Flames clawed and tore at the thick, black, night air; rending and cleaving the sea of darkness with blades of light, and bathing two hulking grey figures in the colour of dying stars. Two tanks rested there, speaking in hushed tones interjected with muffled, clattering laughter. The flickering light cast deep shadows on the hull and turret of the leftmost vehicle, a Tiger, disguising his bulk and accentuating the sharp metallic edges of his chassis. The countless scars and points of wear and tear seemed more prevalent by fire-light, and Rohr certainly looked every bit the veteran that he was. By the light of the sun the welding marks could often go unnoticed, covered by freshly added coats of paint, but the shadows of the fire and the dark orange light seemed to highlight them. Most prevalent of these was a crack down the left side of his gun mantlet, welded from top to bottom in a jagged and slightly diagonal line, which seemed to move as he spoke. Every surface was adorned with field modifications; spare segments of track were strung across his lower glacis plate and the sides of his turret, clinging on more precariously to his left flank having received some serious combat damage. Field binoculars were bolted atop his turret, folded down flat, and the ammo stowage bin at the rear had received a generous amount of armour plating, still seeming to retain parts of its original dark green colour despite the new brown and grey camouflage scheme. And he was drunk. Very drunk. And telling stories.

"...so between them they've got maybe one complete track, half a radio, a quarter pack of cigarettes, and 80 rounds of ammunition. They're back to back in this one fucking street, fucked up buildings on either side, and they dig in as hard as two tanks that can't move can. Knocking over bits of building, covered in masonry, and then they wait. That night, guess who decides to show up? The fucking 5th Guards Tank Army, for a surprise night attack, THROUGH the fucking city. So the ruskies start rolling on past and they both think fuck it, start unloading rounds into the front and the sides of the Red bastards as the column panics to shit. They can barely hear their own guns firing over the shouting between the Soviets, they're driving into walls, into each other, and it's so dark they can't work out where the shots are coming from. These two fucking Tigers fire every round they had, stopped an entire tank army by themselves through blocking the two mains roads with corpses, and then had to sit there for 2 motherfucking weeks because OKW simply refused to unblock the road until the Ruskies had been pushed back. They were so fucking mad."

Zorner made a concerted attempt to stop his giggling, "So they just left them there? Didn't fix them up or anything?". His peculiar hybrid accent combined with high-octane induced slurring turned Zorner into a vocally orchestral nightmare, though his meaning made it through the verbal soup.

"Nope, nothing. They managed to get some supplies to them, even considered giving them a couple of new radios until the abusive shouting got too much. Still you've gotta feel for the bastards."

The E50 sat there, a grin plastered across his gun mantlet. He liked Rohr. They were cut from the same steel, as the saying went, and the two shared a comfortable silence for a few moments before Zorner changed the topic. They still had plenty of stories and tales to tell, but they were getting more tired, and even more drunk.

"So, not looking to upgrade that old shell of yours?" the medium inquired, nodding at the scarred vertical surfaces of the Tiger; "Looks to me like you've earnt it, got more than your fair share of wounds".

"Fuck that noise" came the reply, "Hull like this 'be with you 'till the day you die. Every scar is a memory; a victory, a defeat. A friend lost, an enemy killed. I am my scars, and they are me, or some philosophy shit." Rohr swayed on his tracks, but held himself up in a way that radiated pride. "I wouldn't change it for the world".

"I know the feeling," came the reply, and silence descended upon the duo once more.

Ehrlichmann had never seen a tank get hit in the ammorack before. He'd never felt the searing heat of shells cooking off, torching and melting the guts of someone nearby, or blowing the turret clean off its ring. But today was a day of firsts.

In the chaos of battle he couldn't discern where the shot came from, he hadn't even noticed anyone get hit until the screaming. A high pitched whine of pressurised, burning gas leapt from the barrel and Commanders hatch of the Panzer III, melding with fuel-curdling cries of pain. The sound still echoed in his turret.

The Panzer I was as low to the ground as his suspension would allow, tucked up against his sandbag fortifications, and desperately firing bursts from his machine gun at the rows upon rows of British tanks advancing along flat ground, cresting ridgelines, and taking cover in depressions. At these ranges his fire wasn't going to penetrate anything, but his tracers marked targets for the tanks with higher calibre guns. The deafening roar of German guns barked around him, shaking the ground and kicking up dust as shells sought out targets. He could barely hear his radio as a voice erupted from it.

"Fire mission Ost is away, keep your turrets low 5th."

The light tank's suspension groaned as he tried to sink even lower, praying that the desert stands would swallow him up, and provide him solace from the coming storm.

The desert burst into flames.

Rohr and Zorner were atop a ridgeline west of the main defensive line, and heard the distant booming of the artillery volley as it engulfed the area to their east.

"I don't envy them," remarked Rohr, the latter part of his comment masked by the roar of the round he threw down range, and followed by a series of curses as his headache came back with a vengeance.

"Alright, so tell me ziss. Wass is worse, our headaches, having to listen to Oberst and the rest ov his fucking 'guard', or being anywhere near that artillery mission?" Zorner didn't move an inch, he was staring down his gun sights with a grimace as he checked and rechecked the shot he had lined up. The grimace was a result of his hangover, which at least matched Rohrs.

"Fuck, got to be number three." The Tiger was adjusting his tank and his optics to reduce the glare of the sun, which was doing nothing to help him recover from the previous night. "Got to be number three," he repeated, almost to himself, before firing again. "First week out here in the desert fighting up near Kasserine Pass, got ourselves stuck in an engagement with some newly arrived Yanks and a supporting Brit division. Took a while to clear 'em all out, but we built up some momentum and started pushing pretty hard. Turns out that's what they wanted, they fought a tactical withdrawal up to a point then dug in. That's when the shelling started." A distant boom, muffled by the thick desert air and kicked up sand, caused Rohr to twitch. "We lost half a division in that hellstorm, battery of 25 pounders fucked us up real good. That's how I got this scar." He vaguely motioned towards the mangled metal on his mantlet. "Felt like a direct hit, but could've been flying bits from the guy in front of me. One minute he was there, the next there was just fire and molten metal, bits of track and sheared armour plating. War sure is hell." Another shot rang out, and he hit a Cruiser dead centre in the hull. The shell gutted the light tank, passing straight out the other side and burying itself deep in a sand dune. The tank rolled to a stop, and black smoke poured out the entry and exit wounds.

Zorner finally fired. "All nine circles and then some," he said, as the 105mm gun sent a shell through the turret ring of a Matilda with the markings of an officer. Blazing fire engulfed the corpse as the fuel tank set alight, and he burned alive from the inside out