Anon-Tank Knigths

Ruslan Zhigunov pulled up the scarf around his face as the hot summer wind threatened to strip the skin from his face as sure as rawhide. He surveyed the leagues of rolling steppe from the cupola of his tank. A few miles behind him, a column of trucks, soldiers, horses, and tanks passed over a lazily rolling stream -- looking more like a parade of insects at such a distance than men. The five mustard-drab tanks of Ruslan's lance were silent and still. Men-at-arms kicked a ball in the dust, foxholes already dug and rifles stacked in pyramids.

"My Prince, you should take a break."

Ruslan looked down to see the windburnt, hook-nosed face of Sir Aleksey Sergeivich. His butternut tanker's uniform was looking threadbare from months on campaign, unadorned of more than the ranks on his shoulderboards - Imperial Guard. Ruslan blinked. The knight passed him a cup of water and a small bag of hard candies to the prince.

"I suppose I ought to start at some point, but I can see the smoke over the horizon from those villages. The foe is too near."

"We've been in this land for too long."

"Aye," replied Ruslan.

"I shall return to my own tank, sir. However, I insist you rest a while."

Ruslan nodded and hauled himself out of the vehicle. Crawling on his belly, he slid into the cool earth of the shallow trench dug underneath the war machine. The sensation of cool earth brought to mind memories of picking and eating grapes around what had been his grandfather’s vineyard on the shores of the inland sea. This soil, however, was not good for grapes.

“Sire?”

Ruslan looked back at the babyface of his squire Evgeny, who served as the gunner, and nodded.

“There’s an airplane in the sky buzzing around. The sentries see a cloud of dust as if of vehicles. What shall we do?”

“How many leagues away are the rest?”

“5 or 6 by my reckoning.”

“We’ll have to fend them off,” said Ruslan, “Make ready for battle.”