Tank Convoy

The rain came down in sheets, hammering the warped metal hulls and fractured spirits of the armored column as they trudged forward into the choking swamp. The forest was alive with shadows, the howling wind drowning out all but the strongest of radio signals. Still, they moved – bruised, bloodied, but not broken. Big Betsy creaked forward at the head of the battered line, its thick Sherman armor gleaming with rainwater and battle scars. Freya, voice calm and firm as always, keyed her radio: "📻 Convoy, this is Betsy-Actual. We're pushing north through grid 4-F. Visibility's trash, but we're still rolling. Eyes open, hearts steady."