This tale is focused on the epic journey of one tank and its crew. So it is of course largely inspired from the World of Tanks comic books by Garth Ennis (Roll Out & Citadel, published by Dark Horse Comics), rather than from the game itself. The fans shall recognize...

Note : Tsar Pushka ("the Tsar Cannon") is the name of the artillery piece of the largest caliber ever casted, in the 16th Century, currently on display at the Moscow Kremlin.

Translation of a novel previously published in French: Please forgive the fact that English is not my native language...

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27 April 1945 – District of Tempelhof, Southern suburbs of Berlin
Soviet 34th Independent Guards Heavy Tank Regiment
IS-2 tank number 32 "Tsar Pushka", commander Ya.D. Shtern

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At last, that's it! The moment that we've all been waiting for for almost four years, and that many did not live long enough to see... The rush onto Berlin, the last and final thrust, the ultimate heel strike on the Hitlerian fascism's accursed capital city! The Gold Star of Hero of the Soviet Union is virtually promised already to the first one on the finish line; the Vorkuta Gulag on the Arctic Circle to the last one! Reorganized after the heavy losses sustained during the Oder crossing just one week ago, the 34th Guards Heavy Tank Regiment shall be a part of it. And Tsar Pushka, my sweet old Tsar Pushka, shall be too!

Seated at the very front of the 46-ton armored beast, boot upon the clutch pedal, Senior Sergeant Nikolai Pavlovich Borisenko. For over one year now, I've had the privilege of fighting across each battlefield of Ukraine and Poland alongside this driver, who knows inside out any and every cog of his formidable war machine. In civilian life, Kolya is a peaceful family man, an electrician's mate from Ryazan; between battles, he's a jolly fellow who never dodges his share of chores, who willingly shares his vodka and tobacco, and enjoys playing the accordion at the evening bivouac; and when driving Tsar Pushka into battle, he is a fearless soldier, who looks straight at the danger onto which he moves forward resolutely. I wish he could survive this damned war...

Right in front of me, sitting before the firing control of the formidable D-25T 122mm gun, Sergeant Chingiz Azimovich Abulgazev: a bloody Kyrgyz from the Pamirs foothills, whose understanding of Russian is so scant that I routinely need to emphasize my orders with one or two clouts! I doubt that this dulled Asian mug, possibly uglier even than the goats he may have banged at home, ever saw a motor vehicle before his call-up into the service of the glorious Soviet Union. Yet, quite surprisingly, this slant-eyed yokel has also proved to be the best gunner within the whole regiment – I mean, even before the regiment was reduced to battalion strength. I am not that unhappy, after all, with having him serving aboard Tsar Pushka.

On the other side of the gun's breech, last and least, the loader, Junior Sergeant Sergei Andreievich Golikov. A rookie landed just five days ago to replace poor old Sasha, fallen along with half the regiment during the breakthrough across the Oder. Sasha, we knew him for quite a long while, and it gave all of us a real shock when we saw his tall carcass fall back into the turret like a sack of kasha, with half his face gone. Sure, it's always been highly unadvisable to show one's head out of the hatch when shrapnel is flying around! Seryozha, on the other hand, we don't know much about him yet, and to tell the truth, we don't really give a damn. A foundry worker from... the devil does know where, some Siberian nowhere hole around Tobolsk, who cares?! All we need to be sure about him, is that this guy is sturdy enough to handle 122mm big mamas and to unlock a jammed breech – no problem there! –, and also that he's adaptable enough to settle his ox build in the turret of a Stalin tank. Well, on that issue, let's say it did not happen without lots of bruises at first.

And above all of this little world, is myself, the commander: Guards Senior Lieutenant Yakov Danilovich Shtern. A veteran in comparison with most of the other heavy tanks commanders, whose life expectancy stagnates at quite a low tide. On the uniform sheltered under my tankman suit, are pinned already the Order of the Red Star, the Medal For Courage, as well as three red stripes for light wounds. Plus the Guards badge of course, which I feel rather proud about. And yet, before the the Patriotic War broke out, I was just a quiet young man, some kind of dreamer, born and grown up at Odessa on the Black Sea coast. Before the War, would you believe it at seeing me enwrapped in this proletarian rabochik's greasy suit, I was studying literature. I was about to teach Chekhov, Turgenev, Gorki... I was fond of the poetry of Pushkin. Now, all of that seems so far away to me. How could I still discourse on such soppy stuff, after witnessing so many atrocities, corpses mixed with mud under the armor's tracks, men alive and kicking who were fooling with me from my tank's rear deck, mashed to screaming pulp the moment after when mortar shells began to rain down?

And how could I still find hope and comfort in simple words, after learning the death of my whole family, wiped out at Odessa? Oh, well, I did not tell yet: I'm Jewish! That's not the kind of details one tries to put in the very first words of a conversation, believe it. The Fascists did not content themselves with killing both of my brothers at the front: in Odessa, they also murdered my father, my poor mother, Granny Dora and my uncle, my cousins, and my lovely younger sister Nina... Along with my fiancée, my sweet Roza, with whom I shared my love for Pushkin... Vanished as well, alongside all of her own family. Now there is but one reason why I am still alive, why I have survived all of these battles: to kill Germans!... All of the Germans that shall cross my path... Till I fall in turn...

And fortunately, I have the best tool for this. I realize I have not yet introduced my old buddy Tsar Pushka. Tsar Pushka, well, is a Tiger killer, a Panther slayer, simply the most ultimate weapon ever designed to crush Fritz infantrymen by the dozen. More prosaically, it is a superb IS-2 Stalin tank of first generation, that I've been supplied by mid last year. A fascinating blend of pure lines, curved and compact, and of straight phallic brutality, which I fell in love with at first sight. Before the Stalin, I had led for about one year a KV-1 tank with its 76mm petty willy. Today, I would not trade my Tsar Pushka for the command of an entire KV tank regiment!

At the moment, I'm only leading a platoon of two heavy tanks. My mate, Junior Lieutenant Serebryakov, is a rookie arrived as a reinforcement earlier this month, who somehow managed to survive the slaughterous breakthrough across the Oder. But there's one thing I paid dearly to learn: at war, sheer luck doesn't last for ever. I would not even bet one Hitlerian Mark on Serebryakov's chances of seeing the capture of Berlin complete. Alongside the second platoon, I am attached to the reorganized company, five tanks in all, of Captain Agopyan: a veteran, he is, but everyone here knows that he primarily owes his longtime survivability to his usual habit of sending forward some other poor morons to take the first losses! Of course, no way anything could be told against Captain Agopyan: this Armenian bastard is a die-hard Communist, Party member with flattering records, always ready to report any fault that could be considered a betrayal to the Motherland in wartime. I have often wondered if that nutcase has the red star printed even on his undies, and a picture of Comrade Stalin to boot up his wet dreams!

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