110 I John W. Warner IV mum, tight as a drum. He then laid out the comic book manual and let go the breech lock for the gun. Bea fumbled around. Right, fourteen checks.The red numbersgo one by one. The warm, potent smell of grease, oil, live electrical cables, fumes, and gasoline met themthe Panzer Odor. Everything was clearly labeled, well organized, and painted a bright beige or medium grey to separate components. Pictures of pretty girls, snowy alpine valleys, and a Swiss calendar with days crossed off were taped to the inside hull. Gwafa saw a German firing directly at his rectangular vision block; he quickly twisted the handle, closing it, but a fragment of one round just caught the left side. The thick ballistic glass was only damaged a tiny amount. Bosche bastard. Takuta quickly checked the turrets vision blocks and each numbered item. He cocked the coaxial MG-34 machinegun mounted forward next to the main gun then crawled forward through a tight hole to the bow machinegun at the radiomans cramped station. Done, guns charged, all checks complete, just like the book said. Headsets, lets getem on. Bea turned knobs on the communication panel and inserted their cables, then clicked the headset microphone to life. Gwafa? Can you hear me? She looked through the commanders hatchs thin 360-degree vision blocks to see what was happening. The neighboring tank, 102, was firing up with three crew aboard. The kutnant shut its hatch. Gwafa, we need you! Germans began pounding the top hatch with sledgehammers and big chisels, desperate to get it open. Filth! Worms! Rabid dogs’ Pound-pound-pound. Gwafa-a-a-a! Takuta could see Gwafa through a gap and rapped on the floor hull plate near the front with the folding steel butt of the submachinegun. Cmon arsehole! Cramped, Gwafa hastily slid on his headphones, his head almost touching the top of the hull. I am here! He moved the electric motor lever into number one position, increased revs, and opened the vision block slightly. Ready, ready to proceed. Engine noise filled the turret. Breathing now steady, adrenal glands pumping rivers, breast tricking blood, Bea calmly commanded: Fisherman, load a high explosive round. Lets let em know we mean business. Thud-bang-thud-bang. Schweinsdrsche’. Pigshit-lickers! He rummaged the shell magazine, flipped open the safety clips, hefted one, and slammed it in the breech as it automatically locked. Loaded, safety off.