Gobzag's Wagon

“Wot’s this then?”

“It’s one of dem ‘oomie wagons innit? We’z nicked it, boss wants you to do it up.”

Gobzag looked at the wreck the other Ork, some annoyingly chipper yoof called Skragalug, had dragged in. He grumbled. Aside from the huge rokkit hole in the side, it seemed in good condition. The problem was, to Gobzag’s acute mekboy eyes and teknologikal know-wots, the thing just didn’t make sense.

“Deez are da wagons dat’s been zoggin’ our boyz?” he said, incredulous.
“Yeah, boss sez dere ded killy,” the other Ork said. “Did a rush wiv some buggies an’ bikes and a few of deez wagons krumped da lot.”

“Zog me, but how? Look at dis fing. Da arma on da side goes all da way to da bottom, got no clearance,” Skragalug looked puzzled. Gobzag rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically. “Means it’s got no suspenshun, dunno how it goes ova anyfing. Shouldn’t be able to drive on anyfing but a flat road!”
“Yeah, but look at dat kannon. I can stick my ‘ead in dat kannon. Ded killy.”

“Right, but ‘ow many bombs ‘as it got in dere for it?”
“One of da ‘oomies we duffed up said it ‘ad forty rounds in it before dey croaked. Which is a big numba I rekun. Also da bombs is pointy so I dunno why da ‘oomie said dey was round. We did hit him pretty ‘ard.”
“Forty? Naff dat,” Gobzag clambered on to the tank and down the commander hatch and began counting inside, his voice echoey and metallic inside the hull. “Lessee, some of deez ‘ave been fired but I guess dat’s where dey went before dey shot em’, one, two, free… fourfivesixsevenlots. At least seven.” Skragalug was very impressed at how high Gobzag could count. “Couple more, maybe. Not a lot. Deffo not forty.” Gobzag leaned out of the turret hatch, looking down at the other Ork. “Whatcha sposed ta do once you’ve run out of bombs, eh? Be rude to ‘em?”
“Well, the boyz inside could be careful, like. Pick dere shots…” Skragalug said, trailing off once he realised how foolish he sounded.
“Ha! Fat chance, way our ladz shoot,” Gobzag chuckled as he jumped back down to the workshop floor. “Nah, it’s gonna need summit dat fires smaller bombs so’s I can stick more in dere for the ladz ta fire. Do summit about dose stoopid tracks an’ all. Couple extra shootas for a bit more dakka like. It’ll be a job, but I rekun it’ll turn out gud.” He smacked the side with his wrench, sounding a satisfying clang about the workshop. “Yeah, it’ll be gud. Show dem ‘oomies ‘ow ta make a propa wagon.”

“That ruin’s too dense for the Russ, commander, we’ll have to go around.”

Manafort had to agree. Days of fighting had brought down many of the buildings in this part of the city, dense rubble cutting off many of the roadways and passages they would normally use to get around. He directed his driver to make their way around, and radioed the rest of the platoon to do the same. The column moved slowly, warily, but also confident that the greenskins wouldn’t have anti-armour teams hiding in the bombed out buildings.

“WOSSA MATTA LADS, ‘AVIN TRUBBLE WIV DA RUBBLE! HAHA!”
“What in the name of Terra…” Manafort hissed as he rose, almost jumping, out of the turret hatch. Clambering nimbly over the huge pile of refuse behind them was something that looked familiar, and yet… “Bugger me that’s one of ours. The greenskins have one of our tanks! Number three, on your six, watch out!”
He had barely got the last word out when the Ork Russ opened fire at nearly point blank range into the rearmost tank in the column. At that distance, even an Ork couldn’t miss and a deluge of crude but effective firepower burrowed into the thin rear armour of the tank and it exploded as something very volatile inside caught and went up. The pall of smoke concealed the Ork vehicle as it went down the line, generous suspension carrying it easily over the rough terrain on the side of the road, blasting the imperial tanks before they could react. Manafort watched in horror as it rolled right up to his command tank, having dispatched the rest of the platoon in a shockingly short amount of time. A big toothy grin under a pair of oversized welding goggles met his gaze as his opposite number in the Ork tank poked his head out the turret.
“Yor wagons are naff, mate. I made dis wun betta, ‘an I’m gonna make all ov dem I just krumped betta too. ‘Ere, Skraglug lad, show ‘em what I mean!”
Manafort just stood there with his mouth agape as an Ork kannon round went right into an ammunition rack and blew the whole turret of his tank clean into the air, along with him and the rest of his crew.
“Yoo know what, Skragalug,” Gobzag said as debris and body parts rained down about him, “deez ‘oomie wagons ain’t so bad once you ‘ave a tinker wiv em. I rekun we can get on da blower back to camp and get sum lootaz to come pick deez uvva wagons up an’ got on a bit more of an excurshun. ‘Ow much ammo we got left?”
“Lots, boss,” grinned Skragalug, “Lot’s ‘an lots.”