AN: Funnily enough, this match occurred almost immediately after posting Run A Little Faster. Also, most of the dialogue here is actually from in game, albeit somewhat changed to better fit the passage. The scene is from a game that spawned me in the north base of Mountain Pass, for reference. As you might notice, this is quite a bit different than RALF… I'm experimenting, sue me. Once again, I make no claims to the intellectual property of Wargaming.
The Crusader hummed in thought as he sat behind the large rock that overlooked the valley. He sighed in disappointment as yet another Russian heavy rolled by at top speed, puttering past his hiding place and down the hill onto the valley floor. The KV-2 screamed out something about dying for the glory of the motherland before it was immediately picked apart by the three or so enemy tanks hidden on the other side of the ravine. This was what, the third one today? Or was it the fourth? The British light wondered if he could count the KV-1S that had fallen off the nearby bridge in the tally. Probably.
He truly regretted partnering up with these idiots, and half wished that he had decided to remain safe and sound in the depot. Instead, the light tank had to deal with a large scale fight that involved tanks a Crusader had no right to face. Like the bloody Panther II he had seen nosing around the corner of a hillside a few minutes ago. One shot from that thing and the Crusader knew he could kiss his pudding and tea goodbye.
So, all in all, he was pretty content to just park there, rolling back and forth out of cover occasionally to keep an eye on things. Things were winding down anyways, most of the tanks on both sides had been spent. Either going home, or lying dead somewhere along the ice road and upper pass. If he wasn't mistaken, he was one of the only tanks left on his "team."
"Hey, Crusader! Yeah, you over in E-3!" Someone called over the radio. "You think ya could spot those guys for me? I can drop some heavy ordinance on their asses if you do." The voice said excitedly. So much for winding down. The Crusader paused at that, thinking for a second before he recognized the voice. Must be the yank artillery he had seen earlier in the fight, an M44 or something.
"I guess, yeah." He replied. He didn't have much to lose at this point. The battle was almost assuredly lost by now. He figured he could cut his losses and run, but that never paid in credits. Inching around his rock, the Crusader strained his optics as he scanned the opposite rise, hunting for the telltale signs of a tank's presence. Sunlight glinted off metal behind a large bush, drawing his attention.
"Okay, arty, here you go. Grid marker-Blimey!" The ground erupted less than a meter in front of his left tread, causing the scout tank to bolt back into cover just in time as another four rounds trailed the first, sailing off into the air behind him.
"G-grid marker G-5! Lower right quadrant!" He cried into the radio, engine thrumming in anxiety at the close call.
"Firing!" The female artillery called out. A muffled whump echoed over the grassy plains, indicating an inbound shell. Shortly thereafter an explosion obliterated the bush and the vehicle behind it. The Crusader shifted uneasily in place as he saw the Panther II's turret summersault into the air from over the top of the rock he hid behind.
"Did I get 'em?" The American SPG drawled over the comms.
"Y-yeah. You did. Give me a second here. I'll try and spot another." He said, still a bit in awe of the destruction he had just witnessed.
"Alright Limey, take yer time, I gotta reload anyways. Just don't take all day ya hear?" The M44 responded, sounding pleased with herself. The Crusader didn't even bother to reply to that, instead choosing to spin around behind the rock and peek out the other side, crawling ever so slowly around the curve of the rock. Apparently the camo net he wore actually worked this time, as no round blasted towards his fragile chassis. He tried to judge were the last few shots came from, but was having a hell of a time of it. Nothing seemed to stand out along the green hillside. He growled to himself, and finally determined to do something incredibly stupid.
"Oi! Arseholes! I'm over here ya daft bints! Quit faffing about already!" He shouted at the top of his speakers, wiggling forward and backward from the rocks, attempting to draw the enemy's attention. It worked a bit better (or worse) than he had expected. He caught the movement of three gun barrels smoothly rising up to meet his position.
"Awe shite." He muttered and jinked back behind the rock as the air where he used to be became quiet crowded with bullets and such.
"Middle of G-5!" He shouted over the spray of dirt and chunks of rock that flew up around him.
"Gotcha!" The M44 cheerily responded and fired again. It landed a few seconds later with a high-pitched whistle and a loud whump, and this time the Crusader actually heard the scream of pain that accompanied the impact.
"Whoops! I think I missed that one a bit." The M44 said, sounding somewhat put out. However, whatever she had hit had caused the amount of incoming fire on the Crusader's position to drop measurably, so it must have been important.
"Next one is at the upper left of G-6." He called to the arty. A round struck particularly close to his rear tread and caused him to flinch.
"Righto my friend. Thirty seconds till the next shot." She announced. The Crusader just prayed the cover he hid behind would hold up under the onslaught until then. As the seconds ticked by, the incoming fire on him began to wane, before finally stopping altogether. The Crusader, deciding to tempt fate once again, nosed just barely out of cover. Crap. The tank at G-6, a T20, was on the move.
"Yank!" He shouted as he rolled up a bit to keep the medium in sight. "The one at G-6 is moving! It just entered the top of H-6!"
"Understood. Adjusting." There was a pause. "Fire!" Another shot raced forth, catching the T20 completely in the open. The Crusader watched in morbid fascination as the 155mm round dropped right on the commander's hatch, shattering the American tank in one hit. His hyper-focus and inattentiveness cost him. The third tank, a Wolverine, pulled out of cover and snuck a round in on him as he sat there. The HE bullet struck him right on the nose of the turret, blowing his 6-pounder gun completely off and cracking nearly all of his view ports, rending them almost useless.
"Son of a bitch!" He cried and pulled himself back behind the rock, catching a glimpse of the Tank Destroyer driving down the hill and passing the burned out corpses of the Russian tanks.
The Crusader cursed violently to himself as he began to reverse as fast as he could away from his cover. Without a gun that Wolverine would eat him alive, and both vehicles knew it. Sure enough, half blind though he was, he could see the American pop its turret over the ridgeline seconds later, charging at full speed towards him.
"Ah, ah, ah!" He cried as a round from the TD ricocheted off the angled armor of the top of his turret. The M10 growled in fury as it advanced, firing another shot that missed by bare meters. Luckily for the Crusader, the uneven terrain seemed to be playing hell with the Wolverine's ability to aim as it moved. However, unluckily for him, the TD could compensate with skill.
A third APCR round punched through the British light tank's nose, causing him to yelp in pain as it buried itself in his steering mechanism and locked him on a course straight backwards, right up the side of a mountain. He stalled there, treads grinding uselessly on the huge slope, spraying rocks and dirt in a big rooster tail in front of him. The Wolverine smashed into him nose first, causing him to cry out in agony as the impact aggravated the wounds he already had. The M10 leveled his gun right above the Crusader's turret, pointing right at the heart of the tan colored tank, his engine.
This was it, the Crusader realized as he stared into the snarling view ports of the Tank Destroyer's turret. He was never going to make it to the Cromwell. Never even going to see his next engine upgrade. Hell, he was never going to see his friends again.
"You're dead, you fu-" Whatever slur the M10 was going to make was cut completely off as a miracle struck. The armored vehicle was lifted up off the ground arse first by the force of the blast that tore through it, before it came crashing back down in front of him, now a smoking, lifeless hulk.
The Crusader stared blankly at the corpse for a few seconds, as if trying to comprehend the fact that he was still alive. Then, slowly, he spun his turret to face backwards. There, hanging off the side of the mountain directly above him with its treads locked and stabilizers down, was the M44, with grinning visage, smoking barrel and all. She winked her headlights at him cheekily.
"I love the smell of victory in the morning."