Time seemed to freeze for one perfect moment. The stench of unbathed trench dweller and gunpowder freed their hold on his nostrils, replaced instead by the sweet fragrances of perfume and freshly baked bread. The torrential, chilling blizzard downpour had been given a day off, substituted by a light dusting of fresh powdered snow that glittered against the sunlight of a crisp summer’s morning. His chapped hands, so used to the painful sting of cold steel, instead held the warm embrace of a woman’s body. His face curled, for the first time in what felt like years, into a smile. For just an instant, he felt safe. He felt as though the last two years of witnessing unspeakable horrors on the gods-forsaken hellscape of the front lines had finally culminated into one glorious second of peace. But, in a burst of light, Albert Elles was thrust back into reality.

  A cloud of smoke danced playfully over the flash lamp, held firmly by the cameraman who emerged from his black fabric cocoon. “Alright, very good! Now, ladies, can we get one with just the boys?” he asked.

  The stunningly beautiful woman, wearing a tight-fitting navy blue jumpsuit and a pointy, wide-brimmed hat strapped snugly beneath her jaw, released her hold on Albert and skipped out of frame. Her lipstick-painted smile still beamed as she joined her similarly dressed compatriots. “More serious now, ey?” said the cameraman, “This one’s for the papers.” Albert’s smile, which forced his carefully kempt mustache to tickle his upper lip, reluctantly vanished.

  Beside him, now arranging themselves in single file on either side, were seven men standing at attention. They were his crewmates. All fine, sturdy men whom Albert trusted with his life as much as they trusted theirs with him. Behind the flank of men was the finest piece of machinery the Avilonian Military Commission could afford: the Mk. I Sweeney Rolling Fortress. It broke down constantly, had steel walls that could protect against enemy artillery about as well as it could protect against a swiftly pitched rock (not well), and crammed a crew of eight men into a space that would make even a sardine can look like a luxury suite. But to these men, it was the only reason they had survived thus far. On its long barrel, which often spat 125mm rounds at enemy infantry, was the name “Gutsy” lovingly painted in perfect calligraphy.

  Once more, the flash lamp popped in a cluster of sparks and the men went at ease. The cameraman nodded satisfactorily and began packing up his equipment. His counterpart, who had been standing beside him, stepped up to the men. He was a tall, dark-haired man wearing an ill-fitting Avilonian infantry helmet and a clean set of civilian clothes that made him look out of place for far more reasons than one. Pinned to his chest pocket was a piece of paper with the word “Press” stamped in red. Albert envied this man.

  Had he any mind for writing, let alone journalism, he may have been able to avoid enlisting. Sure, the occasional field expedition, much like the one these men found themselves on, would have provided enough excitement for a lifetime. But upon reaching his word count, he would have been able to return home, nestled comfortably in front of a roaring fire and a hot meal, perhaps surrounded by a wife and two to five children who were all eager to hear of his adventures. He’d regale them with the time he may have heard a mortar shell explode some few miles away. Or, if he really wanted to excite them, he’d hyperbolize about the moment he saw a man in sick bay missing his pinky finger. Imagine it, he’d say, his whole pinky finger. Gone!

  Fantasies like these made Albert realize that he may never have children. The things he’d seen. The acts he’d committed. The death warrants he’d signed with a single order to “fire at will.” If he were to have children, he’d need them to be well-behaved, attentive in school, and motivated to excel. Inevitably, he would tell a story, one ill-fated bedtime, about the time he’d ordered his driver to charge full speed ahead at a small platoon of cowering young Seigesland troops, crying their last to their mothers before being turned into little more than a dirge of sickening pops and crunches under Gutsy’s treads. His children would never sleep again. Thus, Albert’s plans to raise the next scientific genius like Dr. Kalvin Ganes or entertainment superstar like Kitty Cleary would be soured. No, for Commander Elles, war was the only option.

  “So, how long have you lads been on the front?” asked the reporter, a half-spent cigarette bobbing from the corner of his mouth. He had produced a pencil and a well-worn pad of note paper from his pocket, awaiting a response to record.

  “Some of us ‘ave lasted ‘ere longer than others,” piped Stan Bilge, curtly, in his thick underclass accent. Stan, the driver, was a Grendel. He stood just over four feet tall and had pale green skin. His head was far too large for his body and his ears pointed straight out in either direction, which made Albert often wonder what a fruitless undertaking putting on a shirt every morning must have been like. “Commander Elles, Corporal Levings, Corporal Friedkin, and I ‘ave all been on the front for over two years now.”

  “And what about you, son?” the reporter asked, gesturing to a young human boy who looked barely old enough to have enlisted in the first place.

  “This will be my third week,” responded Warby Glasgow in a demeanor that was humbled yet determined, “Us privates: Burch, Delbrook, Kendall, and I have only been in the field for less than six months.”

  “That’s quite a machine you boys operate there,” continued the reporter, “With a vehicle of that power, do you share in High Lord Godwin’s sentiment that the war will be over within the year?”

  Albert felt his comrades’ eyes all fall upon him as he tried hard not to break his composure. They knew the answer to that question just as well as he did. Any fresh face who had spent more than an hour in the trenches knew the answer to that question.

  Three years prior, tensions between two of the world’s most powerful ruling governments, the Vironists and the House Collective, came to a boiling point. Numerous, allegedly Vironist terrorist attacks against House Collective steelrunner supply lines had occurred, leading to an embargo that would be set on Vironist trade routes. Actions like this had already ingrained severe mistrust and prejudice between the two factions; the “riling up” of the proverbial hornet’s nest. What happened next, however, was where the boot hit the comb.

  On the eve of June 28, 1110 AWD, a gala hosted by Maxine Viron and her kin was interrupted by a lone and (still to the current day) unidentified sniper. Lady Viron’s sixteen-year-old son, Andreas, was unfortunate enough to perish in the attack; a well-placed shot having blown straight through his neck, killing him instantly. Maxine famously declared war on the House Collective before the clock had even struck twelve that very same night.

  Over three years had passed since. And in that time, little more than a few dozen miles had been gained by anyone on the Western Front, located near the Paix-Siegesland border. Each inch gained or lost was paid for with thousands of souls. Every whistle blown meant a hundred letters were sent to worried mothers that their son or daughter had met some terrible, bloody fate. Every shell spent was a corpse used to pay for another second on some poor sod’s life expectancy clock. There was no light at the end of the tunnel. There was no foreseeable stop to the bloodshed. There was no end to this war.

  Albert took a deep breath and lied through a forced smile, “If Lord Godwin foresees victory, then how can’t I?”

  The reporter chuckled, scribbling the quote. He thanked the men for their time before flipping his notepad shut and placing his pencil above his ear. He and the cameraman were then ushered away by an officer presiding over the display. Albert could still feel his men's eyes on him. He turned to Stan, who looked the most incredulous. Albert shook his head, cringing. A simple gesture that blatantly said, You know damn well that was a lie. His comrades, recognizing this, snickered collectively before dispersing to go about their business.

  From the small crowd of people who had gathered around to witness the developing news story, came a tall human man with short, blonde hair: Colonel Nathaniel Price. The clean-shaven, chisel-jawed commanding officer wore a dark red uniform, complemented by black trousers, polished boots, and a cape that hung from his left shoulder lined with white mink. Nathaniel was the type of man who had exuded a commanding presence long before the medals and service ribbons hung from his chest.

  Elles had been a part of Price’s company when he was first deployed, referring to him as “Major” at the time. They had fought side by side during the bloody ascent up La Colline de Chair and watched their comrades die in droves during the siege of Unite. Price had always been Elles’ superior, but rank carried no weight in the brotherly bond they now shared.

  Colonel Price took a cigarette from its packet and scorched the tip with a lighter that had taken up permanent residence in his uniform’s breast pocket. He said nothing as he situated himself beside Albert and rested his upper body against Gutsy. He handed the pack to Albert, who took the last remaining stick before the Colonel chucked the box aside. Albert began lighting the smoke, inhaling softly until the flame took. Price exhaled ash from his nostrils, chuckling to himself. “‘Within the year,’” he mocked, “what a load of horse piss.”

  Albert responded in kind, smoke escaping through his teeth as he laughed, “Within the year, we’d be lucky enough to see the other side of the Perdue.”

  “By the Sun’s Glow, I hope you’re wrong,” the Colonel replied, “I’m not sure I can spend another day looking at that damned treeline…With any luck, I may just have my wish granted by tomorrow night.”

  “So everything’s still a go?”

  “The offensive’s been fortified from checkpoints Apple and Charlie. Two thousand troops have arrived over the last three days.”

  “I’m surprised we’ll be needing tanks at all with those numbers,” Albert said, surprised.

  “Believe me,” said Price, his expression turning a deep shade of grim, “we’ll need it.”

  The two stood for a moment, watching leisurely soldiers stroll about, laughing to one another, speaking to the reporters, or cavorting with the gaggle of blue-uniformed women. Some took notice of the Colonel and Commander, giving quick, well-rehearsed salutes as they passed. Price simply nodded stern acknowledgement in return.

  “Good people…” Price mused, “You, your regiment, the men and women in the trenches. You’re all good people.” He turned toward Albert. “The thought of putting you all at the receiving end of a barrel sickens me. Every time I hear a shot fired, no matter how many hundreds of thousands of times I’ve heard it, I think of the lad or lass who had to pull the trigger. None of you did anything to deserve this.”

  “It has to be done,” Albert responded, “You shouldn’t feel guilty for doing your job, carrying out your duty.”

  “It’s unavoidable, Elles. Always has been.” Nathaniel took another long drag from his smoke, the glowing tip slowly burning further down the wrapping. “If ever the chance to end this war sooner arose, I’d take it in a heartbeat…That’s why I give orders; because despite the heartache and the bloodshed they cause, one of those orders might just bring us one little step closer to victory.”

  Albert had nothing to add, nothing to reassure Price that their struggles would not be in vain, nothing to say to put his mind at ease and allow him to sleep at night knowing that his command had truly done so much good in the war thus far. All he could do was quietly smoke and become a silent supporter for an aching heart.

  A young Corporal approached the pair, saluting the two officers much like the few passers-by had done before. His uniform was much like the rest of the Avilon military, black slacks and a burgundy red jacket tucked beneath a tight leather belt, where a sheathed arming sword anticipatorily resided. The insulated jacket, admittedly, did little to blend into the stark-white snowy climates that covered all of the known world. However, the accompanying steel helmet, which was flat, shallow, and wrapped in white leather, giving it the appearance of a less-than-fashionable soup plate, was somewhat effective camouflage behind trench walls. Incidentally, the nickname “Dish Heads” to describe Avilon’s infantry had quickly been coined following their first deployment years prior. “Colonel Price, sir,” the man announced, “General Quin has just arrived. He’s requested your presence in the war room immediately.”

  Price’s eyes skewed toward Elles under furrowed brows. Evidently, he had not expected this surprise visit. The Colonel remained in his slouched position, “Tell the General I’m on my way, Corporal.”

  “Aye, sir,” the man affirmed with another salute before hurrying back from whence he came. Nathaniel took one last inhale from the stick as he stood upright and tossed the butt onto the snow-covered dirt, crushing it under his shining boot.

  “You want me to join you?” Albert asked, extinguishing his cigarette firmly into Gutsy’s treads.

  “That won’t be necessary,” said Price, “Something tells me you’ll know what this is all about soon enough anyhow.” He straightened out his uniform, dusting off any grease or grime that had found its way onto the crimson fabric. “Besides,” he added wryly while starting to walk off, “it seems you’re about to be called into a meeting yourself.”

  Albert was about to question further, but quickly found his answer. The slender, golden-haired woman who had been hugging the Tank Commander in their photo sauntered up to him, holding out a slice of warm baguette topped with honey and a cup of tea. Her perfect smile still seemed to have no intention of leaving anytime soon. Albert graciously accepted her offering with a slight bow of the head and began to sip at the piping hot drink. “What’s your name?” he soon asked.

  “Joséphine,” she replied with a cursory salute, “Sorcière de Deuxième Classe.”

  Her accent sent a chill down Albert’s spine and a flutter in his stomach. How had he gotten so lucky as to engage in friendly conversation with a Paix Bomber Witch? He gazed at her ears and noticed their obvious length and elegant points. An Aeldrin to boot, he thought.

  Famed for their ferocity in airborne warfare that was rivaled only by their beauty, the Bomber Witches of Paix were the envy of every soldier, regardless of which side they fought for. He glanced over her figure, revealing a standard-issue wand of destruction magic strapped to her upper thigh. It was carved from dark-stained chestnut and wrapped at the handle with tightly-wound faded green canvas. A gleaming gold pin bearing a pair of crossed broomsticks decorated her lapel. Finally, around her neck was an all-too-familiar beaded chain, which was no doubt attached to her dog tags, tucked discreetly into her uniform’s thick fur collar.

  “H-how long have you been on the Western Front, Joséphine?” he asked, doing his best to stifle the giddy, boyish excitement in his tone.

  “I arrived just zis last month,” she lilted.

  “Done much flying in that time?”

  “Oui,” she said. A small cloud suddenly seemed to loom over her demeanor. “I lost good camarades in combat aérien last week,” she continued, “Vee managed to fight zem off, but the Sieges sorciéres are growing stronger by ze day…Vee are scheduled to assist in ze push tomorrow morning.”

  “You nervous?” he asked, finally.

  Josephine shrugged. “Each day vee fight here brings ‘ardship. To be afraid is to be alive. To conquer fear is to live. As vee in Paix say, ‘Petit á petit, l’oiseau fait son.’”

  “Meaning?”

  “How you say,” she breathed, “‘Little by little, bird makes nest.’” There was a dryness in her recital and a haunted look in her eyes. It seemed the phrase had lost potency with each friend added to the corpse pile. Elles knew the feeling all too well.

  “If it’s any consolation,” Albert offered, “they’ll mostly be shooting at me and the rest of the dish heads. With you in the skies, they won’t know what hit ‘em.” She nodded, though reassurance evaded her gaze. Albert took the opportunity to quickly change the subject. “Have you ever seen a tank before?” he asked, gesturing to Gutsy.

  “Oui,” she replied, nodding again.

  Albert smirked. “Have you ever seen the inside of a tank before?”

  That radiant, indomitable smile returned in full force. A giggle escaped her lips as she shook her head no. Albert wolfed down the small piece of bread to free up his left hand and held it out to Joséphine, who took it with a look of pure enchantment. He set his teacup on the treads and helped her up on top of the vehicle. After pulling himself up, he cracked open the 50-pound hatch and began giving her the grand tour.

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  Around twenty minutes later, a loud pounding was heard, breaking through a sea of commanding shouts and scrambled footsteps that, until now, had been all but blissfully ignored by Albert. “Commander!” called a voice Albert recognized as that of his second gunner, Private Benjamin Delbrook. “Commander Elles, are you in there?”

  Albert’s head emerged from the tank, his face painted haphazardly in a deep scarlet pigment. Joséphine followed, her lipstick horribly smudged and her uniform half unbuttoned. “Delbrook?” Albert asked, doing his best Commander impression while adjusting his alabaster cap.

  Private Delbrook stood at attention, still holding a wrench that was no doubt the source of the noise that had caught Albert’s attention in the first place. “Sir,” the young, freckled lad said, “they’re saying the push is to begin now.”

  “Now!?” exclaimed Elles, “What happened to tomorrow morning?”

  “Unknown, sir,” replied Delbrook, “Supposedly, new reports were sent to high command, but they haven’t yet told us what to expect. They only told us to move now.”

  Nathaniel had been right. Albert had indeed found out what the General had come on such short notice to discuss. “Get the rest of the men here, immediately.”

  “Aye, sir.” The private quickly saluted before rushing to find the rest of his crewmates.

  Albert turned, slowly and reluctantly, toward Joséphine. “I’ll…see you out there,” he said, each word still savoring their shared moment.

  “Bonne chance,” she said, before giving him a long, final kiss goodbye.

  The Aeldrin woman pulled herself out of the hatch and began sprinting toward the Bomber Witch barracks, wiping away excess lipstick as she ran. Albert did the same with his sleeve, knowing its near-matching color would hardly show evidence of that morning’s brief lovemaking encounter. Had Benjamin not caught him in the act, the rest of the lads would never have believed he had ever been intimate with a Bomber Witch.

  Albert scanned the crowd of men rushing hither and thither, catching the faces of his crewmates all on their way. He watched as the four other tank crews under his command jumped into their respective vehicles. Two of them were of the same heavy class as Gutsy, nicknamed “Phalanx” and “Fat Friar.” The other two were smaller B-class tanks, each with a four-man crew: “Tommy Boy” and “Icepick.” The seven men under Elles’ command managed to push their way through the crowd and open the several other metal doors that accessed the tank’s cabin. They took to their positions not long before Stan brought the massive death machine roaring to life, its exhaust pipes soon billowing clouds of black smoke overhead. Albert flicked on the comms box in front of his seat and placed the cable-attached headset over his ears. He picked up the small microphone, which resembled a sort of stubby, highly ineffective fly-swatter attached to a wooden handle, and spoke into it. “This is Red One. All crews, sound off.”

  Several voices responded through the crackling radio.

  “Blue One checking in.”

  “Red Three checking in.”

  “Blue Two awaiting orders.”

  “Red Two checking in.”

  “Alright, you lads know the plan. Today, we take back the woods. You are to provide covering fire and take out any artillery that might keep our troops on the ground from reaching the Perdue Forest. Expect heavy resistance. Something must have spooked high command for them to execute this operation prematurely.”

  “Any report as to why that is, Commander?” asked Sgt. Vernon Frakes of Tommy Boy.

  “Negative,” Albert replied, “Though I suspect word of our intentions reached the enemy. Which means we are to move now before they’re given enough time to reinforce their position.”

  “Copy,” Frakes replied.

  “Proceed as usual,” Albert continued, “Call your shots, stick with the flank, don’t get cock sure.”

  “Understood,” was the response from everyone.

  “I’ll see you lads on the other side. May house and hearth find you.”

  Mortar shells pummeled the earth near the edge of the trench, sending dirt and shrapnel flying into the faces of any unlucky Avilonian soldier daring to peer over the wall. Explosion after explosion deafened the hundreds of men and women huddled together in crooked columns along the Allied line. Three rows from the front stood a half-Aeldrin boy, eighteen years of age, with unkempt, mahogany brown hair tucked under a white helmet. A Dish Head like the rest.

  His pointed ears pricked up, amidst the cacophony of blistering enemy firepower, to hear the sound of jingling metal. He looked down and noticed his right leg was shaking involuntarily, making the chain around his neck rattle. Attached to the chain were his dog tags, emblazoned with the words: “Swiftmeadow, Walter, Pvt. 17th Inf.” Walter forced control over his shivering appendage and looked to his left and right. Beside him stood his brothers and sisters in arms, all wearing matching uniforms and carrying their bolt-action rifles over their left shoulders as he was. He heard staggered breathing among them; poor souls rightfully petrified of what they were about to face.

  Walter wondered what his parents were doing at that moment, back home in Camden. Were they listening to the news on the radio whilst eating breakfast? Were they sitting in the living room, anxiously waiting for him to step through the front door? Were they even thinking of him at all? He struggled to hold back tears as he gazed up at the ledge of the trench wall. He was going to die.

  “Fix bayonets!” cried an officer through the bombardment. Walter obeyed the order and began affixing the foot-long spear to the end of his rifle instinctively. Flashes of light hit his eyes as his comrades’ weapons gleamed in the mid-morning sun. His stomach churned in anticipation, knowing that in a matter of moments, he would be running for dear life, charging a faceless enemy. Just before he felt as though he were going to wretch, he heard a deep rumble that was growing louder and louder by the second. “Stay low! Tanks incoming!” barked the officer, a brass whistle in one hand and a pistol in the other. Moments later, the roaring engines of the steel fortresses reached a crescendo as treads rolled overhead from behind the front lines. Hulking, seemingly indestructible behemoths of steel and artillery. The armored units were going to take point in the charge.

  A cheer erupted from the soldiers as the tanks passed by. Something then began to stir inside Walter. A surge of adrenaline, a rush of primal bravery. With allied machines of death like those, it was only to be a matter of minutes before he and his fellow troops would be celebrating their victory in a forest claimed by their superior military. He would return home someday. He would see his family again. He would survive this day.

  The officer blew his trill whistle and Walter joined in Avilon’s symphonic battle cry. He shuffled forth, following the lead of the men before him, and ascended the wooden ladder. He reached the top, held up his rifle, and sprinted forth into his glorious destiny.

  Albert Elles: First Commander of the 22nd Avilonian Tank Corps, peered through a periscope that jostled and bumped as Gutsy traversed the mortar-peppered No Man’s Land. Allied infantry had begun to outpace them, now sprinting past the slow-moving battle beast. Albert watched as a skinny, brunette-haired lad valiantly darted past them with his rifle raised. Mere moments later, a 7x57 round ripped straight through his skull, dropping him face down in the freezing mud. Albert barely flinched as he glanced past the boy’s corpse, his attention unwavering in the face of duty.

  “Returning fire!” Albert ordered, “Give the Sigs a housewarming gift!” The Sieges’ shots were met with a torrent of .303 tracer rounds from the five tank squadron, which liquified the front line. Helmets, blood, and bone sprayed from over the trench wall with each volley from the tanks’ machine guns. “Keep them suppressed,” called Albert to his gunners, “We need as many Dish Heads as we can fit into that ditch to make it across!”

  “Aye, sir!” Delbrook and Burch replied, unleashing Hel upon the enemy.

  Albert continued to scan the battlefield through his periscope, looking for any sign of anti-tank weaponry. Word had it that Siegesland recently developed such equipment, being that tanks on the battlefield had only become a reality in the last eight months. Something finally caught the Commander’s eye, a small group of Seiges soldiers huddled around a suspiciously large bush some few meters into the Perdue tree line. “Blue One, I think I’ve got a visual on anti-tank,” relayed Albert, “About 200 meters due Northeast. Confirm.”

  Tommy Boy’s rotating long barrel nest, a feature only available to the smaller Mk. III Winchell models, panned and pointed toward the general direction of the bush. “Negative visual, Commander,” was the static-afflicted response, “Specify.”

  Albert smashed his face into the viewport, attempting to get a more accurate reading through the scope. Enemy fire pinged off the sides of the vehicle, making Albert wince reflexively. Dammit, he thought, staring at the bush, those bastards could pull the cord any second now. Time was of the essence; Albert frantically began estimating the exact longitude and latitude of the camouflaged anti-tank. But before he could call out his reading, he heard a faint whistling noise coming from overhead. It was like a tea kettle on the boil that grew more and more shrill.

  “Hexen! Hexen! Geh runter!” Sigs shouted from below. In an instant, a bombardment of white-hot balls of energy rained down upon the enemy, creating a trail of explosive destruction across the defensive line. Splinters, bodies, and heavy machinery flew into the sky as the Paix Bomber Witches completed their run. Albert cracked open the hatch and looked at the entrenched anti-tank cannon, now little more than a twisted hunk of metal covered in scorched branches and nettles. He turned and gazed up at the sky, watching as a Flying V of women riding black broomsticks zipped across their wake of chaos. At the head was Joséphine, her blonde locks fluttering under her pointed aviator hat. Her goggle-covered eyes met Albert’s as she and her squadron banked right and passed overhead once more. Albert saluted them.

  By now, the infantry had reached the Sieges' front line, bayonets pointed and swords raised as they leapt into the bowels of enemy territory. The Sigs began to retreat into the woods, no doubt to join their rear flank for the coming onslaught. The push to Perdue had been a success; now it was up to the Dish Heads to continue the assault and reclaim the forest.

  “Good work, lads,” Albert said into his mic, “Standby and prepare to move and clear.”

  “Aye, sir,” Sergeant Herbert Cornwall of Fat Friar confirmed.

  The men cracked open their hatches and surveyed their work. There was hardly anything left of the Seiges’ trench line. Sporadic gunfire and clashing steel echoed from below as the infantry continued their slaughter. Albert wondered what it was High Command had heard or seen to make them move out so quickly. Resistance had been standard, and the heavy artillery had been no match for the witches’ bombing run. By all accounts, the operation had been easy…too easy. Albert suddenly noticed a red light flashing violently on his radio, indicating someone was trying to contact him on another channel. He flipped a switch and heard garbled, wind-whipped shouting on the other end.

  “Hello?” he asked.

  “Commander,” a woman’s voice screamed on the other end.

  ”Joséphine?”

  “Commander! Chars ennemis! Les chars ennemis sur votre guache!”

  “Avilonian, please, Joséphine,” said Albert, “My Paix is a bit rusty.”

  Nearby, Albert could hear Cornwall cavorting with the other men while standing in Fat Friar’s open hatch. “We caught them off guard, lads,” he taunted.

  “Your left,” Joséphine’s cries echoed in Albert’s headset, “Tanks on your left!”

  Albert’s eyes went wide and wild. He whirled around to see Cornwall still gloating.

  “They barely even knew what-” was all he managed to spout before a six-pounder shell rent the top half of his body clean off, reducing his head and portly torso into little more than a fine red mist. The source of the shot was one of six massive black tanks emblazoned with Vironist insignia speeding toward them. Siegesland now had tanks.

  “SHIT!” Albert swore, “SHIT!”

  He slammed the hatch closed and barked orders to his men. “Bilge, left stick! We’ve got company!” Elles flipped the comms back to his squad’s channel as Stan yanked the left control lever, pivoting Gutsy. “All tanks,” came the order, “Left stick due north! Enemy tanks inbound!”

  Albert was barely able to give the command over the radio before another wave of heavy rounds pierced through their rank. A second shot hit the broad side of the Fat Friar, and the machine burst into flames. No screams came from the men inside. None had survived. Another shot had broken through the front of Icepick as it pivoted to face their assailants.

  “My gunner’s down!” yelled its Commander.

  “Return fire! Friedkin, what’s our trajectory?” Albert called.

  “200 meters and approaching fast, sir,” Friedkin replied.

  “Levings, take the shot!”

  “On the way!” Levings screamed before firing off a 125mm. The shot quickly ricocheted off the target and sailed away into nothingness.

  “Hit them again!” said Albert, trying to force his tone back from panic.

  “Reloading,” Kendall responded, heaving another round into the loading bay.

  Tommy Boy was hit seconds later, and the cabin ignited. Two of the men inside managed to pry themselves free of the furnace and ran out onto the field, engulfed in flames and screaming in agony. Albert could do naught but watch as they were quickly machine gunned down into a silent, smoldering pulp. Albert pulled his eye away from the viewport, breathing rapidly. They were down to only three tanks. They were outmatched and undoubtedly outgunned.

  “WE’RE GETTING SLAUGHTERED OUT HERE!” yelled Friedkin, “Where’s our air support?!”

  Albert flipped the comms back to the other channel, “Joséphine, where are you?! We need another strafing run!”

  “Just a few more seconds,” she responded, desperately, “Vee are coming around!”

  He doubted that a few seconds would do them much good, but it was the best chance they had. “Levings, keep your finger on the trigger. Bilge, left stick on my mark! We need to get theHelout of here!” he demanded.

  Albert breathed deeply and dared to look through the periscope again. He saw six barrels of six tanks. Each one aimed squarely at them. As the familiar squeal of the Witches’ approach grew closer, Elles watched as the top hatch of the rightmost assailant popped open, revealing a Sig armed with a repeating rifle. He turned clockwise to face north and aimed at the Flying V careening through the ash-choked sky. “Schei? auf euch, Hexen!” he cursed.

  “Delbrook, quick! Kill that bastard!” Albert ordered.

  But it was too late. By the time Delbrook had lined up his shot, the enemy had already fired. The first bullet flew through the sky, piercing flame, smoke, heavens, and finally flesh. The woman yelped, and her body went limp. Joséphine and her broomstick plummeted into a death dive toward the earth. Her body finally slammed into the dirt with a sickening crunch, twisting into a crumpled, bloody heap. She had died before she even hit the ground.

  Time seemed to slow to a crawl once more as utter madness ensued in the following milliseconds. Flashes of light burst from the barrels of the enemy tanks, hurling large chunks of hot lead in the squad’s direction. “Fire!” Albert felt himself cry, though he heard nothing. Gutsy jolted as Friedkin let loose another round to meet the Sieges’ barrage. The witches’ bombardment hit their marks, turning the enemy artillery into enormous balls of fire. The Commander felt his pupils dilate as two six-pounder rounds headed straight for them. Albert closed his eyes and awaited oblivion.

  Medical Case Sheet

  Date: 6 September, 1113 AWD

  Medic Presiding: Contract Surgeon T-0M, AAMC

  Patient Name: Elles, Albert

  Age: 29

  Regiment, Rank: 22nd Tank Corps., 1st Cmdr.

  Report:

  Patient sustained serious injury in line of duty, including: severed left leg beginning at the patella, severed left arm beginning at the upper half of the humerus, shattered right shoulder, twelve broken ribs, fractured collarbone, shattered right tibia and fibula, pilon fracture, cracked frontal bone, and shattered sternum. Multiple lacerations ranging from 2mm to 27.6mm deep. Roughly two pounds of shrapnel (metallic, ballistic, organic, etc.) were discovered. Several second and third-degree burns, likely caused by a gas fire found in various locations throughout the body, including the facial region. Blunt force trauma evident, concussion definite.

  Treatment:

  A substantial tranquilizer dosage was administered to prevent the already unconscious patient from waking during operations. After several hours of shrapnel extraction, the exposed wounds were disinfected and stitched shut. Broken bones were reset where applicable, and casts (and for the broken collarbone, a neck brace) were created to hold them in place. Burns were treated with antibiotics and aloe-based ointments. The more minor internal breakages, including the dozen ribs and sternum, were healed by a presiding cleric. Surgeries were performed to fix the patient’s pilon fracture and to salvage internal organs affected by shrapnel damage. Experimental prosthetic limbs have been ordered from Ganes University and are to be shipped to Camden General Hospital, where the patient is to be transferred as well.

  Diagnosis and/or Remarks:

  Commander Elles has an exceptionally long road to recovery and is recommended to stay under medical supervision until he is well enough to function on his own in relative comfort. He is hereby medically discharged from service.

  Signature:

  T-0M