‘Twas the phase before Christmas, when all through the house,
Not a leader was stirring, not even the Youse.
The PIATS were hung by the chimney up high,
In hopes that a Panther might come lumbering by.
The half-squads were nestled all snug in their trenches,
With visions of ASLOK and wine and some wenches.
And Bret in his camo and I in my greys
Had just settled down for a nice Rally Phase.
When just one hex over there arose such a clatter
I quickly Self-Rallied to see what was the matter.
Down to Ground Level I flew like a flash,
Declared Wall Advantage and readied a Dash.
The Full Moon on the breast of the new-fallen Snow
Gave a Night Vision Range of at least 4 or so.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But an ungainly Sledge that was drawn by reindeer,
With an inherent driver, so likely and limber,
I knew in a moment it must be Saint Kibler.
More rapid than Marders his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:
“Now, Sisler! Now, Pleva! Now Rönnblom and Perry!
On, Argent! On, Grofaz! On, Siddhu and Sherry!
To the Czerniakow Bridgehead! To Aachen’s Pall!
Now Rout away! Rout away! Rout away all!
As small Flames that into wild Blazes turn
When they meet with a Gust in a frenzy to burn,
So up to the Rooftop the reindeer they flew,
With the sledge of support weapons, and ol’ Charlie, too.
And then I sniffed something that wasn’t quite coffee
But rather the smell of a Nahverteidigungswaffe.
As I Advanced in the building to check out the smell
I saw Charlie Kibler on the Inherent Stairwell.
He was dressed in Winter Camo from his head to his foot,
And his garb was blackened with Dispersed Smoke and some soot.
A bundle of Panzerfausts he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a Hero preparing to attack.
His boards, how they glittered! His SASLs how shiny!
His Red Oktober campaign game makes Barricades look tiny!
His droll little mouth was drawn up with conviction,
And the beard of his chin was as white as Mark Nixon.
A set of nice tweezers he held tight in his teeth,
And he sucked at the Handy-tak’ed tip for relief.
He had a dice cup and a nice little tower
That shook all his dice for at least half an hour.
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf;
If he were a Commissar, he wouldn’t shoot you himself.
A glance at the ASOP and a check of VCs
Soon gave me to know I could now be at ease.
He spoke not a word, but soon went Berserk,
And dropped excess Portage Points, then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger on his CMG,
And giving a nod, he declared ESB.
He sprang to his Sledge, to his team gave a cry
And away they all flew like a Stuka up high.
But I heard him exclaim, ere I lost LOS,
“Happy Christmas to all, and all gamers God bless.”