The sky was blue. A bright summer day. The sun cast a warm wet blanket over the south Mississippi pines. A gust of wind cooled the sweat on his reddened neck as an old white car slowed on the street at the edge of the mowed green field and turned into the limestone gravel drive way that cut a path beneath the four great oaks planted along it so many years ago. Long before his time. He was standing in the grass beside the path as the car slowly approached. At last the vehicle stopped a few feet in front of him, and a plump, white-haired woman stepped from the driver side door, followed by a slender grey-haired, tanned man from the passenger side. He smiled as they began to walk toward him. They smiled back. The woman waved, and opened her mouth to speak, but his eyes opened, the two elderlies were gone, the sky was grey, and tiny flecks of rain landed on his forehead. He blinked. Sighed. The thick steel armor of the turret was hard and unforgiving on his aching back. His boots were filthy, caked with mud and unbuckled. "Sar'nt Bruce, get the fuck up!" a voice called from somewhere in the turret. Bruce furrowed his brows and squinted his tired, burning eyes as he found a grip on a steel plate on the CROWS system and hoisted himself up. The voice carried on, "Come on, sleeping beauty, we're buttonin' up; it's starting to rain, and I don't-" Sgt Bruce cut the voice off as he poked his head over the rim of the loader's station, fixing his eyes on the young unshaven private. "Ye're 'bout to do some push ups, pri'te," he said coolly. The young man laughed and shook his head up at Sgt Bruce. "Come on, Sar'nt, we got t-" "Naw, I don't give a shit, git yer ass up here. Come on." He picked himself up and allowed the young man to climb out of the turret with a dramatic, drawn out groan. Sgt Bruce watched amusedly as his subordinate looked at him out of the corner of his eye, reluctantly obeying. Sgt Bruce nodded at the flat back part of the turret with a smirk. When he was satisfied with the amount of physical activity payment for the private's over-stepping of the line, Sgt Bruce climbed into the turret and took his place in the gunner seat. "Don't fuck with Sar'nt Bruce, Morley," he called back as he settled in. Private Morley climbed into the turret and wiped the dirt from his hands on his filthy nomex coveralls. "Roger, Sar'nt," he said glaring at the gunner as they donned their CVC helmets. Pvt Morley pulled his hatch down as the rain began to fall, and the inside of the turret was soon painted a ghostly blue as he adjusted his station's light. "Hey driver, you alive?" Sgt Bruce said into his CVC mic. No answer. He leaned down, craning his neck to look between wires and under parts and pieces to get a glimpse of the driver's seat. Alive and well. And asleep. "Hey, fucker," he said a little louder into the mic. With a glance at the little green screen glowing dimly to the right of his head, he determined the voltage was dangerously close to getting too low. "Morley, pop yer top real quick. I'm 'bout to wake him up." Morley pulled the earmuffs of his helmet away from his head and nodded at Sgt Bruce, who was cupping his hand around his mic. "DABOLT, WAKE UP." He watched as the body in the driver seat transitioned from slumber to panic to calm in a matter of seconds. "I'm up, sar'," came a low monotone voice across the net, followed quickly by an excessively loud yawn. "Crank 'er up. Ain't you s'pose' to be watchin' the voltage?" Pvt Morley was already looking up out of the periscope in his hatch to look behind the tank. "Hey clear the rear, Morley," Dabolt mumbled. "Yeah, yeah, you're clear, fire it up." A jolt. Whining. Blast of exhaust. Warnings sounded over the net, spoken by a soft computer voice. "Shut up, you." Thumbs cleared warnings from screens. Buzzing filled the net. Increased pitch with RPMs, then levelled off as the machine reached idle. "Turn that NBC on for a second, it's hotter'n the devil's asshole in here." To the crew's relief, Sgt Bruce made no protest. In a moment, the RPMs increased and a rush of air flowed through the turret and the hull. Pvt Morley disconnected a nearby hose in his station and stuffed it down his shirt. Then the crotch of his nomex suit. The other crewman did the same. They sat in silence for minutes. "What's fuel lookin' like, Dabolt?" Sgt Bruce broke the silence. "Uhhh, lemme check," Spc Dabolt's voice trailed off. "Three quarters in the rear, others empty." Sgt Bruce made no reply. His head remained resting forward upon the padding of his main gun sights. "When are we movin', sar'?" Specialist Dabolt's voice was slightly higher pitched now as the sleep wore off. "I don' know. Sar'n Miller should be gittin' back here soon. S'posedly aroun' 1600 but..." they all knew how it went. Hurry up and wait, as they say. The rain began to fall harder for a few minutes, then slacked off to a light drizzle. It would be a long night of manoeuvres.
————————————————
Designate tank. Tank identified, 2200. Up! Fire and adjust. On the way- BOOM. Short. Goddamn, Re-engage. 2100. On the way- BOOM. Target, driver back down.
"Quit lobbin' 'em, Bruce." Sgt Bruce sighed through his nose. "Roger, sar'nt." "Hey we got it, though," Pvt Morley chipped in. The constant buzzing and whining of the tank and it's systems was the only thing transmitting through the CVC helmets now. "What's our ammo count?" Sgt Bruce finally replied, attempting to momentarily fill the open mic before an admonishment could be issued from the tank commander for the missed round. The ammo door rolled open, revealing a sort of honey-comb compartment containing different types of ammunition for the main gun, specified by markings and colours. "Three HEAT, four sabot, one can." Sgt Bruce fidgeted with the screen in his station and adjusted some numbers. "MRS update, sar'nt," he announced. The ammo door rolled closed with a CHUNK and Morley switched off the hydraulic power to the door. Sweat poured down all of their faces, streamed down their legs and backs. The turret smelled like fired rounds and dirty tankers. "Dabolt, turn that AC on- shit it's in-op, I forgot," Staff Sergeant Miller said, pulling a glove off. "Hey, safe the fuckin' gun, Morley! Jesus!" Morley gasped and shoved the arming handle beside the gun breech down. Bruce and Miller stared at him from the other side of the gun, and were met with a sheepish little grin on a dirty face. Miller shook his head and looked at his CITV screen to pick up his scan. Bruce faced forward, staring down at his multiple main gun sights. "A'ight, driver, back up and let's get to the next BP," Miller commanded. The tank jolted a little as the massive transmission shifted into reverse. The RPMs climbed and the tracks began to squeak as sprockets pulled them backward over the wheels. The tank picked up speed as they traveled toward their next battle position, sailing over bumps and dips easily and smoothly, like a boat on gentle waves. Sgt Miller and Pvt Morley were riding with their torsos above the turret, feet planted somewhere below and elbows locked onto their hatches and periscopes. Pvt Morley unzipped his nomex suit a little further to allow for more airflow over his body. Sgt Miller looked down at a filthy, folded up sheet of paper. "Okay, this is the last engagement. We're on track to Q1 so ev'rybody keep yer heads screwed on and let's finish this bullshit. This is the TRI-MO, Morley, so you'll have to shoot yer 240. I think the target's around 300 meters," he said. He looked forward and inspected his .50 caliber machine gun mounted to the CROWS system. "You remember what to say?" Morley nodded. "Roger." "Okay, you sons-a-bitches don't screw up." Sgt Miller's speech was less than motivating to the crew, but they knew what they had to do. The tank made an awful grinding noise as Dabolt applied the break once in the battle position. Sgt Miller gave a "Roger" to the tower. "Alright, here we go. Morley, turn the jump on." Pvt Morley turned around and flicked a little silver switch on a box attached to one of the dozens of wires zip-tied around the turret. "Driver move up," Miller said, picking up his scan with his screens. Sgt Bruce did the same, twisting his dual-handled gun controls back and forth, searching for targets. "Tank identified, 1900," Bruce said after a few seconds, bringing the turret to a halt as he acquired his target. Almost immediately after, Morley through the arming lever toward the top of the turret with an "UP!" "Fire and adjust." "On the way-" BOOM. CLANKITY. The breech recoiled, ejecting an aft-cap as the round and gases were fired from the barrel. Morley made no hesitation as he shoved the arming handle down and his knee pressed a paddle toward the rear wall of the turret. The door rolled open and he knocked another sabot round out of its slot, caught it in his left hand, wrapped his right around around the top, and cradled it in his left as the tip dropped toward the breech. He shoved it in with his palm on the aft-cap and the breech moved up to shut behind it, but caught half way. "Target," Bruce announced, still looking through his scopes. Morley grabbed a black steel device from beside the breech, hooked one end into something on the side of the gun and slammed it toward the roof of the turret. The breech shut completely and he dropped the tool back into its stowing location. Miller glanced over at him and, detecting no issues, said nothing as he returned to scanning on the CROWS- just in time to pick up a target. "Truck identified, 1200," he said. "Morley yer target's up out there," he added quickly, "get up and shoot it." Morley jumped up and swung his machine gun around to locate the truck target. It was near where it was supposed to be, and he announced the rehearsed line: "Truck identified, 11 o'clock, 400 meters!" "Fire. From my position," and simultaneously, "On the way!" At once, the .50 caliber machine gun and the M240 began firing, sending tracers screaming downrange and expelling spent brass and belt linkages onto the tank. "Target, loader complete." "Target, cease-fire, driver back down. Morley, turn the jump off when we stop." The tank stopped and rocked on its tracks as the crew let out a sigh. Morley smiled as he observed the small range fire that he believed he started with his tracer rounds.
