their position in a cedar forest against countless attacks by enemy forces, somehow keeping the Union Army from being split in half despite overwhelming enemy pressure.
But this was all just the beginning. The heroic stand that gave Thomas his nickname ultimately came in September 1863, when, surrounded on three sides and backed up against a river, he single-handedly took on the entire 65,000-man Confederate Army with just a few thousand guys and somehow managed to prevent them from utterly annihilating the entire Union Army of the Cumberland.

The Battle of Chickamauga was a last-ditch Confederate effort to make up for back-breaking losses at Vicksburg and Gettysburg and turn the tables back against the North. With their sights set on re-taking Chattanooga, the South concentrated everything they had on attacking and destroying the Army of the Cumberland under William S. Rosecrans, launching a colossal onslaught on the Union Army in the second-biggest engagement of the entire war. The South had enough soldiers to sell out the Georgia Dome. The North had enough men to pack Soldier Field to the rafters. By the time they were finished shooting, there were enough dead bodies to fill Fenway Park to capacity.
George Henry Thomas's Corps found themselves in the middle of the action, defending the Union center, fighting off everything from a daylight assault by Nathan Bedford Forrest's dismounted cavalry to a ferocious night attack led by Patrick Cleburne, an Irish-born British Army vet and part-time lawyer who once survived a street fight in Helena, Arkansas by taking a bullet in the back, drawing his revolver, turning around, and killing the man who'd just shot him. Cleburne's men, who were just as tough as he was, charged through the dense Georgia woods at dusk and continued their attack after dark, their shadowy figures backlit by the raging fires of the forest, the battlefield illuminated only by the muzzle flashes of musketry and artillery. Still, the Union line held, its defenders firing their rifles into the darkness before them.

The next morning the Confederates picked up where they left off the night before, launching a ferocious series of assaults against Thomas's position. Cleburne, who already had four teeth knocked out after being shot in the face at the Battle of Richmond, once again launched a series of charges uphill straight-on towards Thomas, while a separate Division under command of John C. Breckenridge – the former Vice President of the United States and a man who just received one-third of the popular vote in the 1860 Presidential Election that put Abraham Lincoln in power – tried to sweep around Thomas's left and attack him from the side. Thomas, masterfully positioning his troops despite being hammered from two directions at once, somehow held the line, throwing back the rebels by counterattacking them every time they broke through his lines, his men barely clinging to their trenches by their fingernails.
Then things got worse. Elsewhere on the battlefield, 23,000 shrieking Confederate soldiers under the command of General James Longstreet, fresh off a train from Northern Virginia, broke through the Union right, opening a black hole of misery that sent half the Union army – including overall Army commander William Rosecrans – running for their lives. Now all that remained of the Union Army of the Cumberland was George Henry Thomas and the 19,000 men of XIV Corps, surrounded by Rebel forces before him and on both his flanks, outnumbered three-to-one against a foe that could smell victory like it was a Thanksgiving turkey.

Clinging to his position with a rag-tag band of exhausted Union soldiers pieced together from units that had already been annihilated, Thomas repositioned his decimated forces. When gaps opened across his lines, he ordered his few remaining reserve troops to charge bayonets-first into breaches before they were flooded with a seemingly-endless horde of Southerners who would stop at nothing to destroy his entire command. His brave troops, running on 48 hours without sleep and having sustained the brunt of the destruction for two full days, still refused to budge. They resolved to fight as long as they could and buy the fleeing Union Army time to get out of there and regroup. Thomas was going to hold this ground until someone buried him underneath it.
Somehow, incredibly, despite defending a hill against the entire Rebel Army of Tennessee, George Henry Thomas held his position throughout the day, finally slipping his wounded, exhausted, men out of there under the cover of darkness and marching them back to Chattanooga. For saving the Union Army from complete destruction, Northern newspapers would forever refer to him after this as "The Rock of Chickamauga," which sounds much more pimp if you sing it to the tune of "Bow chicka bow-wow."

When Thomas fell back to Chattanooga he was given command of the Army of the Cumberland, because that Rosecrans guy was worthless, and Thomas soon found himself besieged by the Confederates shortly thereafter. He held out for a while until he could be reinforced by Grant and Sherman, who then ordered Thomas's depleted Corps to launch a limited assault on the Confederate center to test their defenses. Grant figured Thomas's men were demoralized and exhausted, and didn't expect much.
They failed to appreciate how righteously pissed-off Thomas and his men were, and how eagerly they wanted retribution for the horror they'd withstood at Chickamauga. Instead of some bullcrap holding action, George Henry Thomas personally led 23,000 men in a full-scale attack charging up a 45-degree incline into Confederate trenches packed with tens of thousands of riflemen and over a hundred cannons. Grant and Sherman, watching the battle from the nearby heights, watched in disbelief as Thomas's warriors raced up the hill. As their commanders stared open-mouthed, the Army of the Cumberland swept across the rebel trenches, forced the enemy off the hill with the points of their bayonets, , took their cannons, turned the guns around, and advanced the Stars and Stripes all the way to the other side of the mountain in a sea of blue-coated retribution. The Rebel Army broke and ran for it. They never returned.

After Chattanooga, George Henry Thomas was given command of half of Sherman's forces during the Atlanta Campaign, then squared off against his former West Point student John Bell Hood when the Confederates once again attempted to reverse the tide of war, first at the Battle of Franklin, when Thomas turned back an assault that was twice the size of Pickett's Charge, and then counter-attacking with a savagery that effectively blasted the Confederate Army in the West out of existence for the rest of the war.
George Henry Thomas survived the Civil War and was revered as a hero by the Northern media. He spent his later years commanding Federal forces in California, where he died in 1870. The State of Virginia refused to allow him to be buried there, so he was laid to rest with his wife's family in New York.
- See more at: http://badassoftheweek.c...910#sthash.8lOXQdjC.dpuf
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zumbini on 10/20/2013(UTC)
TNRabbitOffline
#22 Posted: Thursday, November 21, 2013 3:47:26 AM(UTC)
 
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Yusuf Alchagirov
11.08.2013 9634649523

"I got off easy. If I had chickened out and not fought, the animal would have immediately torn me apart and I would not be sitting with you."


Less than a week ago, 80-year-old Russian shepherd Yusuf Alchagirov was minding his own business, not pissing anyone off, just working his farm in the ultra-rural, super-hilly backwater province of Kabardino-Balkaria along the Russia-Georgia border.  He's lived a quiet life with his wife, family, and fellow villagers, working these fields since the days of Joseph Stalin, going through the daily-grind of sheepherding and farming presumably without ever having to literally headbutt any predatory wildlife unconscious in a life-or-death struggle for his own survival.

But November 1, 2013 would be unlike any of the previous 29,200+ days of Yusuf Alchagirov's life.

Today he was going to find himself locked in hand-to-hand combat with a pissed-off 1,000-pound Grizzly Bear armed with razor-sharp six-inch claws the size of kitchen knives and teeth specifically designed for crunching bone and disemboweling the meaty parts of organic life forms.

 

 

You see, it was on this day that Yusuf, who didn't have access to badass ATVs and 5hi7 and was still manually running down his sheep down on foot Cliff Young style despite literally being older than the Luftwaffe, found himself trotting through an old raspberry field near his farm and directly into a crude trap laid for him by one of nature's most gigantic and cold-blooded killers. 

I guess the story goes that Alchagirov's dumbass sheep ran off like a bunch of assholes and wandered into the fields, but right as our old man hero was about to round them up and send them back to their pens he looked behind a nearby raspberry tree and saw a gigantic-ass brown bear sitting there, crouched in attack position, just waiting for this geezer to show up, rub a bunch of delicious berries on his head to season himself up, and then leap directly into the bear's open jaws like a Salmon during spawning season.

 


GET IN MAH BELLAY

 

Now, it's important to mention that Russia is basically getting phuked up right now by some kind of crazy Bearmageddon.  Apparently there's been a lot of flooding recently, meaning that a bunch of bear food has been destroyed in the northern parts of the country, and now brown bears are rampaging across the countryside devouring everything they can find.  Their favorite food is Geologists, having eaten three of them in the last calendar year, but in addition to hating scientists they also like to break into homes and steal borscht from peasants because they are total dicks and have no respect for oppressive Capitalist concepts like private property or the freedom from not being eaten by bears while you're trying to take a piss in the wilderness.

Yusuf Alchagirov had already had enough of this bear bull5hi7.  The 80 year-old man froze for a second, staring unblinkinglyto the predatory eyes of a voracious, man-eating, half-ton killing machine that was preparing to massacre and devour him in a flurry of spikes and gore.  Only one thought passed through his mind:

I'm going to phuk this thing up and wear his balls as a hat.

 

 

The bear charged.  Yusuf acted fast – he pulled off his jacket, threw it over the bear's head, and then phuking punched the bear in the phuking face as hard as he could.  But the old "bag over the head punch in the face" thing just pissed the bear off more, and the thing threw the coat off its head and chomped down with its ridiculously-massive jaws, locking them onto Yusuf's arm, ripping into bone and flesh with its slathering fangs. 

Yusuf Alchagirov did exactly what you or I would have done in that situation – he grabbed the phuking bear's lower jaw, wrenched it off his arm, and didn't let go.

Oh yeah, and by "what you and I would have done in that situation", I meant to say "the exact opposite of what you and I would have done in that situation."

 

 

Wrenching the bear's head with one arm, Alchagirov dug in his pocket for a knife, pulled it out, and prepared to face-shank the bear.  The bear, prepared for such a move and extraordinarily livid that he was getting his ass kicked by an 80 year-old man, slapped that 5hi7 right out of the old shepard's hand, ripped its jaw free, and grabbed the shepherd up in a badass 1000-pound bear hug, lifting Yusuf three feet off the ground.

Yusuf Alchagirov, his feet dangling like that dude being choked out by Darth Vader at the beginning of the first Star Wars movie,

He HEADBUTTED THE phukING BEAR IN THE FACE WITH HIS FOREHEAD.

 

 

Let's think about this for a moment.  Bears have big teeth.  Their mouths open wide enough to fit a man's head inside, and their jaws are powerful enough to decapitate you.  But this guy smashed the bear so hard in the nose with his head that it not only stunned the bear, it made it drop him. 

Then he kicked it in the balls.  A lot.

I am not joking.

 

 

The two warriors went at it, octogenarian vs. bear, for a few more minutes. 

Here's roughly how I picture the battle going down.

 

 

 The bear, having enough of the headbutting dick-kicking action of Yusuf Alchagirov, suddenly remembered it was a phukING BEAR and decided to put an end to this epic battle once and for all.

It grabbed the 80 year-old man, lifted him once again, and threw him off a cliff.  He plummeted dozens of feet, slammed into the rock below, and fell unconscious.  The bear, still seething with fury, dusted himself off and casually walked away in search of other human life to snuff out with his teeth.

 

 

But Yusuf Alchagirov, bloodied from being punched, clawed, and bitten by a 1,000-pound Brown Bear and then thrown off a cliff, didn't die.  He woke up seven hours later, picked himself up, and walked back home.  On the way there he found a team of villagers that had been sent to find out why he'd missed dinner.  He'd broken four ribs, had a couple bite wounds and bruises, but was otherwise OK.  Yeah, he'd lost the fight by TKO, but it was like the Jamaican Bobsled Team of Kicking Bears in the Dick.

When he got home his loving wife made him three traditional pies as a "Congratulations for Not Dying" present.

He ate them all. 

Three pies.

Because that's how he rolls.

 

- See more at: http://www.badassofthewe...523#sthash.gFaaramo.dpuf
Yusuf Alchagirov
11.08.2013 9634649523

"I got off easy. If I had chickened out and not fought, the animal would have immediately torn me apart and I would not be sitting with you."


Less than a week ago, 80-year-old Russian shepherd Yusuf Alchagirov was minding his own business, not pissing anyone off, just working his farm in the ultra-rural, super-hilly backwater province of Kabardino-Balkaria along the Russia-Georgia border.  He's lived a quiet life with his wife, family, and fellow villagers, working these fields since the days of Joseph Stalin, going through the daily-grind of sheepherding and farming presumably without ever having to literally headbutt any predatory wildlife unconscious in a life-or-death struggle for his own survival.

But November 1, 2013 would be unlike any of the previous 29,200+ days of Yusuf Alchagirov's life.

Today he was going to find himself locked in hand-to-hand combat with a pissed-off 1,000-pound Grizzly Bear armed with razor-sharp six-inch claws the size of kitchen knives and teeth specifically designed for crunching bone and disemboweling the meaty parts of organic life forms.

 

 

You see, it was on this day that Yusuf, who didn't have access to badass ATVs and 5hi7 and was still manually running down his sheep down on foot Cliff Young style despite literally being older than the Luftwaffe, found himself trotting through an old raspberry field near his farm and directly into a crude trap laid for him by one of nature's most gigantic and cold-blooded killers. 

I guess the story goes that Alchagirov's dumbass sheep ran off like a bunch of assholes and wandered into the fields, but right as our old man hero was about to round them up and send them back to their pens he looked behind a nearby raspberry tree and saw a gigantic-ass brown bear sitting there, crouched in attack position, just waiting for this geezer to show up, rub a bunch of delicious berries on his head to season himself up, and then leap directly into the bear's open jaws like a Salmon during spawning season.

 


GET IN MAH BELLAY

 

Now, it's important to mention that Russia is basically getting phuked up right now by some kind of crazy Bearmageddon.  Apparently there's been a lot of flooding recently, meaning that a bunch of bear food has been destroyed in the northern parts of the country, and now brown bears are rampaging across the countryside devouring everything they can find.  Their favorite food is Geologists, having eaten three of them in the last calendar year, but in addition to hating scientists they also like to break into homes and steal borscht from peasants because they are total dicks and have no respect for oppressive Capitalist concepts like private property or the freedom from not being eaten by bears while you're trying to take a piss in the wilderness.

Yusuf Alchagirov had already had enough of this bear bull5hi7.  The 80 year-old man froze for a second, staring unblinkinglyto the predatory eyes of a voracious, man-eating, half-ton killing machine that was preparing to massacre and devour him in a flurry of spikes and gore.  Only one thought passed through his mind:

I'm going to phuk this thing up and wear his balls as a hat.

 

 

The bear charged.  Yusuf acted fast – he pulled off his jacket, threw it over the bear's head, and then phuking punched the bear in the phuking face as hard as he could.  But the old "bag over the head punch in the face" thing just pissed the bear off more, and the thing threw the coat off its head and chomped down with its ridiculously-massive jaws, locking them onto Yusuf's arm, ripping into bone and flesh with its slathering fangs. 

Yusuf Alchagirov did exactly what you or I would have done in that situation – he grabbed the phuking bear's lower jaw, wrenched it off his arm, and didn't let go.

Oh yeah, and by "what you and I would have done in that situation", I meant to say "the exact opposite of what you and I would have done in that situation."

 

 

Wrenching the bear's head with one arm, Alchagirov dug in his pocket for a knife, pulled it out, and prepared to face-shank the bear.  The bear, prepared for such a move and extraordinarily livid that he was getting his ass kicked by an 80 year-old man, slapped that 5hi7 right out of the old shepard's hand, ripped its jaw free, and grabbed the shepherd up in a badass 1000-pound bear hug, lifting Yusuf three feet off the ground.

Yusuf Alchagirov, his feet dangling like that dude being choked out by Darth Vader at the beginning of the first Star Wars movie,

He HEADBUTTED THE phukING BEAR IN THE FACE WITH HIS FOREHEAD.

 

 

Let's think about this for a moment.  Bears have big teeth.  Their mouths open wide enough to fit a man's head inside, and their jaws are powerful enough to decapitate you.  But this guy smashed the bear so hard in the nose with his head that it not only stunned the bear, it made it drop him. 

Then he kicked it in the balls.  A lot.

I am not joking.

 

 

The two warriors went at it, octogenarian vs. bear, for a few more minutes. 

Here's roughly how I picture the battle going down.

 

 

 The bear, having enough of the headbutting dick-kicking action of Yusuf Alchagirov, suddenly remembered it was a phukING BEAR and decided to put an end to this epic battle once and for all.

It grabbed the 80 year-old man, lifted him once again, and threw him off a cliff.  He plummeted dozens of feet, slammed into the rock below, and fell unconscious.  The bear, still seething with fury, dusted himself off and casually walked away in search of other human life to snuff out with his teeth.

 

 

But Yusuf Alchagirov, bloodied from being punched, clawed, and bitten by a 1,000-pound Brown Bear and then thrown off a cliff, didn't die.  He woke up seven hours later, picked himself up, and walked back home.  On the way there he found a team of villagers that had been sent to find out why he'd missed dinner.  He'd broken four ribs, had a couple bite wounds and bruises, but was otherwise OK.  Yeah, he'd lost the fight by TKO, but it was like the Jamaican Bobsled Team of Kicking Bears in the Dick.

When he got home his loving wife made him three traditional pies as a "Congratulations for Not Dying" present.

He ate them all. 

Three pies.

Because that's how he rolls.

 

- See more at: http://www.badassofthewe...523#sthash.gFaaramo.dpuf
Yusuf Alchagirov
 11.08.2013                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          
"I got off easy. If I had chickened out and not fought, the animal would have immediately torn me apart and I would not be sitting with you."
                                                    


Less than a week ago, 80-year-old Russian shepherd Yusuf Alchagirov was minding his own business, not pissing anyone off, just working his farm in the ultra-rural, super-hilly backwater province of Kabardino-Balkaria along the Russia-Georgia border. He's lived a quiet life with his wife, family, and fellow villagers, working these fields since the days of Joseph Stalin, going through the daily-grind of sheepherding and farming presumably without ever having to literally headbutt any predatory wildlife unconscious in a life-or-death struggle for his own survival.

But November 1, 2013 would be unlike any of the previous 29,200+ days of Yusuf Alchagirov's life.
Today he was going to find himself locked in hand-to-hand combat with a pissed-off 1,000-pound Grizzly Bear armed with razor-sharp six-inch claws the size of kitchen knives and teeth specifically designed for crunching bone and disemboweling the meaty parts of organic life forms.

You see, it was on this day that Yusuf, who didn't have access to badass ATVs and 5hi7 and was still manually running down his sheep down on foot Cliff Young style despite literally being older than the Luftwaffe, found himself trotting through an old raspberry field near his farm and directly into a crude trap laid for him by one of nature's most gigantic and cold-blooded killers.

I guess the story goes that Alchagirov's dumbass sheep ran off like a bunch of assholes and wandered into the fields, but right as our old man hero was about to round them up and send them back to their pens he looked behind a nearby raspberry tree and saw a gigantic-ass brown bear sitting there, crouched in attack position, just waiting for this geezer to show up, rub a bunch of delicious berries on his head to season himself up, and then leap directly into the bear's open jaws like a Salmon during spawning season.


GET IN MAH BELLAY

Now, it's important to mention that Russia is basically getting phuked up right now by some kind of crazy Bearmageddon. Apparently there's been a lot of flooding recently, meaning that a bunch of bear food has been destroyed in the northern parts of the country, and now brown bears are rampaging across the countryside devouring everything they can find. Their favorite food is Geologists, having eaten three of them in the last calendar year, but in addition to hating scientists they also like to break into homes and steal borscht from peasants because they are total dicks and have no respect for oppressive Capitalist concepts like private property or the freedom from not being eaten by bears while you're trying to take a piss in the wilderness.
Yusuf Alchagirov had already had enough of this bear bull5hi7. The 80 year-old man froze for a second, staring unblinkinglyto the predatory eyes of a voracious, man-eating, half-ton killing machine that was preparing to massacre and devour him in a flurry of spikes and gore. Only one thought passed through his mind:
I'm going to phuk this thing up and wear his balls as a hat.


The bear charged. Yusuf acted fast – he pulled off his jacket, threw it over the bear's head, and then phuking punched the bear in the phuking face as hard as he could. But the old "bag over the head punch in the face" thing just pissed the bear off more, and the thing threw the coat off its head and chomped down with its ridiculously-massive jaws, locking them onto Yusuf's arm, ripping into bone and flesh with its slathering fangs.

Yusuf Alchagirov did exactly what you or I would have done in that situation – he grabbed the phuking bear's lower jaw, wrenched it off his arm, and didn't let go.

Oh yeah, and by "what you and I would have done in that situation", I meant to say "the exact opposite of what you and I would have done in that situation."


Wrenching the bear's head with one arm, Alchagirov dug in his pocket for a knife, pulled it out, and prepared to face-shank the bear. The bear, prepared for such a move and extraordinarily livid that he was getting his ass kicked by an 80 year-old man, slapped that 5hi7 right out of the old shepard's hand, ripped its jaw free, and grabbed the shepherd up in a badass 1000-pound bear hug, lifting Yusuf three feet off the ground.

Yusuf Alchagirov, his feet dangling like that dude being choked out by Darth Vader at the beginning of the first Star Wars movie,
He HEADBUTTED THE phukING BEAR IN THE FACE WITH HIS FOREHEAD.

Let's think about this for a moment. Bears have big teeth. Their mouths open wide enough to fit a man's head inside, and their jaws are powerful enough to decapitate you. But this guy smashed the bear so hard in the nose with his head that it not only stunned the bear, it made it drop him.

Then he kicked it in the balls. A lot.

I am not joking.


The two warriors went at it, octogenarian vs. bear, for a few more minutes.

Here's roughly how I picture the battle going down.


The bear, having enough of the headbutting dick-kicking action of Yusuf Alchagirov, suddenly remembered it was a phukING BEAR and decided to put an end to this epic battle once and for all.

It grabbed the 80 year-old man, lifted him once again, and threw him off a cliff. He plummeted dozens of feet, slammed into the rock below, and fell unconscious. The bear, still seething with fury, dusted himself off and casually walked away in search of other human life to snuff out with his teeth.



But Yusuf Alchagirov, bloodied from being punched, clawed, and bitten by a 1,000-pound Brown Bear and then thrown off a cliff, didn't die. He woke up seven hours later, picked himself up, and walked back home. On the way there he found a team of villagers that had been sent to find out why he'd missed dinner. He'd broken four ribs, had a couple bite wounds and bruises, but was otherwise OK. Yeah, he'd lost the fight by TKO, but it was like the Jamaican Bobsled Team of Kicking Bears in the Dick.

When he got home his loving wife made him three traditional pies as a "Congratulations for Not Dying" present.

He ate them all.

Three pies.

Because that's how he rolls.



- See more at: http://www.badassofthewe...523#sthash.gFaaramo.dpuf
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2 users thanked TNRabbit for this useful post.
zumbini on 11/21/2013(UTC), 00cbirdw on 11/21/2013(UTC)
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#23 Posted: Thursday, November 21, 2013 2:53:13 PM(UTC)
 
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That was 1 AWESOME, AMAZING, & HILARIOUS story LOL!!!!
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#24 Posted: Thursday, November 21, 2013 6:50:08 PM(UTC)
 
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That was AWESOME!
Chuck Norris thinks that's AWESOME! 
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#25 Posted: Monday, November 25, 2013 3:57:14 AM(UTC)
 
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Harald Wartooth

         
"Clad in a red cloak, his hair held by a band tricked out with gold, he advanced on the enemy, quietly trusting to the knowledge of his luck rather than weapons – so much that he seemed dressed for a party, not war. But his mind was unlike his outfit, for unarmored, wearing only his royal insignia, he went before the armed battalions and gave the raging dangers of war a chance. Yet the spears flung at him could no more harm him then if their blades pointed backwards. When others saw this fighter's woundlessness, they were taken aback and shame spurred them to attack him still more fiercely. Harald, unwounded, killed them with his sword or sent them fleeing."
                                                    



                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              
Harald Wartooth was a gigantic phuking Viking Berserker King who, in addition to running into battle completely unarmored and having spears and axes and other bull5hi7 bounce off his phuking skin like his ridiculously-calloused, potentially-cyborged-out hide was constructed out of the titanium plating hand-shredded off the chassis of planet-vaporizing robots, was famous for being one of the first m07H3rfUX03Rs to ever unite all the frozen lands of Scandinavia under the banner of Viking Badassitude, conquering armies from England to Finland with tactics he'd been taught from the Norse Gods themselves, charging head-long into battle during the Viking version of the Battle of Troy despite the notable setback that he was like so phuking old he couldn't see past his epic white beard, and then having his skull gloriously clubbed into explosive shards by Odin while he was standing in a pile of human corpses he'd created with a pair of swords and his own furious death stare.

The Viking equivalent of King Arthur or Tupac Shakur, Harald Wartooth is one of these dudes we like to call "semi-legendary kings", which is a fancy, pseudo-academic way for smartypants tightwads to say, "This dude was almost certainly a real person at one time in history but 5hi7 got out of control over the last couple years and now we're pretty sure he didn't actually lop off heads with liquid metal blade arms, transform into Bear Mode at will, hang out with a dude who could transform men into frogs, or project his life essence into the Astral Plane and transfer his existence into hologram form", without sounding like a psychotic dumbass. We are like 90% sure Harald Wartooth was a real person, and if he wasn't, he was at least based on a real guy, because he's mentioned in a couple different places from a couple different Nordic civilizations. We know he lived around the 8th century, probably in the early 700s AD. We know he united the Viking Kingdoms. And we know he KICKED THE phukING 5hi7 OUT OF EVERYONE, because even 1,300 years after the WARTOOTHPOCALYPSE went down we have the bones and wreckage to prove it. Most historians just aren't exactly convinced that he communicated directly with the Norse God Odin, or that he lived to be 150 years old, or that he allowed himself to die simply because he was really phuking old and wanted to go to Valhalla rather than die a coward's death alone in his bed like a chump.

According to the tale of notable 13th-century Viking historian Saxo Grammaticus (the guy responsible for writing the original version of Hamlet that Bill Shakespeare re-made into a play a few centuries later), Harald Wartooth first came into prominence when his grandfather, a Viking explorer/pillager/badass/nobleman/maniac named Ivar the Wide-Grasping, accidentally killed himself while trying to fight a mythical sea monster that, by definition, could only be killed by the Norse God Thor. Ivar, who I'm pretty sure gets his wide-grasping epithet because he was literally able to grope TWO BOOBS AT THE SAME TIME, was like some super-old bastard who got into a Walter Matheau – Jack Lemmon-caliber argument with some other old geezer over something asinine like how to interpret a weird dream, and the way they decided to resolve the conflict was by jumping off a pier into the freezing-phuking-cold North Sea and engaging in hand-to-hand combat with the Midgard Serpent, a sea monster so intensely tremendor that it's body circled the entire earth, and a fearsome beast with fangs the size of skyscrapers that were poisonous enough to kill the Gods Themselves. Ivar and his buddy both drowned like dumb5hi7s almost immediately, so 15-year-old Harald, the only surviving male from his family (and a member of the royalty both through Ivar and because his mom was a princess or some bull5hi7), walked into Denmark and told everyone he was in charge now so you n00b chumps better start getting used to the idea. The assembled Viking beards saw this teenage punk coming in and were all like, "Yeah OK cool story bro that sounds great but how about rather than pay tribute to your dumb ass we SHOVE AN AXEHANDLE UP YOUR URETHRA AND BEAT YOUR MOTHER TO DEATH BY SWINGING YOUR IMPALED-PENISED CORPSE AROUND LIKE A MEAT SLEDGEHAMMER INSTEAD??!?!?!?!11111"

Harald Wartooth, who at this point was just going by Harald, stood there, his expression unchanging. He nodded understandingly, did a couple surreptitious finger-stretching exercises, calmly looked around at everyone before him, and casually unsheathed the Danish two-handed longaxe from the holster that slung it across his back.

Then he DESTROYED THEM ALL UTTERLY.

Parasailing through Northern Europe on a fire-nado of human carnage and tempered-steel implements of , the unstoppable Viking warlord conquered every territory in Denmark, Sweden, and Norway, crushed armies and cut huge swaths of territory out for himself in Northern Germany and Eastern England, installed his own kinsmen as jarls of the devastated territories, and forced everyone he'd subjugated to pay tribute to him so that they never, ever forgot who had the biggest nutsack in the North Sea. They agreed.


Harald was famous for being a hardcore Berserker, meaning that he became so psychotically pissed and filled with the furious rage of Odin's killbonerrific spirit that he transcended anything mortal humans should be capable of and became an unflinching, unstoppable murder machine capable of grinding entire battalions of enemy warriors into mulch with a frenzy of blood-soaked deathstrokes. A young, impetuous, hardcore fighter, Harald always led his armies personally, screaming into battle like a madman and refusing to wear armor of any kind because he claimed Odin Himself would blind his foes and blunt their spears against him. When he was in full-on PCP Berserker Beast Mode, mostly naked and slathered in human blood and cream cheese, Harald was allegedly immune to fire and steel, incapable of feeling pain, and utterly unstoppable in combat. He wielded heavy oak clubs most of the time because he was notorious for hitting his enemies so hard that he would break his sword, once gave proof of his bravery by allowing the enemy to stab him with spears just to prove he could take it, and got his nickname, "Wartooth", supposedly from losing two teeth to an enemy sword and then having two brand new teeth SPONTANEOUSLY phukING GROW TO REPLACE THEM. I envision this going down in slow-motion with a super-extreme-close-up as he grows huge fangs to replace his busted teeth while a flaming 80s guitar solo wails in the background and the sound effect of a wolf howling at the moon blows the speakers on your TV into screaming shards of superheated shrapnel that embed themselves into your 5hi7ty couch and CATCH YOUR phukING APARTMENT ON phukING FIRE BECAUSE HE'S HARALD WARTOOTH NOW.

In addition to granting secret mutant powers of superhuman carnage-creation, Odin also supposedly personally came to Harald before battles and told him how to win. Typically this involved forming his men in a wedge and having them run straight ahead into the middle of the enemy forces screaming and swinging their axes and spears like their lives depended on it, which seems like a pretty straightforward tactic but apparently wasn't super common at the time because only one person ever used that strategy back against Harald. All the Lord of Valhalla asked in return was for Harald Wartooth to brutally sacrifice all captured Prisoners of War to Odin by hand-cleaving out their screaming guts on a stone altar with a sharp rock and pulling out their entrails. Harald was happy to oblige.


Unsurprisingly, after conquering his foes to shreds, Harald Wartooth ruled unopposed for over 50 years. The only action his warriors saw was when they went on their infamous raids throughout the North Sea and the Mediterranean.

Well one day, when Harald was allegedly 150 years old (this seems unlikely), his nephew, a guy named Sigurd Hring who was related to Harald through Harald's mother's second marriage to a guy named Radbeard (seriously!), decided he was sick of paying tribute and bull5hi7 to the Wartooth. Sigurd Hring had been put in charge of the Swedes and the Goths, and he was getting all butthurt about not being the King of Denmark so he told Wartooth they should phuking fight it out in search of the One True Hring. Wartooth, who was old as hell and just survived an assassination attempt where a couple dumbasses tried to kill him while he was taking a bath, was happy to have the opportunity to die a Warrior's Death, and was also more than willing to take his uppity nephew, turn him inside-out and SHOVE HIM UP HIS OWN phukING ASS.


The two Kings assembled every fighting man in Sweden, Denmark, Norway, and Iceland. They recruited mercenaries from Saxony, Germany, England, Russia, and Eastern Europe. Harald Wartooth chopped down two entire forests to build a fleet of dragon ships so massive that if you laid them all out next to each other you could have walked from Denmark to Sweden without stepping on the water.

What went down would be the biggest inter-Viking battle ever recorded, either in history or in the sagas. It's the Norse version of Troy or the Mahabarta. The language used for the battle by Norse skalds closely resembles that of the description of Ragnarok, the battle at the End of the World. And Harald Wartooth plays the starring role.


The two opposing armies stood across from each other. When Harald Wartooth noticed Sigurd Hring had positioned his men in a wedge as well, Harald got a little worried. This did not stop him from wedging up his men, and going point-to-point to hump his foes into submission.

The battle that followed is worthy of the greatest epics in literary history. Harald's warriors, Are the One-Eyed, Dag the Fat, Hothbodd the Indomitable, and many other awesomely-named m07H3rfUX03Rs cleaved their way through the greatest warriors Hring had to offer. Wartooth's greatest champion, Ubbe from Friesland, waded into the meat of the action, covered in blood up to his shoulders, killing 22 men and wounding 11 more "warriors of note" (Saxo differentiates "warriors of note" from "nameless jobber nobodies") with a gigantic waraxe before being gloriously massacred to death by four sword cuts and two dozen arrow wounds. Wartooth's warrior-babe Veborg, a tough-as-5hi7 chick who commanded a battalion of 300 hardass shieldmaidens, sliced Hring's greatest warriors so hard that she bifurcated his face at the jaw and the guy ran off carrying his beard around like a loaf of bread, then double-killed Thorkell the Stubborn after "many wounds and much verbal arguing."

Despite these acts of towering badassitude, the battle was turning against Wartooth, and, rather than sit back and let all his lieutenants have all the fun, the old-as-phuk, half-blind Berserker King decided, phuk it, I'm getting in on this bull5hi7. Seated in his Royal Chariot, the ancient king pulled himself up onto his knees, drew an iron sword in each hand, spurred his horses ahead, and kneeboarded straight-on in the center of the action, ready to kick phuking asses and then senile-y forget the names.


"When Harald saw the great slaughter among his troops,
he threw himself on his knees on his chariot, being unable to stand,
and took a short sword in each hand; he then caused the chariot
to be driven into the thickest of the fight, hewing and striking on both sides,
in this manner killing many, and he was considered very valiant,
and to have done mighty deeds for his great age."

After eviscerating a swath through the enemy army with an epic drive-by cleaving, Harald Wartooth, the greatest of the Viking Kings, was mortally wounded when, according to the story, Odin Himself clubbed him in the back of the head with an axe, knocking him out of the chariot. When Sigurd Hring saw the empty royal chariot scream past him, he immediately ordered a cease-fire. Both armies stopped in their tracks, and spend the rest of the morning searching for the body of the fallen king to prove the Wartooth was no more. They found him, covered in blood, lying dead under a stack of corpses that were piled so high you couldn't drive a wagon in there because the bodies were stacked higher than the wagon's axle.

That night, a huge funeral pyre was built for the fallen king, and every man and woman on the field threw one item onto the blaze to honor their dead king. Sigurd would take over as King of Denmark. His son, Ragnar Hairy-Breeches, is the guy that History Channel Vikings show is about, and Sigurd's grandson, Ivar the Boneless, is the man responsible for conquering the rest of England in the 9th century.

According to the tale of notable 13th




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#26 Posted: Wednesday, January 8, 2014 12:27:19 PM(UTC)
 
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GEORGE WELCH



"Get two P-40s ready. It's not a gag--the Japs are here."


I know, I know, I'm late on posting the story this week.  The sad, tragic reality is that my Friday morning flight home from Honolulu was massively delayed to the point where I couldn't make my connection, so I was stranded in Hawaii without my computer all day on Friday, where I spent most of the day sobbing uncontrollably into a floral-print sarong, my will to live utterly crushed by the inevitable truth that I was disappointing literally dozens and dozens of loyal readers of this website.

But, as horrible as it was to be marooned on a tiny volcanic island in the middle of the South Pacific for twenty-four hours with no possibility of rescue and nothing but a neon-colored fruity alcoholic beverage, my beautiful wife, and a moderately-priced Waikiki Beachfront hotel to sustain me, there is a silver lining to this raincloud of sun-drenched horror – I was able to make yet another trip out to the naval base at Pearl Harbor to see a crucial site that once played a crossroads in American history, and while I was there, I read the story of a man who absolutely must be mentioned on this website without any further delay:  Second Lieutenant George Welch of the United States Army Air Corps.

 

George Welch didn't have to join the military.  He was brilliant, an excellent student trained as a mechanical engineer at Purdue, and the heir to the multi-million Welch's Grape Juice fortune.  He didn't need to go off gallivanting in the cockpit of a fighter plane flying three hundred miles an hour straight-on into a fleet of onrushing enemy aircraft filling the sky with a Bullet Hell of 7.7mm machine gun fire, risking his life and sanity in the service of his country.  But then again, being stationed at Naval Station Pearl Harbor in February of 1941 wasn't such a bad gig, either – there was no war to fight, so Welch was hanging out with hot Polynesian chicks in grass skirts and coconut bikinis, drinking Mai Tais by the pool and maybe I guess flying a mission or two just to keep his skills sharp.  For the 23 year-old Second Lieutenant and his best friend, fellow pilot Ken Taylor, the most exciting thing going on was the one time they went to a party with parachutes hidden under their dinner jackets and they pulled the ripcord in the middle of the dance floor, a move that almost certainly charmed the skirts off every broad in the joint (to use the parlance of the times).

December 6, 1941, was no exception.  The two buddies went out for a night of drinking, partying, and macking on chicks, spent all night dancing to awesome Big Band orchestra Glenn Miller jams at the USO with hot pinup girls in low-cut blouses and tight-fitting dresses, got wasted on any number of alcoholic beverages, then stayed up until dawn playing poker with their buddies, smoking fat cigars, and cracking jokes about whatever the hell people joked about before the creation of the Internet.  Around 6:30am they hopped in Welch's sweet-ass Buick, drove home semi-drunk, and passed out face-down in their bunks still wearing the dress uniforms they'd put on to impress the dames at the party.

They were jolted awake an hour later by the last sound they were expecting to hear in this corner of paradise – explosions.  Big ones.  The roaring of fighter plane engines.  Gunfire.  Screams.  And an announcement on the loudspeakers:


Air raid Pearl Harbor.  This is not a drill.

 

 353 Japanese aircraft, launched from six aircraft carriers, were swarming through the skies above Oahu, strafing airfields, bombing supply bases, and torpedoing naval vessels in what would become the most devastating surprise attack in American History and the single darkest day in the history of the United States Navy.

But George Welch and Ken Taylor weren't going to let the Japs get away without a fight.  Knowing that his own airfield was trashed, Welch hopped up, ran to his telephone, and called in to an auxiliary airfield on the North Shore.  Get two P-40s fueled, armed, and ready.  We're going up.   And we're gonna stick it to these bastards.

Then they grabbed their keys, threw on their tuxedo jackets, jumped in his Buick and hauled ass 16 miles down winding mountain roads through the heart of Oahu Island at speeds of over 100 miles an hour while Mitsubishi A6M Zeroes made strafing runs on the highway behind them with twin-linked 20mm cannons and sent the entire island up in a raging bullet-soaked inferno.

 

When Welch and Taylor reached the airfield, their P-40 Warhawks were already gassed up and armed with ammo for their quad-linked .30mm machine guns.  The mechanics didn't have any .50 cal for their main guns, but Welch and Taylor didn't give a crap – no time to worry about that, we'll make do with what we've got and try to down armored enemy bombers with a machine gun primarily designed to take out infantry.  They hopped into their cockpits, quickly checked their instruments to make sure everything seemed kosher, then tore ass into the skies despite, oh yeah, not having any orders from a commanding officer to charge balls-out straight into an enemy formation and rip them to shreds in a hail of gunfire.

Welch flew point with Taylor as his wingman, and together the Army pilots unflinchingly cranked it full-throttle towards a formation of twelve D3A Val dive bombers (some sources say they were B5N Kates, a minor detail I only mention here because my much-beloved hardcore aircraft nerd fans will undoubtedly call me out on this), guns blazing.
 

Actual gun camera footage taken from Ken Taylor's
aircraft at the beginning of the battle (not really).

Ripping into the formation of Vals at an altitude of just 1,000 feet, Taylor and Welch each took down an enemy bomber.  They scattered, and Taylor broke off, downing another foe in the swirling aerial melee.  Welch, who was unlucky enough to have one of his guns jam, leaving him with just three .30 cals, reportedly took an incendiary round through his fuselage during the fight.  While this detail may be debated, Welch did pull up through the clouds, checked his instruments, and as soon as he realized everything was chill he dove back down through the cloud cover, pouncing on another Val and blasting it into a flaming chunk of no-longer-airworthy scrap metal.

In just a few moments of battle, both Welch and Taylor had scattered a bombing run and downed four enemy aircraft.  They came in hard to Wheeler Field, landing on the airstrip in the middle of explosions and dodging friendly fire from American AA guns on the ground.  They parked near the only working gas truck, and ground crews immediately went to work refueling and rearming the P-40s.  The main ammunition dump had been hit hard and was burning, but two badass techs were like forget that and ran into the burning building to grab .50-caliber ammo for the idling aircraft.  While they were on the ground some dumbass Major came running over to their airplanes and gave Welch and Taylor a direct order not to take off, but they told him to get lost and immediately went back into action.

 

The two pilots took off right into a cloud of 15 bombers, escorted by a flight group of ultra-deadly Zeroes, but they didn't give a crap.  Spewing fire everywhere, Welch and Taylor hosed the formation with bullets, breaking them apart in every direction.   Taylor took a burst of fire in the cockpit – two slugs embedded themselves in the seat near him and one round went through his leg – but this didn't even slow him down that much, and when a second Val dropped behind Taylor to finish off the kill our boy George Welch came in out of nowhere and detonated the Japanese fighter-bomber's fuselage with a blast of .50 cal death.  Breaking hard, Welch then went after one of the Zeroes, downing the enemy aircraft over the ocean with another burst of gunfire.

At the end of the day, George Welch and Ken Taylor flew three sorties against the Japanese.   One of just a handful of Americans to get airborne during the fight, they accounted for six confirmed kills, but probably ended up accounting for at least 10 of the 29 Japanese planes that were shot down over Pearl Harbor during the attack.  For their daring actions kicking balls in the skies and becoming the first American pilots to score an air-to-air kill during World War II, they received the Distinguished Service Cross – the second highest award for bravery offered by the U.S. Army (they'd been nominated for the Medal of Honor, but denied because they'd undertaken the operation without having orders to do so… gotta love Army bureaucracy).

 

After the war, George Welch continued fighting with the Pacific Fleet, flying the ultra-crappy P-39 and the equally-badass P-38 Lighting.  During three combat tours against the Japanese he flew 348 missions, recording 16 confirmed kills – becoming a three-time Fighter Ace and always making it happen in groups of two or more kills at a time because he was just hard like that.

After the war, Welch stayed with the Air Force as a hardcore death-defying test pilot, and he was the first guy to test-fly America's first real jet fighter, the F-86 Sabre.  While piloting it he may have actually broken the Sound Barrier two weeks before Chuck Yeager, but it didn't really count because his equipment failed and his flight logs didn't have any record of how fast he was going.  Either way, it worked out pretty well, because Welch commanded a training squadron of F-86s during the Korean War, teaching new recruits how to fly the ship he'd pioneered and use it to effectively ruin the lives of Commie bastards everywhere.  As an extra badass touch, Welch personally led his squadron into battle despite having specific orders not to do this, and, by all accounts, he managed to shoot down a half-dozen MiG-15s with his F-86 even though he wasn't able to receive credit for his kills because of the whole "disobeying a direct order" thing.  Instead he passed the kills off to his students, which is cool as hell.

 
 
After Korea, Welch went back to being the Chief Test Pilot for North American Aviation.  He died on October 12th, 1954, when the F-100 Super Sabre he was test flying broke apart while pulling seven Gs at Mach 1.1.  Which, while tragic, is a hell of a sentence to have as your obituary.

He is a true unsung hero of American aviation history and an utterly hardcore badass.
 

Welch (on the right), with Ken Taylor in December 1941.

- See more at: http://badassoftheweek.c...405#sthash.yZdQ1Ctn.dpuf
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"elgrau" wrote:
"You're a freak'in genius Herr Rabbit!"

"martin1970" wrote:
"Left to his own devices, Bob would probably build something that looked like a turd and sounded like the breath of angels."
3 users thanked TNRabbit for this useful post.
fill35U on 1/8/2014(UTC), zumbini on 1/8/2014(UTC), Gene C on 1/8/2014(UTC)
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#27 Posted: Saturday, January 11, 2014 10:28:12 AM(UTC)
 
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Getting an early start on next week's BADASS:




“They are so many and our country is so small… where shall we find space to bury them all?” - Finnish saying during the 1939 Winter War with the Soviet Union


Larry Thorne was a hardcore cyclone of SMG-chunking bullet rage who served in the Special Forces of three different countries, led an elite detachment of badass Finnish ski troops on balls-out raids behind Soviet lines during the Winter War, commanded a Waffen-SS sabotage squad during World War II, and was an original United States Army Green Beret who commanded clandestine black ops in Iran and coordinated raids against the Ho Chi Minh trail in the opening years of the Vietnam War. He lived hard, shoved his knife in the faces of Commies from Helsinki to Hanoi, is a national hero in Finland and a legend in the U.S. Special Forces, and was so over-the-top hardcore that when he went Missing in Action somewhere in Laos everybody that knew him pretty much figured he’d finally become so awesome he literally morphed into a gigantic NVA-obliterating explosion.
Born in Finland in 1919, Lauri Torni (there are some umlauts and 5hi7 in there somewhere) was already a Captain in the Finnish Army Reserve in 1938 when Josef Stalin got a hard-on for hammer-humping Finland in the mouth with Bolshevism and sent like seventeen point five million Russians screaming into Scandinavia on a murderous rampage to seize all the valuable snow and ice resources Finland had to offer. Finland’s army, not really exactly expecting to go to war with Russia of all phuking things (they’d just signed a non-aggression pact with Stalin in 1932), was like holy 5hi7 we got like 300,000 guys and you’ve got a million dudes plus a bunch of those awesome new tanks everyone’s been talking about, but that of course didn’t stop them from grabbing every gun they could find and ripping the Red Army a new asshole with a never-ending stream of anti-communist bullets because OH YEAH here’s a picture of Lauri Torni’s ski warriors biathloning their 5hi7 with skis and machine guns and phuking gas masks:



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Fighting in the freezing cold of the winter alongside fellow badasses like ultrasniper Simo Hayha, Lauri Torni commanded and trained ski warfare teams designed to shred into the battlefield in the most totally xtreme to the max way possible, spray around enough lead to smelt into a half-pipe, then haul outta there and launch a sweet ski jump off a ramp while things explode behind them. These ice-cold killers launched guerilla attacks deep behind Red Army lines on dozens of occasions, disrupting their supply and communications, then peeling back to the front lines just in time to hold the line with the Regular Army against a ridiculously-terrifying human wave attack launched from a Communist force that outnumbered the Fins like five to one.
It helped that the Red Army was basically retarded after being utterly lobotomized during Stalin’s idiotic purges of the Russian military high command, but it’s not small phuking feat of amazerballs that Lauri Torni and his Olympic Bloodbathing gold medal team held back an all-out Soviet Union assault for several months. By the time the peace talks rolled around to end the war, the Reds had lost 323,000 men to the Fins’ 70,000 – a kill ratio that would make any CoD player rip off a righteous boner – and Lauri Torni had received every single medal for military badassitude offered by the government of Finland, ranging from the Mannerheim Cross (their Medal of Honor) all the way down to a hilariously-bad hand-fingerpainted coffee mug that said “World’s Greatest Dad #1 Love You Forever Daddy” in Finnish even though Torni didn’t even have kids or a girlfriend or a wife because he was MARRIED TO KICKING COMMIE ASS and it’s a cruel phuking mistress #1 forever.

Ok well the part that sucked for Torni was that the war was over and he couldn’t go around killing Russians anymore, and since he felt like he still had some vengeance he needed to unleash he was like hey, phuk it, these German dudes are still fighting Russia so imma get up on that. The Germans had been looking to recruit experienced fighters who had first-hand knowledge of the Soviet Army, and Torni and a few other Winter War vets were organized as a Finnish Waffen-SS battalion and unleashed on the Reds. He earned the Iron Cross after leading an MG34 machine gun team that charged into the middle of a firefight, guns blazing, and pulled a wounded company commander out of an enemy ambush, but stepped on a land mine after that and kind of got blown up a little bit.
A face full of shrapnel didn’t slow Torni down too bad, however, and by the time he was out of the hospital he was happy to learn that Finland had re-joined battle with the Soviet Union, allying with Germany and trying to re-take land that had been lost to the Russkies in the Winter War. Once again Torni went into battle at the head of the ski troops, this time personally leading a badass assault squad known as “Detachment Torni” that specialized in sabotage and recon. Comprised of 60-70 men (including a future President of Finland!), Detachment Torni went on countless raids against the Soviet Union, and he was such a royal pain in Stalin’s nutsack that the Soviet Union put a bounty on Torni’s head of 3 million Finnish Marks for anyone who would give him up.
It’s worth noting that there is no record of the Russians putting a bounty on the heads of any other Finnish commander in the war.


Torni is the one in the center.
Well, we all know how World War II shaped out, and as the Russians were pushing Germany back they forced Finland out of the war 1944. Torni jumped in a U-Boat and sailed to Berlin, where he was trained as a saboteur by the Kriegsmarines. He eventually returned to Finland and continued to resist the Soviets, a nice little move that got him arrested and declared an “enemy of the people.” Torni escaped prison three times, and the third time he managed to get in touch with the former director of the OSS and find asylum in the United States.
Lauri Torni changed his name to Larry Thorne and started working as a carpenter in Brooklyn, but war was in this dude’s blood and in 1954 he said phuk it an enlisted in the United States Army as a Private, even though he’d spent six years fighting World War II as an officer in two different military commands.

Obviously it didn’t take long for Thorne to prove his worth, and in his first ten years of military service to the United States government he trained NATO forces in West Germany, ran a sabotage and reconnaissance school for the 10th Special Warfare Group, and made a name for himself as one of the first – and most legendary – Green Berets in American history. His crowning achievement came in the late 50s, when he led a mission into the Middle East to recover bodies and classified data from a C-130 transport plane that had gone down in the largest mountain range in Iran, ditching atop a cliff just 20 miles from Tehran. Three missions had attempted to get to the crash site and failed, but Captain Larry Thorne grabbed his 5hi7, parachuted in with a 12-man team, made his way up 14,000 feet of elevation deep in enemy territory, and somehow recovered the data and snuck out of there undetected.
Naturally, when the United States started getting involved in South Vietnam and needed some serious phuking badasses to roll in there and start preparing to kick Communist balls into proletarian jelly, Larry Thorne was all over it like stink on lutefisk.

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Having now kicked ass in waist-deep sub-zero snow drifts, high-altitude Iranian steppe mountains, and hardcore mud-covered rain forest wilderness, Captain Larry Thorne doubled-down on asskicking and served two tours of duty in South Vietnam as part of the highly-classified, highly-awesome Military Assistance Command, Vietnam Studies and Observations Group – an elite unit of clandestine black ops asskickers known as MACV-SOG. Specializing in non-conventional warfare and shanking fUX03Rs in the back of the neck until they barf out a Ka-Bar, Thorne and MACV-SOG spent several years running deep cover ops into Cambodia and Laos to track down the NVA supply network that eventually became known as the Ho Chi Minh Trail.
Rocking it old-school with a WWII-era Scandinavian-made Carl Gustav SMG, Captain Thorne planned missions by going on aerial recon himself in a UH-34D Seahorse chopper, figuring out the mission, then personally leading raids, attacks, intel gathering and sabotage missions. He was wounded twice, received a Bronze Star for bravery in combat, and was immediately recognized as one of the toughest sons-of-bitches in a military organization that prides itself on being able to kill people in their sleep.


MACV-SOG operatives in South Vietnam.
Thorne’s last mission took place on October 18, 1965, when he was leading an aerial insertion behind enemy lines, 20 miles across the Laotian border – a place the United States wasn’t even supposed to be. Continuing on despite bad weather, Thorne made sure that his teams hit the ground, and then, as he was circling back around, his helicopter went into some nasty-looking clouds and was never seen again. He was listed Missing in Action after a 28-year career of military service and never heard from again. The mission however, was a success – his men called in 51 air strikes against Ho Chi Minh Trail supply stations and made it out of there alive.
For the next 30 years there was a lot of speculation about what happened to Thorne. Some thought he walked away and survived, others suspected maybe the Russians finally got a hold of him and stuck him in a Gulag somewhere. His old buddies, knowing how tough this dude was, would make a toast to him “wherever he may be” every year on the anniversary of his disappearance, and a picture of him was shown to NVA defectors to see if maybe they recognized him.
Major Larry Thorne’s body was eventually found in the wreckage of a downed chopper in Laos in the 90s, and his body was relocated to Arlington National Cemetery in Washington, DC. Finnish diplomats were in attendance.
Nowadays the Larry Thorne Award is given by the U.S. Army Special Forces every year to honor the toughest detachment in the Green Berets. Which isn’t a bad way to be remembered.


Thorne, far left, taken just before his final mission.
- See more at: http://badassoftheweek.c...379#sthash.dz6iLeO6.dpuf
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zumbini on 1/11/2014(UTC)
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#28 Posted: Saturday, January 18, 2014 9:24:20 AM(UTC)
 
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WOW! I never knew this.

HIROO ONODA

Lieutenant Hiroo Onoda of the Japanese Imperial Army's Intelligence Division was sent to the Philippine Island of Lubang in 1944 with a top-secret mission - to stay out of sight, collect information on Allied troop movements on the island, launch guerilla attacks, disrupt the enemy and generally just be completely phuking nuts. He took this mission so seriously that he ended up fighting for his life well after everyone else had called it a day and went home. If the delicate line between insanity and badassitude is measured by determination, then Lt. Hiroo is probably high in the running for being one of the most badassed men of World War II.
Onoda and his small, elite four-man reconnaissance team were initially tasked with exploding the airfield and pier on the island, but not long after they deployed the entire Philippines was overrun by American forces. Onoda's men managed to elude capture and retreat back into the dense jungles on the outskirts of the island, where they were forced to live off of the land to avoid detection by enemy scouts and patrols looking to shove their guns up some Japanese asses. From this super-secret base of death, destruction and mayhem, Onodo and his men conducted lightning raids against the occupying armies, engaging in numerous gun battles with U.S. troops garrisoned on the island as well as the local Filipino police force. They survived on rice, coconuts and bananas foraged from the underbrush, and occasionally made daring night raids into town to steal beer and other supplies from peoples' outdoor fridges.
For a year and a half Onoda and his team avoided detection and fought sporatic skirmishes with the local garrison, until one day, in August 1945, a plane flew over the jungle dropping hundreds of leaflets. The leaflets basically said, "Hey jackasses, the war is over. Come out and surrender already." Lieutenant Hiroo Onoda immediately believed this to be a ploy by the Allies to trick him and his men into surrendering their positions. The citizens of Japan were all being trained to fight to the death and to protect the homeland and the Emperor at all costs - how could the Imperial Army have possibly surrendered so quickly?! It was inconcievable. No, Lt. Hiroo had strict orders to stay put until he heard from a superior officer, and that's exactly what he was going to do. Unfortunately for him (and the people living on the island of Lubang), it appears that the Japanese High Command forgot to copy Onoda on the memo that he needed to stop rigging transport ships with explosives and indiscriminately shooting anything that moved.


For years these brave, misguided souls hung out in the jungle, kicking peoples' asses and executing balls-out guerilla raids against the local police station. The Japanese and Filipinos left numerous pamphlets, leaflets and newspaper clippings indicating the end of the War in the Pacific, but Hiroo wasn't in the mood to hear these stupid bull5hi7 phuking lies. He continued to stab faces and lead his men in their mission to the Empire. In 1950, one of his men decided he was sick of sleeping in the jungle and eating phuking coconuts three times a day, and he surrendered to the Filipino authorities. Four years after that, the second man in Hiroo's unit went down, killed in a particularly nasty gun battle with local police. By 1959, Lieutenant Hiroo's military status in Japan was changed from "Missing in Action" to "Killed in Action", because to the Japanese military, it seemed perfectly reasonable to pronounce him dead - especially since they hadn't phuking heard from him in fifteen years.

Meanwhile, back on the island of Lubang, Onoda and his final surviving team member were still strategizing plans of attack, collecting critical reconnaissance data, eating more raw bananas than a soccer team comprised entirely of ravenous monkeys, robbing convenience stores for food, and firing their bolt-action rifles at pretty much anybody they deemed an "enemy combatant". In 1972, the final member of Onoda's squad was killed by the cops. Hiroo continued to evade "enemy patrols" sent to look for him (some of which were actually teams of Japanese diplomats sent to bring this phuking guy back to the mainland) and fight occasional gun battles with enemy scouts. He was, quite literally, an "Army of One" - kind of like Rambo or John Matrix, only instead of killing terrorists or Commie pinko bastards he was shooting more cops than the Italian Mafia.
Finally, in 1974 a Japanese college student named Norio Suzuki came across Lieutenant Hiroo's hideout deep in the impenetrable Filipino jungle. Norio told Hiroo that the war was over, but Hiroo refused to believe it. He told this kid that he refused to surrender until he recieved orders from a superior officer. Norio Suzuki promptly returned to Japan, found Hiroo's former commander (he was now an old man working in a bookstore), and the Japanese government flew this dude out to tell Onoda that World War II had been over for 29 years.

On 10 March 1975, Lieutenant Hiroo Onoda came out of the jungle wearing his immaculately-kept full military dress uniform and surrendered his sword to Filipino President Ferdinand Marcos. During his time on the island he and his men had killed over 30 Filipinos and Americans and wounded over 100 more people, but given the extenuating circumstances he was officially pardoned for his crimes. Onoda returned to the island of Lubang in 1996 to donate id="mce_marker"0,000 to local scholarship funds, but as you can probably imagine the people of the Philippines pretty much completely phuking hate this guy's guts.

Hiroo Onoda is awesome because he's also completely phuking insane. This guy fought World War II for 30 phuking years, which is a claim that not even some of the most hardcore phuking WWII re-enactors can make. He survived in the jungle for three decades with no supplies, no reinforcements, and no official orders, he refused to give up even when pretty much everybody from the Emperor to his own mother were telling him to come home, and he basically represents the physical embodiment of the mantra "refuse to lose". As far as I'm concerned, that's pretty badass.

- See more at: http://www.badassofthewe...862#sthash.pWqiK63Z.dpuf
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"elgrau" wrote:
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"martin1970" wrote:
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zumbini on 1/18/2014(UTC)
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#29 Posted: Sunday, March 2, 2014 1:08:24 AM(UTC)
 
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Themistocles


Forward, sons of the Greeks! Liberate the fatherland, liberate your children, your women, the altars of the gods of your fathers and the graves of your forebears: Now is the fight for everything. —Aeschylus, Persians

(Note: I was hosptialized yesterday, and even though I'm home today I'm really not in any condition to research and write a new badass.  I did see a lot of trailers for the new 300 movie while I was laid up, so here's a story from Badass: Ultimate Deathmatch talking about the true history of Themistocles and the Battle of Salamis, because it looks like they maaaaay have messed a few thing up in the movie translation)

In the years following the Battle of Thymbra, the descendants of Cyrus the Great forged a ridiculously huge empire that covered a good portion of Central Asia, the Middle East, and East Africa, but despite the Persians’ much-deserved street cred as no-nonsense face-wrecking hardasses, the stubborn Greek city-states of Sparta and Athens still refused to suck it up and submit to the will of their would-be future overlords. In 490 BC the great Persian emperor Darius I tried to pound some sense into their Hellenistic crotches with an obscene amount of club-wielding violence, but his incomprehensibly huge invasion armada of six hundred ships and a hundred thousand soldiers was miraculously defeated outside the city of Marathon when a heavily armored phalanx of ten thousand balls-out (literally—there wasn’t much under those tunic skirts) Athenian warriors met an amphibious landing force ten times their size on the beaches, drove the invaders back to their boats on a crimson tide of severed limbs and mutilated corpses, and then torched the Persian transports for good measure.

A Greek warrior named Themistocles had been on the front lines at the Battle of Marathon, and as he watched the shattered remnants of the fleet limb pack to Persia this grizzled warrior knew that the Persians weren’t the sort of guys who were going let a defeat like that go unpunished—you don’t build the largest empire in the world by going home and crying into a plate of hummus every time you lose a battle, and Themistocles knew that if the Greeks wanted to keep the Persian emperor from sailing right back into town and offloading another hundred-thousand-man invasion force 26.2 miles from the Acropolis, Athens needed to clog the Aegean Sea with enough ship-mounted battering rams and pitch-filled firebombs to nuke a small island off the map. Now, in addition to having a name that sort of looks like “Testicles,” Themistocles also happened to be an archon of Athens, meaning that he was one of a small group of men responsible for the day-to-day governance of the city-state. Well, this guy was so single-mindedly hardcore about building warships that when one of the other dumbass archons defiantly announced that he thought blowing the entire treasury on boat construction projects wasn’t really the most totally bitchin’ idea ever conceived in the history of idiot politicians, Themistocles fabricated a political scandal that resulted in that asshole being disgraced, stripped of his office, and exiled out of town forever, because screw him for not appreciating the awesomeness of fire-breathing battle boats.



Say what you want about this guy’s shady political muckraking, but it turned out that Themistocles was right. Ten years after Marathon, Darius’s son Xerxes returned with an obscene amount of arrogance, some daddy issues, one of the coolest names in history, and a force three times the size of the army the Persians had fielded at Marathon—three hundred thousand warriors and twelve hundred ships all intent on spear-humping the face of every man, woman, and child in Greece. As Athens was evacuated, King Leonidas of Sparta headed out on a fateful journey to stuff the mountain pass at Thermopylae with the rock-hard abs of three hundred screaming Spartans, but as brave as this was, the stand at Thermopylae wouldn’t have been all that useful if the Persians had been able to simply load their warriors into ships, sail around the pass, and stab the Greeks in their asses when they weren’t looking. Xerxes thought about this, but unfortunately for him one thing stood in the way of the Persian fleet, blocking their path around Thermopylae and forcing the Persians to send thousands of their toughest warriors marching to their horrific deaths in a narrow pass against a heavily entrenched and almost-unkillable Spartan phalanx. That thing was the newly constructed Greek fleet, and the primary object blocking their passage was the gigantic nutsack of the Athenian naval commander Themistocles.

While Leonidas barricaded the only land entrance to Greece with heaping piles of dead bodies, dented breastplates, and empty bottles of baby oil, Themistocles covered the Spartans’ flank by wedging his two hundred warships into a narrow strait just off the coast of Thermopylae at a place called Artemesium. Outnumbered almost four to one and facing off against an armada crewed by some of the world’s best seamen—the Phoenicians and the Egyptians—Themistocles used the terrain to his advantage, forcing the Persians to attack in a single-file line, one squadron of ships at a time, ensuring that when the two fleets closed to ramming distance the Persians didn’t have any room to maneuver. On three separate occasions Xerxes’s admirals attempted to straight-up pimp-slap Themistocles with wild, unruly bum-rushes, but on all three occasions the Athenian hero shoved a battering ram so far up their poop decks that every Persian within fifty miles was coughing up splinters. The Persian admiral, seeing that charging straight on into the Greek fleet was producing roughly the same result as if he had just ordered his ships to set themselves on fire and blitz full speed into some rocks, dispatched one-third of his fleet to circle around the island Themistocles had been using to cover his flank and attack the Greeks from the rear. After a freak storm obliterated the entire expedition, Themistocles was careful to pour one out for Poseidon.



When word came down that Leonidas and the Spartans had finally ended up on the bad end of the ol’ stabbity-stab and that their crucified corpses were now being used as delightfully macabre decorations outside the pass at Thermopylae, Themistocles was forced to pull the fleet back. The Persians immediately started sprinting their way across Greece, burning and plundering and kicking the crapballs out of everything in their path, but, thankfully, by this point most of the residents of those doomed towns had already evacuated to safety. The Persian war machine was still plowing along, however, and hard-hitting warmongers like Themistocles don’t exactly take it all that well when foreign invader sons-of-bitches come in and start ravaging their countryside like frat boys on homecoming week. In the aftermath of Thermopylae, the Greek leaders ordered Themistocles to set up a blockade to try and slow down the Persian advance, but screw that—even though he was heavily outnumbered, he wasn’t about to run from those bastards, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to sit back and turtle up when he should be out there cracking the enemy in the jaw with a flaming two-by-four until they needed skin grafts and steel rebar to wire their mouths shut. Themistocles knew that if he could cripple the Persian navy with one decisive battle, they wouldn’t be able to supply their land forces and the entire invasion would completely implode on itself. And so, despite strict orders not to engage the enemy in a full-scale battle, and seemingly unaware that he had a mere 366 triremes staring down an armada of over a thousand Persian warships (they’d been reinforced since Artemesium), Themistocles resolved to make a stand. He decided that in a small, narrow inlet known as Salamis, just seven miles from his beloved Athens, he was going to put up a fight that would determine the fate of the war forever—a no-holds-barred ocean brawl that would be reminiscent of the battlestar Galactica taking on three Cylon basestars in orbit above New Caprica or Rocky Balboa knocking the piss out of Tommy “Machine” Gunn in that one Rocky movie everyone forgot about.

First, Themistocles positioned almost all of his ships inside the inlet of Salamis (which I now have it on good authority is not pronounced the same way you would refer to multiple slices of salami). He made damned sure that the Persians knew exactly where they could come to find him, and then he started spreading BS rumors about how Greek morale was in the toilet and how the Athenians had all lost the will to fight and were now considering abandoning war altogether and enrolling in quilt-making classes at the local fabric store. The Persian admirals knew that the destruction of Themistocles’s fleet would spell the end of Greece once and for all, and so, when dawn arose one crisp September morning, the Greek crews looked to the horizon and saw the entire Persian navy plowing through the bottlenecked entrance to the inlet at full speed, anxious to crush Themistocles before he could get away  and regroup. Emperor Xerxes himself, confident that the end of the war was at hand, had a golden throne positioned high on the rocks above the inlet so he could witness the final defeat of Greece personally, laugh his ass off the whole time, and then urinate down onto the ashes of Athens as it burned into charcoal.

The Greeks took one look at this armada, hesitated for a second, and then promptly ran for it like bitches.



The Persians, already tasting their sweet, delicious, cinnamon-infused victory, greedily broke ranks and pursued the fleeing Greek fleet as fast as they could, each ship’s commander looking to seek glory for himself by destroying as many of the enemy as possible as they ran for it like cowards in the face of unstoppable Persian might.

But then something incredible happened. Almost in unison, the Greek ships suddenly stopped running. In one motion, Themistocles’s triremes quickly wheeled around with chilling precision and formed up immediately into perfect battle lines. Just like that, the Athenian commander now found himself at the helm of a spearhead of wooden vengeance, staring down his ship’s battering ram at a disorganized mass of Persian ships all crushed together inside a narrow, tiny inlet without any place to maneuver or escape.

If this were a movie, this is the part where we’d get the close-up shot of the Persian admiral looking surprised and shouting:



Naval battles in antiquity were totally sweet because they were little more than aquatic demolition derbies with arrows, battering rams, and gigantic shipboard flamethrowers smashing the crap out of each other in a semi-anarchistic explosion of destruction. Essentially, it worked like this: a fleet of insane wooden deathtraps masquerading as warships would load up with enough sword-swinging warriors to choke a Rancor, cram their holds full of volatile, unstable explosives, and then sail around at top speed with the single-minded goal of crashing head-on into an enemy ship, punching a hole in its hull, lighting it on fire, and then lowering a boarding plank so the marines could start carving their names on the skulls of the poor chumps on the opposing ship. It was like a homicidal fiery cross between a monster truck rally and a really spirited game of bumper boats, and in this no-holds-barred, Beyond Thunderdome arena of nautical face annihilation, Themistocles was like the Classical Age equivalent of Truckzilla—the twenty-story-tall, fire-breathing, dinosaur-shaped robot that lives only to devour hope and frighten children and that gets its nutrition from a steady diet of late-1980s model sedans and the unclean souls of wretched humans hurled forth into its unforgiving diabolical chomping steel jaws.



In the seasickness-inducing aquatic anarchy off the coast of Salamis that day, Themistocles was right in the middle of the action, punching Persian vessels into wreckage with his prow and ruining the ass of Xerxes’s once-proud fleet in an epically spectacular fashion. Those Persian ships that weren’t disintegrated by battering rams or set ablaze by flaming arrows either ran ashore on the rocks or had their decks swarmed by armored Greek warriors anxious to get their murder on. The Persian admiral’s flagship was sunk in the early minutes of the fight (taking him down with it), further contributing to the hair-pulling WTF disorder among their ranks, and before long all Emperor Xerxes could do was scream maniacally from his golden throne and swear like a sailor as he helplessly watched the Greek formation drive a wedge of hull-obliterating ruination through his entire fleet. The Persian armada fell into disarray; their ships started accidentally crashing into each other, and the entire Persian fleet was bludgeoned into flotsam in the matter of hours, leaving nothing but a floating slick of blood and grease on the water’s surface. Xerxes, afraid for his own safety and disgusted by his navy’s poor showing, ran away and headed home, abandoning the entire invasion force to their fate. Victory was now impossible. The Persians, unable to bring supplies or reinforcements to the battlefront due to Themistocles’s complete control of the seas, were overrun by a Greek counterattack, and it would take less than a year for the Greeks to recapture their homeland from the invaders.



 
- See more at: http://badassoftheweek.c...852#sthash.Ol7buI63.dpuf
TNRabbit

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"elgrau" wrote:
"You're a freak'in genius Herr Rabbit!"

"martin1970" wrote:
"Left to his own devices, Bob would probably build something that looked like a turd and sounded like the breath of angels."
1 user thanked TNRabbit for this useful post.
zumbini on 3/2/2014(UTC)
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