AN- Well, here I am, starting another fanfic, even though I'm working on a bunch of original stories that I hope to get published someday. Still, I really enjoyed Girls und Panzer, and the relative lack of well written stories prompted me to start this bad boy up. Will I regret it? Maybe. Will it be fun? Most likely. Will I continue? Possibly. Depends on how people react. If a lot of people like the story and I get a good number of reviews asking for me to continue, I will probably go on, but if no one seems interested, I can add this to my pile of 'maybe I'll work on it if I'm really bored and have nothing better to do.' I'd rather continue writing it, but again, if no one seems to like it, well...c'est la vie.

Anyway, I don't own Girls und Panzer, nor do I own any of the tanks mentioned within. However, all OCs, and there are a lot of them, are my intellectual property. Ask before use, please.

Read, enjoy, and please review!

CHAPTER ONE

It was unseasonably warm for Ontario, George Danford thought as he carefully scanned the woodline opposite his tank's position through his pair of binos. I'm surprised the bloody yanks haven't come barreling out of there yet, he mused as he lowered the binoculars, which his grandfather had carried during the First Gulf War. He rather considered them good luck. It was also nice and silent, the buzz of insects and the occasional bird call the only thing that was heard in the broad field before him, though he expected that that wouldn't last very long. A bead of sweat rolled down the back of his neck, and he swiped it away. Bloody humidity was going to play a part on this one, no doubt. Make sighting targets that much more annoying. Again, he raised the binos and scanned the woods, to see if anything had changed, but still nothing. Range is about…one thousand metres, he roughly calculated as he absentmindedly stroked his chin. Not bad. A bit dodgy with the regulation rounds, but we should still manage it.

Satisfied, he dropped into the confines of his Comet tank, where his crew was waiting in various stages of discomfort, uniform blouses slightly unbuttoned and sleeves rolled up. Wouldn't be so bad if the small fans that they had mounted inside the cramped quarters of the tank were running, but with the engine off to keep noise discipline, everything not necessary was off to preserve the battery. He glanced at his watch. He'd have to order the team to go engines on soon if he wanted to make sure that the batteries didn't die, regardless of the steps they had taken. Where were those damned yanks?!

"Any sight yet?" his gunner, Adriana Beierle, asked from where she sat, slouched back and eyes closed, face shiny and clothes spotting damp patches at her armpits and along the bottom of her trousers. Then again, all of their clothes were. Why did today have to be so bloody warm? Yes, it was early June, but these were record temperatures, if the radio report this morning wasn't lying.

"No sight yet," he replied, and the entire crew groaned. "Aye, aye, look, I know it's hot outside, but let's stop complaining, eh?"

"It's not outside that I care about," Jack Smith, the driver, griped with a smile on his sweaty face. "It's this bloody oven that I'm concerned with!" The rest of the crew gave a quick chuckle, not because the comment had been particularly amusing, but because there wasn't much else to do.

"Yeah, I know, but just keep in mind that we're in a good spot," George reminded them. And that they were. The Canadian team had two Comets and two Cromwells hiding along the shallow ridge that faced the woods that were between them and the American start point. The Cromwells would have difficulty getting any 'kills' with their QF 75mm guns, but their relatively quick fire would be good for suppressive fire and throwing up dirt and smoke down range. Out on the flanks were the two Crusaders, and their QF 6 pounder guns would slow down anything coming at them. Standing in reserves were two Churchill I tanks and two AT 2s, and he was glad that Britain had managed to send over the experimental tank destroyers in enough time for his crews to get used to operating them. There was some benefit to being a part of the Commonwealth nations, he reminded himself as he stood back up, his binoculars coming to his eyes again. During the High School World Championship, all the Commonwealth nations would contribute vehicles and crews to the fight, and so it was understood in the various leagues that vehicles could be traded amongst the different nations for regional and national championships, such as the North American Championship. Which was what they were doing here, at the Land Force Central Area Training Centre Meaford, on loan from the Canadian military for this year's competition. A competition he didn't aim to lose.

"Drink some water," he absently ordered down into the tank as he pulled out his map again, ignoring the groans from his crew.

"If I keep this up, I'm going to have to piss!" Henri Beauchamp the loader groused, Montreal accent thick in his annoyance.

"You've got empty water bottles," Sam Roberts answered. Historically the stocky Second Year student would be operating the hull machine gun, but given the relative uselessness of machine guns in tank warfare, he had taken the role of radio operator away from Henri.

Ignoring the bickering, George looked over the map. His position wasn't actually in the center of the match area, as no one went straight down the middle off the arena. At least, they hadn't in his experience. Too easy to be flanked, or even suppressed from the middle and then fired upon from defensive positions. And given his knowledge of the opposing team's operational style (Tiffany Gardner had a particular love of Patton, from what he remembered) and what the map told him, he had placed his tanks where he expected them to come. The yanks had started in the north, and he in the south. The west side of the match area had some decent cover, but afforded more opportunities for a defending team. The east was much more open, with only a few low ridges running southwest to northeast, with the woods providing good cover for someone staging an assault. Yes, little cover on the long dash, but that was good, firm ground out there, perfect for driving fast and maneuvering.

Still…doubt, the worst enemy of any commander. He bit his lip nervously. Had he called it wrong? Was his one Crusader light tank on the left about to get hit with the four M4A3E8 Shermans of the American team? Or were their two M18 Hellcats even now sitting inside those woods, waiting for him to make a move? He grimaced at the thought of the Hellcats. Normally they wouldn't be allowed, as they had open air turrets, but last year the World Tankery Federation had ruled that if their turrets were modified to be closed, they could be used. Is that what the yanks were doing? Hiding their Hellcats in those woods, maybe with those damned Pershings providing support? If so, where were their two M24s? Those light tanks were annoyingly fast, though their M6 75mm guns could only 'penetrate' seventy-six millimeters of armor at 457 meters, and that was without any sloping. His scouts might be in trouble if the Chaffees got close.

Heaving an annoyed sigh, he cupped his hands behind his ears, trying to amplify his hearing. Anything at all to detect his opponents. Nothing. Bloody hell! Just as he was about to lower his hands, a breeze came from the north, providing some relief to his sweaty skin. But more importantly, it brought with it the distant sound of tanks engines and the faint squeal of tracks. Almost as if to confirm his hopes, birds started to take off from the woods, starting from the north and moving progressively south. He grinned. Perfect.

He ducked down into the tank. "Jack, get ready to start that engine. Adriana, I think they're coming." And like that, the bored and listless atmosphere was gone. Adriana sat up, hazel eyes sharply focused and face grim as she pulled a bandanna out of one of her pockets, wiping her dusky brow before tying it around her head. Getting salty sweat in the eye while staring through the gun's sights could be the difference between a hit and a miss. Sam looked over his radio one more time, giving George a thumbs up, while Henri grabbed a round from the magazine, ready for the first reload.

George pulled the heavy headset over his ears, satisfied to see his crew doing the same thing. They protected hearing as much as they helped with communication, George reminded himself as he moved the boom mic in front of his mouth. Open channel to his crew members, with a push to talk that would patch him through the radio so that he could talk to the other tanks. It was time. Keying his mic, he waited the half second that guaranteed that his message wouldn't be cut off in the beginning before talking.

"All tracks, all tracks, this is Goose One Actual. Enemy suspected of moving through woods at Action Line One. Goose and Swan tracks, fire after my track fires the first shot. Geese will fire two aimed shots," he ordered, referring to the Comets, "and Swans, fire three rounds suppressive, break." He released the mic, pausing for a moment, knowing that the Cromwells now knew the exact number of rounds they were to fire. "After Goose and Swan tracks fire, we will fall back to Action Line Two, break." Again he paused. "Snake tracks, hold the flanks, move only if you come in danger of being cut off from, but be prepared to strike the flanks or rear of the enemy formation, and keep an eye out for enemy scouts. Break…Elephant and Prime tracks, hold position at Action Line Two, and wait for arrival of Goose and Swan tracks. How copy?"

Once he got the affirmative from the other nine tanks under his command, he took a deep breath. As per the unit SOP, after the first shots were fired, the tanks in contact would start their engines, so he didn't have to relay that over the air. Was there anything that he missed? He didn't think so, but there was ALWAYS something that you missed. That's why hindsight was twenty-twen-

Buh-HRAM! The sound of a nearby impact was unexpected, and his heart surged into his throat. They were being fired upon?! Two more nearby explosions set the metal around him reverberating, and he braved a quick look around, only his head exposed to the outside air, dust and smoke swirling around him. Three more explosions followed the first three, and he noticed something. Those hadn't been aimed shots! Keying his mic, he had to fight not to shout with excitement. "Hold fire, hold fire, they're trying to provoke a response, see if we're up here!"

Clever of them, he grudgingly admitted. The ridge had more than a dozen large bushes and small thickets along its lip, likely a simulation of the division between farmers' fields, and he had been careful to not place his tanks behind the largest ones. And now the Americans were trying to see if they could goad his tankers into firing prematurely, before they had solid targets. Another three rounds landed along the ridge, nowhere close to the positions of his hidden tanks, and thank God for that! The bushes wouldn't stop a round, and a blindly fired hit was still a hit. The echo of the barrage faded away, and once again, silence ruled. Any moment now. He ducked inside the tank, closing the hatch above him before going to his commander's periscope.

Ah! There! One of the Chaffees, edging out of the forest's edge. It suddenly darted forward about fifty meters, and stopped. "Oh, you cheeky bastard," Adriana's voice sounded in his ear, and he fought the urge to grin. That was pretty daring of them. Send one scout forward, and see if it drew fire. If it did, enemy found. If not…well, the enemy was still here, George thought savagely, his palms starting to sweat as his throat grew dry. But we aren't going to fall for that one.

Evidently satisfied by the lack of a response, the American team surged out of the woods. No little flags waving over any of those steel behemoths, this match was a TKO. Take out all enemies, that was how to win. Let's see…one, two, three…seven. Where are the last three? He looked over the tanks again. Right, the Hellcats and one of the Chaffees are missing. No matter. He keyed the mic. "Goose One will take the Easy Eight Sherman on the far left, Goose Two, take the one on the far right. Swan One, see if you can't get the Chaffee, and Swan Two, try to hit the second Sherman from the left." Releasing the mic, he gave a good ten count for the other tanks' gunners to acquire their target even as his Comet's turret began to traverse left to right. "Fire when ready, Adriana." The Americans were trying to serpentine, but with seven vehicles moving along the same ground, they had to use a pattern or else risk running into each other, and patterns could be predi-

Ba-WANG! The report of his Comet's gun was load, even through the protection of the headset, and its shockwave thumped his chest as the breech surged back, spitting out the spent brass shell casing. The stink of sulfur filled the crew compartment even as the engine roared to life and Henri slammed the next round into the waiting breech. Without waiting to see if the shot had been a kill, Adriana swept the gun around on the next target, the Sherman that had been second to the right. Once more the gun roared out its anger, and almost before the second shell casing had hit the floor, the tank was zooming backwards, and just in time. George watched as the bush he had been hiding behind got struck by multiple rounds.

"Adriana?" he asked, even as he automatically braced himself as Jack swung the tank around and sped towards the next low ridge.

"I think I tracked that first one, he jinked at the last second. The other one was a definite kill."

"Good!" He keyed up the mic. "Report?"

"Swan Two is down."

"Goose Two right beside you, Goose One."

"Swan One is in the clear."

Damn, so he lost one of his Cromwells. No matter. "Elephant and Prime, cleared to fire the moment they present themselves." A good start. A good start indeed.

xxxXXXxxx

"Well, shit." Tiffany Gardner frowned as she surveyed the devastation around her. Two of her Shermans out of the count, and the other tracked. Her own tank had bounced the round that had struck it high in the broad frontal plate. The one Chaffee that she had brought with her to this point was down, as well. That little assault could have gone better. "Hey, Tim, y'all gonna be able to fix that?" she called across to the tracked Sherman, and the tall, broad shouldered boy from Kansas gave a thumbs up, though he sure didn't look happy. She wouldn't be either, tracks were heavy! Man, to have lost this many in the first moments of actual fighting. Well, it wasn't over, not yet.

She was used to diversity, anyhow. Being one of the few black kids who went to a rural school in Central New York State had brought her face to face with some pretty nasty situations, and anyone who said that racism didn't exist in the North needed to get their understanding of reality checked. 'Course, it was better than living in South Carolina, where she had spent the first seven years of her life. And now here she was, Captain of the United States Team of Tankery, with a scholarship all lined up for the Citadel, where she expected to learn how to be a Platoon Leader in the United States Army. She certainly hoped to get a slot into Cavalry, so how would a bona fide officer deal with this situation? Spotting the two Pershings pushing up towards the ridge, she keyed her mic. "Hold position, I bet they got most of their team on the next ridge, and they'll blast us to hell the moment we show up."

"So, what are we going to do?" It was her gunner, Jessica Mastrocola. While no rule in the North American leagues stated that only females were allowed into tankery, like the Japanese had, Tiffany preferred having an all-female crew. These girls were her sisters, and God help any Cannuck bastard who tried to mess with them.

She looked around her again. Three tanks down and one out of play for right now. Okay, she had pulled wins during worse situations. Patton advised to attack, attack, attack. The old man had never said anything about where to attack, though. She grinned, teeth flashing in the sunlight. "Well, I say we follow this ridge to the southeast, then head hard east. I bet one of their scouts is hiding out there. We pounce him, take him out, and now the Canadians are blind over a lot of territory." She glanced back at the woods where she had kept her two Hellcats and the last Chaffee. She keyed her throat mic. "Hellcats, take the Chaffee west and find their other scout. I bet they got them hiding out there so that they have a flanking force."

After all, that's what she would do. She looked down at the map unfolded on the top of her Sherman. I bet he expected me to come in, all hell-bound for glory, guns-a-blazing. Well, time to change his expectations a bit. If she could get forces to flank those ridges, she had this in the bag. "Tanks, move out!"

xxxXXXxxx

George had expected to come under fire while driving the seven hundred meter stretch between the ridges, so when no such attack came, he was understandably puzzled. All videos that he had been able to find of Miss Gardner's command style showed that she sought the initiative ruthlessly. She pressed advantage whenever she had the chance, so why hadn't she? The Americans had managed to kill a quarter of the tanks that had fired upon them, and they still had their Pershings, and one or two of the Shermans. The 90mm on the Pershing would be a nightmare to face, and the 76mm guns on the Shermans weren't a joke, either. Had she sniffed out his trap? She was playing rather cautiously today. Why? It made him uneasy. Maybe it was because of the numbers. In the United States circuit, he knew that their championship matches could reach up to twenty tanks on a side, just as in Canada the number could reach fifteen against fifteen. But the National Championships were set to ten tanks on a side, so that poorer nations could still have a chance to participate without worrying about being, oh, what was the term, zerg rushed? Having half the starting tanks could make one cautious, he supposed.

So now what was she doing? His scouts were pretty well on the flanks, and hadn't been near the fighting. Maybe it was time to recall them, have them closer to the rest of the team. Nodding to himself, he keyed his mic…

xxxXXXxxx

While Tiffany was a hard charger, there were times when knowing one's role was important, Danny Vasquez knew. He was the commander of the two Hellcats, and with their thin armor, he knew that charging into battle was damn near suicidal. On good ground, he could get his track to go up to 60 mph, but that speed wasn't used to get into battle, but out of it. He was a sniper, with the powerful 76mm Anti-Tank gun as his weapon. During the planning of today's match, he and Tiffany had agreed that he should hang back at first, that once contact had been made he would try to flank, with one of the Chaffees scouting ahead to make sure that he didn't bump into anything too nasty along the way, and then he would start hitting the sides of the enemy with his 76mm. Yeah, the 76mm HE round wasn't too hot, he knew, but they were using the competition equivalent of the High Velocity Armor Piercing rounds, which, while not available in great quantities during WWII, were available in the here and now. And now he was hunting.

He grinned wolfishly as he brushed back black hair and dropped the white cowboy hat on his head. He worked as a ranch hand back home during the summer, and knew that he was the resident 'cowboy,' even though the stereotypical cowboy persona was the opposite of his own cautious demeanor. Still, the cowboy hat gave him personality, and anything that caught the attention of la hermosa chica, Tiffany, well, that was fine by him. "Oi, compadres, I bet that little scout is hiding up in the glade," he called down into his Hellcat. The two Hellcats and the Chaffee were well away from the edge of the woods, but still close enough to see relatively well. And the shade was nice. Wasn't as hot as Texas here, but it was still uncomfortable, especially in these uniforms. "Let's just chill here for a minute, see if he does anything, before we send our hound dog after him."

Really, that was just an excuse to give him a moment to think about what to do, how to go about this. The glade that was 900 meters from his position had a good view of any approach that could be made, so trying to get close would be tough. If he could see the target, he knew that Sarah Foote, his gunner, could drop it in a heartbeat. She was a natural on the gun, even at long ranges and using the slower regulation ammo. But if the enemy scout was up there, he was well hidden. Maybe send the Chaffee out, real fast, zig-zag like crazy, and Madre de Dios, there the enemy scout was!

The glade was on the north face of the ridge that the Canadians had been hiding on, so for the scout to fall back without leaving the boundaries of the course, he had to silhouette himself. This is almost too perfect! Danny crowed to himself as the two Hellcats and the Chaffee all began to track the unsuspecting…what was that, a Crusader? Yeah, it was a Crusader. "Fire when ready," he ordered, and all three vehicles fired within two seconds of each other. The opposing scout never had a chance.

xxxXXXxxx

On the opposite side of the playing field, Jacques Tremblay frowned with worry. He was in a good position, watching the broad ravine that ran north, and he could make out the southwestern tip of the ridge that Action Line One was on top of. To fall back wouldn't be too hard, he just had to drive south and then hook east. But he was in such a good spot! Yes, some small hills prevented him from seeing the woods that the Americans were reported to be in, but the cover and concealment around him was trés excellent, and it would be hard for them to hit his agile vehicle if he kept maneuvering. However, maybe Capitaine Danford was right, that it was a good idea to head south and rejoin his camarades.

Before he could make a decision, movement caught his eyes, and his mouth ran dry as three American tanks crested the hill closest to him. "Merde!" he cursed as he dropped into the tank. "Capitaine, there are trois char coming straight for us!" he barked into his radio. "Michel, drive, get us out of here!" Christophe was already swinging the turret around, but his first and only shot was a miss, as his aim was thrown off when the Crusader accelerated hard. The two Pershings and the Sherman that had flushed him from his position did not miss.

xxxXXXxxx

Tiffany frowned in sympathy as her Sherman pulled alongside the burning body of the Crusader. "Hey, are all y'all okay?" she called to the three man crew who were climbing from the wreckage.

"Oui, oui, assurément!" one of them called out, waving a hand. "We are fine, though startled!" he continued in thickly accented English. "How did you know where we were?"

Tiffany laughed. "We didn't, you startled us nearly as much as we startled you!"

"Bah, of course! Still, bonne chance, the fight is not over yet!"

"Thanks, I'll see you and your crew during the after party!" she shouted as her Sherman began to head south. The Canadian was right, this wasn't over yet.

xxxXXXxxx

The final fight was a brutal one. Gardner, with her Sherman and the two Pershings, swept around the southwestern tail of the ridges, hoping to catch the Canadian team in the rear, while Vasquez went over the ridges at the eastern edge of the playing area. However, Danford had realized the unfavorable position that holding the ridge presented, especially with the loss of his scouts. He had fallen back to his original start point, so that by the time that Gardner and Vasquez reached his position, they weren't flanking as well as they had hoped. Vasquez used the superior speed of his Hellcats and the Chaffee to peak over the top of the ridge, sight quickly, fire off a round, and then fall back, trying to provide his captain with an opportunity to flank around further and put the 76mm gun of her Sherman and the 90mm guns of the Pershings to good use. Vasquez's tactic was successful at first, tracking a Cromwell and knocking out one of the Churchills before the British AT 2s kept their 6-pounder anti-tank guns trained on the ridge, trusting in their hick armor to keep them in the fight long enough to knock out the American tank destroyers.

Vasquez's Hellcat was the first to get hit, six inches to the right of his gun, and the other Hellcat took a glancing round off the top of its turret before another struck the top of its hull, bouncing into the turret below its gun. The Chaffee, realizing the dangerous situation it was in, backed off. Its short barrel 75 wouldn't succeed where the long 76 had failed. This left Gardner to fight the two AT 2s, the two Comets, and the one remaining Churchill with her Pershings and her Sherman. The next few minutes passed by in a blur of harried activity, crews pushed to the limit of aiming, firing, reloading, and driving. The Pershings concentrated their formidable firepower on the heavily armored AT 2s, which were unable to maneuver enough to save them from their fate. The 90mm guns, designed to destroy the King Tiger, 'punched' through the 203mm frontal armor of the AT 2s, taking them out of the fight.

However, the Pershings' attention on the AT 2s gave the two Comets the chance to bring their 17-pounder guns against the Pershings, and at the short range of the final brawl, the guns were more than adequate to defeat the heavily armored tanks, even as Gardner 'killed' the tracked Cromwell and the Churchill. Gardner's Sherman drove as quickly as it could, but a round to the rear sprocket on the left side blew off the track, and it veered wildly, the round that would have knocked out Danford's Comet going wide. A shot to the Sherman's flat side ended the fight, and for a long moment, silence that was tempered with the fading thunder of the exchange reigned. Could it be…had the Canadians won the North American championship? No...there was still the scout tank to go deal with. Danford gave the order, and the two Comets began to rotate, treads eating into the firm clay as the rotates turned to present their guns to the slope.

It was their turning that would be their undoing. The first round caught Danford's tank in the side, just underneath the top of the track, and the tank rocked to the side even as the other Comet took a round to the side of the turret. Desperate commanders peered out of their periscopes, trying to make sense of what was going on. There, on top of the ridge, was the last Chaffee and the Sherman that had been tracked earlier. Tim O'Brien and his crew had repaired the track and had tried to rejoin the battle in enough time to save his commander. Though it was too late to prevent her from being knocked out, he could avenge her. His first shot had taken Danford down, and though the Chaffee's round hadn't penetrated the armor of the other Comet's turret, both the Chaffee and the Sherman fired again before the Comet could aim at either one of them. With a resounding crash, the final Canadian tank was knocked out, the white flag signifying its defeat popping out of its housing. The battle was over.

xxxXXXxxx

The dining facility was loud with boasting and with laughter as both teams celebrated a match well played. For some of the students, this would be their very last match played before they graduated and went on to college or into the work force. For others, it was merely the end of a long, exciting year. At the head table, the twenty tank commanders sat, comparing notes with how they had planned the battle to go, and how things had actually gone.

"Well, y'all know me, Danford," Tiffany said with a grin. "If it weren't fo' the race issue, Ah sweah Ah could be Patton's own great-great-gran-daughtuh," she drawled, exaggerating her accent to play on her Southern childhood.

"Yes, yes, attack, attack, attack. So you didn't have any plan other than find me, fix me, destroy me?" Danford asked, grinning himself. It had been a hard defeat to swallow at first, but the caliber of his opponent lessened to sting somewhat. At least he was only a junior student, he still had one more year to participate in tankery. Miss Gardner was a senior. He wondered who he would be facing next year.

"Well, I figured that I would use the heavier armor and good guns of the Shermans and the Pershings to give you a good licking while my favorite compadre Vasquez turned one of your flanks. Luckily for me, I smelled the trap you were laying out, and didn't take the bait, though I was sorely tempted. If I hadn't lost so many tanks in the beginning, I probably would have, though. Food for thought."

He raised his cup in mock salute. "Indeed. Speaking of, Mr. Vasquez, that was some good shooting in the end. What year are you again?"

"A senior, sir," came the respectful reply from further down the table.

"Ah, so I won't have to worry about facing your dead eye next year, then."

The Latino young man shrugged fluidly. "Not my eye, but my gunner's, and she's just a sophomore. Me? I'll probably be going to some small college. Thinking about heading north, get a degree in teaching history."

"Oh, you aren't going into the military?" Unusual, the American tankery teams were generally composed of military hopefuls.

"Maybe, if the cards fall right, but most likely not. I just joined it because I love history, and a chance to drive a tank as a sport? Sign me up, no?"

"It is rather fun. Shame that this is your last year, though."

Again Vasquez shrugged, only this time it was accompanied by a grin. "Hey, there are still Worlds. We'll cross paths again there, I hope."

"Ah, yes, Worlds. I wonder if Russia is going to win again this year, eh?"

Gardner shook her head. "Nah, I bet that Germany is going to take it. I looked at their records for this year, downright chilling. They've switched from the Panzer IVs that they brought last year to the Panther, and that's a mean tank. If I can hit them first with my Pershings, I might stand a chance, but they'll tear through my Shermans, no doubt."

Nakamura, commander of one of the Pershings, piped up from his spot. "Hey, did anyone else see that they were going to try and invite Japan again?"

That brought a chuckle to the table. Japan, though famous as the nation that first introduced Tankery, or Sensha-dō, and for having some of the most prestigious Academy Ships, was not known for its participation in the World Championship. Previous invitations were generally met with polite but firm declines. Plus, their most famous tankery teams copied other nations, like Germany and Russia.

"What makes anyone think that they're going to accept this year?" Jacques asked.

"I dunno, I think it might happen. Their national champion is an unknown school, can't remember the name off the top of my head. I remember seeing something about their victory on the news."

The professional curiosity of many of the vehicle commanders was now coming into play. "What tanks did they use?" came the quiet question.

Another laugh. "Christ, what didn't they use? Panzer IV, Hetzer, Stug, M3 Lee, the Porsche Tiger, I think I saw a Type 89 Otsu…oh what else…oh yeah, the Renault B1 Bis, and I think they had a Type 3 Chi-Nu."

"A what?"

"Exactly! Apparently, that's the tank that the Japs threw together in preparation to defend the home islands from invasion in 1945. Never saw combat then, and less than two hundred were made, I think."

"And they won?" Gardner asked, tone frankly disbelieving.

"Yeah, I know, right? They took on that Kura…Kuromo…ah hell, the 'Black Forest Academy.' They're the German lovers."

"What did they bring, Panzer IIs?"

Again, there was boisterous laughter from everyone but Nakamura. "No, and that's the crazy thing. This underdog school managed to take out a Maus before they wiped the flag tank out."

"A Maus?!" "No way!" "C'est impossible!" "Come on, you're jerking our legs!" "What did they do, drop a tank on top of it?"

"No, but the Type 89 drove on top of it." Silence met this statement, and Nakamura shrugged. "Seriously, look it up. If they take the challenge, I bet they'll make it to the finals, especially if the other teams lend them better tanks."

Again, silence reigned, and the twenty commanders went back to eating, thoughtful expressions on their faces. That night, the internet was fairly humming with search requests on the Ōarai Girls High School, its tankery team, and one Miho Nishizumi. After all, as Sun Tzu once said, if you know your enemy and you know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles. It was time to gather information…