“Mark! We have our mark! Let us go, chaps!” yelled the British commander, both over the radio and out to his troops.
Captain Richard “The Animal” Arrington dove into the body of the tank.
“That’s our mark. Let’s start to head out. Just follow the rest of the force, Daltrey. Jonesy, keep a lookout for coalies, all right?”
They both gave an abbreviated, “Sir,” in acknowlegement and then the Montgomery III tank began to move out. The rumbling of what Arrington assumed to be just about every tank from every Allied country that could be spared from the front lines.
The Animal popped his head back out of the cupola. The infantrymen and the slower Russian tanks were all behind them.
“Let us make sure we keep those groundpounders covered, Jonesy. We are a shield for the infantry, but we are a shield that can shoot back, and do not forget it. We do not want our dear Russian allies to start getting holes in their nice neat uniforms, now do we?”
Jones laughed and said, “I’m on it, captain. But, God, Daltrey, do you think you could step up the speed a little? The bloody Monty I’s are plowing ahead of us.”
“Shut up, Jones,” said Moon with a typical tank driver’s bitter air.
Arrington bounded down to the drivers seat. He whispered to Daltrey so that Jones couldn't hear.
"Is anything the matter, old boy?"
"It is this bloody outdated piece of crap, if you will excuse me, sir. I never said anything before out of politeness, but I got called away from a Alexander IV that makes this thing seem like a bus!"
The Animal snorted.
"If this is a bus, it is a magic bus, Daltrey. I have seen this tank pull miracles you have never dreamed. She is a steady one, just believe me."
"I will take your word for it, captain. But I still don't think this bucket of bolts is worth spitting on."
He increased the speed anyway. The treads were kicking up hundreds of tons of Russian mud and snow as they blitzed forward towards their destination: Ulan Bator.
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