The last explosion still shook the earth like an elephant’s fart—loud, stinky, and impossible to forget. Smoke and the scent of burnt metal mixed with blood hung in the air, like someone tried to make soup using war as a recipe. In the middle of a muddy crater and roasted tank carcasses, the only tank left standing looked like it belonged in a museum… under the “Total Wrecks” exhibit.

The Crusader 5A1—aka “The Saint” as the crew liked to call it with a half-sarcastic smirk—sat sulking behind a low ridge. The engine had completely given up, a faint smoke puffing from the rear. Inside the belly of the tank, there were thuds, curses, and the occasional “ow!”

“You sure this thing’s gonna run again?” Maya wiped sweat from her temple, still on radio duty. Her voice was tired, with a hint of worry—or maybe she’d just stopped caring. Hard to tell.

From beneath the engine panel, Handa gritted his teeth, hands coated in oil. “Honestly, this thing should’ve died two hours ago. If it starts up again, I’m building a shrine for it.”

CLANG! A wrench smacked some part inside—either as therapy or an act of vengeance.

Up in the turret, Kaoru stood peering through the periscope like an insomniac owl. Dried blood clung to his collar and his left hand still twitched a bit. They’d just escaped a battle that turned two of their buddy tanks into molten scrap. Now? They were the last ones left.

“Suzuki,” Kaoru called out, voice calm but sharp, “how many rounds we got left in the rear rack?”

No response. Suzuki was still staring at the targeting screen. Finally, he answered in a voice as cold as ice sliding across concrete.

“Four HEAT. Two AP. The rest’s either mush or I threw it out the hatch.”

Kaoru nodded. “Not bad. Enough to throw a surprise party for a tank platoon.”

Suzuki turned to him. His stare? Sharp enough to slice a watermelon.

“If you didn’t waste shots playing Whack-a-Mole last night, we’d still have eight. And a biscuit.”

Kaoru went silent. The air turned tense, like a fishing line pulled too tight.

Maya chuckled awkwardly, “Hey, don’t fight yet… we’re not dead yet. There’s still time to regret things.”

Suzuki muttered under his breath, “Told you. Shoot when you’re sure. Not when you’re scared.”

Kaoru didn’t argue. His shoulders sagged, and he slowly climbed down from the turret.

“Yeah. My bad.”

Suzuki said nothing. He just turned back and fiddled with the optics. The little monitor blinked a few times, then—brrrng!—the engine coughed to life like a zombie chugging espresso.

From below came Handa’s gleeful shout, “IT’S ALIVE! But don’t expect it to sprint—this baby’s only doing the tank equivalent of tiptoeing.”

Kaoru gave a tiny grin. “Get us behind that hill. Line up a shot southwest. Let’s roll out the welcome mat.”

The tracks groaned to life, grkkk-grkkk, barely moving when suddenly—hisss—the radio came alive. Maya snapped to attention.

“We’ve got a weird signal. Too clean… like, suspiciously clean.”

Kaoru scrambled back up. “Enemy?”

Maya nodded, tense. “Four units. Two moving, two parked. About thirteen hundred meters. Guess they think we’re already tank-toast.”

Kaoru muttered, “Heh. Cocky bast$$d”

“Handa, kill the engine. Let’s play dead.”

“What? No way, it just woke up! Don’t make me!”

“Do it and I’ll give you that magazine you wanted.”

“…Deal.”

The engine shut down again with a wheeze like it was giving up on life.

Maya cringed. “Seriously? We’re all about to die and you’re still thinking about &$rn?”

Meanwhile…

Kaoru peeked through the scope again. “Suzuki, gun to 212 degrees. Maya, open the wind valve. Showtime.”

Suzuki didn’t answer. He just adjusted the controls. The turret turned slowly, its motor humming like someone sleep-talking.

“Thirteen thirty-eight meters,” Kaoru calculated through the binoculars.

“Wind from the west. One point two. Mild. But frizzy enough to ruin my hair,” Maya added, half joking.

Suzuki adjusted elevation. His hands were steady. His eyes? Dead serious—like a kid before a math exam. “Target locked.”

Kaoru nodded, even if they couldn’t see each other. “One shot, one kill. Don’t embarrass us.”

Silence.

They all knew. This was the make-or-break moment. If they missed, well… history would remember them as “those crispy guys in the broken tank.”

Kaoru took a deep breath. “Whenever you’re ready, Suzuki. No pressure.”

Suzuki inhaled.

Then—BOOM.

The shell tore from the barrel, shaking the whole tank. Ears ringing. Smoke filled the cabin like a metal sauna. Everyone held still. Watching. Hoping.

Five seconds… ten…

BOOOOM!!

An explosion rang out in the distance—just not where it was supposed to.

“…Uh?” Handa blinked, grinning. “Did we just… nuke a tree? Great, now we’re eco-terrorists.”

Suzuki slowly pulled back from the scope. Very slowly. His eyes were wide—like a cat whose tail just got stepped on. He stared at Kaoru. That look? It said: "You're dead to me."

Kaoru froze. Like a statue. He didn’t even breathe. He knew… he knew this was it. He wasn’t gonna die from enemy fire—he was gonna get murdered by his own gunner.

Maya crossed her arms and looked at the explosion.

“Huh. As predicted. That shell just went on vacation.”

Handa fumbled for the engine controls. “Okay, I’m backing us out before Suzuki turns this into a murder mystery.”

The Saint creaked in reverse. Engine wheezing. Exhaust smoking. Tension thick enough to cut with a spoon. Suzuki stayed silent, still glaring at Kaoru like he was trying to erase him from existence.

Kaoru, trying to lighten the mood, glanced over with a nervous grin.

“Hey, Suzu… just think of this as your husband’s little mistake, yeah?”

BZZZT. Wrong move.

Maya quipped from the side, scratching her ear, “Commander, that joke might violate like, five military codes. Article 5, Clause 8. Of the 1950 ‘No Horny in the Tank’ law.”

Kaoru smirked. “So I’m an activist now, huh?”

Handa chimed in with a grin, “You sure Suzuki’s even a dude?”

Maya grinned too. “Not sure. Never confirmed.”

“Yeah but look at those hips…” Kaoru whistled, “Real nice curve, man. Though the front’s still flat like Siberia.”

WHAM! A boot slammed into Kaoru’s shin. Metal met meat.

“OWW!!” Kaoru yelped dramatically. “THAT HURT!”

Suzuki didn’t say a word. But her face said everything. She turned away, arms crossed, pouting at the wall.

“Hmph.”

Handa cracked up. “Yep. That’s a girl, alright. No guy sulks like that.”

“YOUR VOICE IS GONNA MATCH THE NEXT EXPLOSION, HANDARR!!” Suzuki roared, pointing at the driver’s seat.

“SIR, YES SIR!” Handa shouted, still laughing.

Maya just shook her head. “God… we’re literally at war.”

Kaoru sighed, then grinned again. “War or not, we’re all still here. Barely. And hey—we’ve still got one shell left.”

Silence.

One shell. Four enemy tanks. And a Crusader 5A1 wheezing like an old man in the cold. Not exactly a recipe for survival.

But… this crew wasn’t normal. The Saint crew had chewed dirt and dodged death together more times than they could count. In a place that would break most people, they found a reason to laugh.

Suzuki glanced at the readout. “Three hundred meters… crosswind from the left… seven knots. Ready when you are, commander.”

Kaoru straightened. “Alright. Shift aim two degrees right from last shot.”

Handa exhaled. “I’ll find a spot to duck out the moment we fire. This’ll be like a circus in hell.”

Maya smiled faintly. “As long as it’s not a bloody kindergarten, I’m good.”

And just like that, the tight little cabin of the Saint filled once more with noise, smoke, and the weird, wonderful spirit of a crew that had no business still being alive. They weren’t the best tank. They weren’t elite soldiers.

But they were stubborn.

And sometimes, that’s enough to make history.

The End.