The Western Front Part 1

With classical music playing softly on the radio, a P-51 Mustang flew overhead, conducting reconnaissance as it swept across the sky. Below, the camp was bustling with activity as Rangers and other units were busy cleaning their airsoft weapons or engaged in firing practice.

In the front passenger seat of a parked jeep, a young private sat, observing the scene. His gaze shifted to the side as he spotted an M4A2 Sherman rumbling down the dirt path, a squad of riflemen marching in its wake.

"You missed!" Sean called out, dressed in his Ranger uniform, his M16A2 resting casually at his side. He was teasing one of the riflemen for missing the helmets set up as targets on the shooting range.

"Mandlebaum, that's got to be the sorriest shooting I've ever seen," Sean added, his voice carrying a thick Irish accent.

"I'd like to see you try, Sean," Mandlebaum muttered, shaking his head as he walked away.

As the young private approached the shooting range, Sean spotted him and called out.

"Hey, you! Kid... um, what's your name again?" Sean squinted, trying to remember the private's name.

The private stopped and turned toward Sean, standing at attention. "Private Daniels, sir," he answered.

Sean smirked. "Daniels, huh? Tell you what, I bet you five bucks you can't hit one of those helmets from here," he said, pointing to the makeshift targets downrange.

The private glanced at the targets, then at Sean. Without saying a word, Daniels reached for the standard-issue Davy Crockett High M16A2 airsoft rifle, weighing it in his hands before stepping up to the firing line.

Sean leaned in, clearly amused. "Alright, show me what you got, kid."

Daniels took aim, focused for a moment, and squeezed the trigger. Pop! The airsoft pellet flew downrange and clink!—a helmet toppled over.

Sean's smirk vanished. "No way..." he muttered in disbelief.

Daniels turned to face Sean, a small, confident grin on his face. "Guess that's five bucks you owe me, sir."

Sean chuckled, shaking his head as he reached for his wallet. "Alright, alright, fair's fair. You got me, Daniels. Maybe you'll show Mandlebaum how it's done later."

The private gave a quick nod, pocketing the money as Sean waved him off.

Sean, still grinning from his lost bet, adjusted his gear and walked over to a nearby crate sitting by the range. He gave it a few taps before flipping the lid open, revealing a stash of powder grenades and smoke grenades. These were standard-issue training tools at Davy Crockett High—non-lethal but effective at simulating the chaos of a real battle.

He picked up one of the powder grenades, holding it up for Daniels to see. "Alright, Daniels, let's see how good your throwing arm is. These bad boys are filled with powder. When they go off, they cover anything in range with a fine layer of dust. You get hit, you're out, just like in the real thing."

Without warning, Sean pulled the pin, lobbed the grenade at an old, decrepit building at the edge of the training ground. It flew through a broken window and exploded with a *pop*, sending a cloud of white powder billowing through the air. The dust clung to the inside walls and scattered around the area, looking surprisingly similar to a frag grenade's aftermath—just without the lethal force.

"See that? Now that's how you clear out a room," Sean said, dusting off his hands and giving Daniels a sideways glance.

He reached into the crate, grabbing a handful of grenades and stuffing a few into his own pack, sneakily pocketing more than his fair share. He turned back to Daniels, holding out a couple more grenades.

"Your turn. Take a few shots at that building and let's see if you can hit anything. It's all about timing and precision."

Daniels, already holding the airsoft rifle, grabbed a couple of powder grenades, a look of determination on his face. He pulled the pin from one and took aim at the same dilapidated house Sean had targeted.

With a firm throw, the grenade sailed through the air, but it bounced off the edge of the window and rolled to a stop just outside. A second later, the grenade exploded, covering the exterior in white powder.

Sean smirked, his Irish accent teasing again. "Close, but not quite. Give it another go, and this time, try for the door."

Daniels grabbed another grenade, this time taking a moment to calculate his throw. He wound up, tossing it clean through the open doorway of the house. The powder bomb went off inside, sending a plume of dust cascading out through the windows and doors.

"Not bad, kid!" Sean shouted. "I think you're starting to get the hang of it."

As Daniels set down his remaining grenades, Sean discreetly bagged a few more from the box, tucking them away into his pack. "Never hurts to have a couple extra on hand," he muttered under his breath, smirking as he zipped up his bag.

He patted Daniels on the shoulder. "Alright, enough fun for now. Let's get you ready for the next part of the training. Hope you're as good with smoke as you are with powder."

Sean grabbed a smoke grenade from the box and tossed it lightly in his hand, weighing it as he began explaining to Daniels.

"Now, kid, pay attention. Smoke grenades are just as important—maybe even more so—than powder or frags. You ever find yourself pinned down by enemy fire, these things are your best friend. They give you cover, blind the enemy, and buy you time to move or regroup. You throw one right, and you can turn a bad situation around."

Daniels nodded, listening intently. Sean continued, tossing the smoke grenade to the private. "Alright, give it a go. Aim for the middle of the field. Imagine there's enemy fire coming from that ridge over there. Use the smoke to cover our advance."

Daniels took the smoke grenade, his focus sharpening. He pulled the pin, took a deep breath, and launched it toward the designated area. The grenade arced through the air, landing perfectly in the center of the field. A thick cloud of gray smoke billowed out, quickly obscuring the surrounding area.

"Good throw," Sean said with a nod of approval. "That'll give you cover for at least a minute or two—enough time to get into position or retreat if things go south."

Before Sean could continue his lesson, he noticed movement out of the corner of his eye. Sergeant Dean, the squad leader, was standing by the truck a short distance away, motioning for the squad to regroup. His expression was serious, and he was barking orders to a few of the other riflemen nearby.

"Looks like playtime's over, Daniels," Sean said, gesturing toward the Sergeant. "Sergeant Dean's calling us in. Let's move."

Sean slung his M16A2 over his shoulder and started walking toward the truck, motioning for Daniels to follow. As they approached, the rest of the squad was already gathering, some climbing into the back of the truck, others securing their gear.

Sergeant Dean glanced at Sean and Daniels as they approached. "Get on the truck," he ordered gruffly. "We're moving out."

Sean gave a quick nod to the Sergeant before turning to Daniels. "Alright, rookie. Grab your gear and get in. Looks like we've got more work ahead of us."

With that, Sean and Daniels hopped onto the truck with the rest of the squad, ready for whatever came next. 

As the truck rumbled along the dirt road, more M4A2 and M4A3 Shermans rolled beside them, their heavy treads churning up dust. Davy Crockett boys jogged alongside the tanks, rifles slung over their backs, their boots kicking up clouds of dirt in their wake. The sight of the tanks moving in formation was imposing, a reminder of the firepower and history behind the Davy Crockett High School Tankery team.

Daniels had settled into his spot in the back of the truck when Sergeant Dean turned around, facing the Rangers he had been assigned to lead.

"I'm Dean," he said in a low, no-nonsense tone. "Two rules. Rule one: you're no good to me marked. Rule two: what difference does it make? You'll all probably end up marked anyway."

The blunt delivery left the younger Rangers confused, but Dean didn't wait for a response. He walked to the front of the truck and hopped into the passenger seat, leaving his statement hanging in the air.

One of the privates in the back, still processing Dean's words, scratched his head. "What kind of pep talk was that?" he muttered, clearly puzzled.

Sean, overhearing, smirked and leaned over. "If you want inspiration, private, read a poem. Sergeant Dean is ten times the Ranger you'll ever be. Trust me, he's been through it all. Now listen up." Sean's voice took on a mockingly dramatic tone as he explained the mission. "Today, we're on a secret mission assigned by Commander Houston himself. We're to recover 'coffee' and 'donuts'."

The squad exchanged confused glances, not sure if Sean was being serious or just messing with them.

"The problem is," Sean continued, "one of the Association schools and the Federation decided to drink and eat our coffee and donuts. So now, it's up to us to kick their asses and get 'em back."

Hector, sitting next to Sean, rolled his eyes and chimed in. "Or, Sean, we could just stay back at base and enjoy those nice Japanese sweets they've got. I mean, mochi beats donuts any day."

Sean shot Hector a playful glare. "Yeah, well, that's not the plan today. We'll be providing ground support for Grand Lake High, hitting the west flank while they take the front. And remember, rule one—don't get marked, Hector."

Hector smirked, casually resting his hand on his airsoft M16. "You worry too much, Sean. I'm always two steps ahead of getting marked."

The squad chuckled lightly, but there was a tension in the air. Despite Sean's joking demeanor, everyone knew what was at stake. This was more than just a recovery operation—this was a match against the Federation and Association, schools that had already proven themselves as fierce opponents. It was only a matter of time before things got serious.

As the truck continued down the road, with the Shermans rolling beside them and the mission ahead, the squad mentally prepared for the upcoming engagement. Sean, with his usual bravado, clapped Daniels on the shoulder.

"Don't worry, kid. By the time this is over, you'll be a pro at kicking some Federation ass. Just stick close and follow orders."

Daniels nodded, gripping his rifle a little tighter, feeling both the thrill and anxiety of his first real mission with the team.

As the convoy rolled deeper into the countryside, the terrain began to shift. The dirt road narrowed, winding up a small hill that provided a commanding view of the surrounding fields. More Shermans rumbled by, their tracks grinding into the earth, but soon heavier Pershing tanks joined the column, their hulking forms casting shadows over the road. Daniels stared in awe at the sight—these were no ordinary tanks. The Pershings were beasts, slower but much more powerful than the Shermans.

Up ahead, the wreckage of battle littered the path. Disabled Uncle Sam tanks, with their signature markings, lay scattered alongside a few Kuromorimine Girls' Academy tanks, their black hulls scorched and smoking from recent combat. The acrid smell of burning fuel and engine grease filled the air, causing the group in the truck to cough and grimace as the scent clung to the breeze.

Hector, always one to lighten the mood, breathed in deeply despite the awful stench. "Ahhh, just like home," he said with a smirk, nudging Sean. "Smells like downtown Houston after a summer blackout."

Sean rolled his eyes but grinned. "Yeah, only we don't have any air conditioning to go back to this time."

The convoy pressed on, passing through the remnants of the battlefield. Up ahead, the Rangers on foot marched alongside the tanks, their boots kicking up clouds of dust as they trudged forward. One of the Rangers, clearly lagging behind, glanced over at the truck and decided he had had enough. He sprinted after it, desperate to catch a ride.

"Hey, wait up!" the Ranger yelled, waving his arms as he closed the distance between himself and the truck. The guys in the back laughed and cheered, egging him on.

Sean, seeing the Ranger struggle, leaned over the side. "You want a ride, huh? Better hurry up, or you'll be eating dust the whole way!"

The Ranger panted, pushing himself harder. Just as he was about to reach the truck, a sudden explosion rang out.

BOOM!

A powder grenade went off nearby, knocking the poor Ranger off his feet and sending him sprawling into the dirt. The shockwave rocked the truck, and before anyone could react, multiple explosions followed in quick succession. The ground erupted around them as more powder bombs detonated, sending clouds of white dust into the air and causing the truck to swerve wildly on the uneven road.

"Hold on!" Sean shouted, grabbing the side rail as the truck veered left, then right, the driver fighting to keep control.

Hector and the others braced themselves, but it was no use—the truck slammed into a crater caused by one of the blasts, and the entire vehicle flipped over onto its side with a heavy crash. The world spun for a moment as everyone was thrown from their seats, landing hard in the dirt and dust.

Sean groaned, pushing himself up from the ground. He blinked through the haze of dust, coughing as he tried to regain his bearings. "Everyone alright?" he called out, shaking his head to clear the ringing in his ears.

Daniels, covered in dirt, slowly sat up, checking himself for injuries. He was dazed but unharmed. Around him, the other Rangers were groaning, some pulling themselves free from the wreckage.

Hector crawled out from under the side of the truck, brushing dirt off his uniform. "Well, that was one hell of a ride," he muttered, clearly annoyed but otherwise unhurt. He shot a glance at Sean, who was already back on his feet, assessing the situation.

"We got ambushed," Sean said, spitting dust from his mouth. "Those weren't just training grenades—someone's messing with us."

Sergeant Dean, who had been in the front, stood up beside the overturned truck, his face hardened and calm despite the chaos. He scanned the area, his sharp eyes searching for any sign of the enemy.

"Everyone regroup," Dean barked, his voice cutting through the noise. "This isn't a drill. Get your weapons ready, and find cover. Move!"

The Rangers, now fully alert, scrambled to obey, quickly grabbing their gear and airsoft rifles. Daniels, adrenaline pumping, followed suit, staying close to Sean as the group formed up behind the wrecked truck

As the Rangers regrouped from the overturned truck, they quickly got into formation, scanning the horizon for any sign of the enemy. The explosions had knocked them off course, but they knew they were getting close to their objective. Sean, Dean, Hector, and Daniels moved up, sticking close to the cover of the surrounding terrain, the sound of distant airsoft fire growing louder by the minute.

Up ahead, a stone wall loomed at the edge of the small valley, providing cover just before the city of Talos. They could hear the sharp cracks of airsoft rifles and the distant shouts of other Davy Crockett boys already engaging the enemy. Beyond the wall, the real battle was raging.

"Move it!" Sean barked, signaling for the group to advance. One by one, the Rangers dashed forward, jumping over the stone barrier and taking cover behind debris and the remains of vehicles abandoned on the dirt road.

The scene in front of them was chaos. Davy Crockett boys were spread out, shouting orders and firing their airsoft weapons in rapid bursts toward a large building in the center of Talos. Inside, Uncle Sam's infantry had fortified their position, with some Kuromorimine tanks providing support from a distance. The air was thick with the sound of hissing smoke grenades and the occasional explosion from powder grenades. White clouds billowed across the battlefield, obscuring the view but providing enough cover for the advancing forces.

"Damn, they're dug in pretty deep," Hector muttered, squinting through the smoke as he checked his M16A2. "Looks like Uncle Sam brought the party early."

"Yeah, but we're about to crash it," Sean replied, adjusting his airsoft vest and signaling Dean. "Sergeant, we gotta push up and flank them, or we'll be stuck here all day."

Dean, crouched behind a piece of rubble, nodded. "Stick to the left side. We'll use the buildings for cover. Daniels, stay close. You're about to learn what urban combat feels like."

Daniels swallowed hard but gave a determined nod. "Got it, Sergeant."

As they moved up, Sean noticed a group of Davy Crockett boys charging the building, shouting with fierce determination. They were greeted by a hail of airsoft fire from Uncle Sam's infantry inside. The boys dropped into cover, some behind upturned crates, others diving into alleyways.

"Pin those guys down! We've got them on the run!" one of the Davy Crockett officers shouted, standing tall in the fray and directing the airsoft fire toward the windows of the enemy-held building.

Sean and his squad ducked into a side street, hugging the walls of the buildings as they moved in closer to the battle. The sounds of airsoft rifles firing from both sides intensified as more reinforcements arrived, and the back-and-forth between the two sides became deafening.

Dean peered around the corner of a building, his sharp eyes catching sight of Uncle Sam infantry trying to reposition inside the structure. "They've got their backs turned. Now's our chance—move in fast and hit them hard!"

"Let's give 'em hell!" Sean shouted as he leaped into the street, firing his M16A2 in controlled bursts toward the windows of the building. The distinct clatter of airsoft pellets hitting stone and metal filled the air as he pressed forward.

Daniels, right behind him, raised his rifle and fired, nailing one of Uncle Sam's infantry square in the chest as they tried to retreat into the building. The hit marked the player, and they raised their hands in surrender before slumping back out of the game.

"Nice shot, kid!" Sean grinned, slapping Daniels on the back as they pushed ahead.

The intensity of the fight grew as more Davy Crockett boys stormed the area, flanking the Uncle Sam infantry inside the building. The air was thick with the popping sounds of airsoft rounds and the occasional shout of a hit player calling out.

"Cover me, I'm moving up!" Hector called, launching a smoke grenade into the street. It exploded with a hiss, filling the air with thick, choking smoke that blocked the line of sight between the Davy Crockett boys and Uncle Sam's infantry.

With the smoke covering their advance, Sean, Dean, Hector, and Daniels charged toward the main entrance of the building. The rest of the Rangers followed, firing their airsoft rifles as they moved in.

They breached the building in perfect formation. Inside, the battle was just as intense, with Uncle Sam's infantry dug in behind overturned tables and sandbags. They returned fire, sending airsoft rounds ricocheting off walls and floors, but the Davy Crockett boys were relentless, moving in methodically, marking each of their opponents with precision shots.

"Clear the rooms! Move, move!" Dean ordered, his voice cutting through the noise. The squad spread out, each Ranger taking a corner and sweeping through the building, room by room. Daniels fired at another Uncle Sam infantryman, marking him out of the match, while Sean lobbed a powder grenade into a hallway, covering the area in a thick, white dust that left the remaining enemy disoriented.

"Sergeant!" Sean called, spotting one final group of Uncle Sam infantry retreating toward the back of the building. "They're pulling out!"

Dean nodded. "Don't let them get away. We've almost got 'em!"

As the last of the Uncle Sam forces fell back, a final rush from the Davy Crockett boys overwhelmed them. Airsoft fire erupted once more, and within minutes, the building was secured.

The battle for Talos raged on outside, but for now, this objective was theirs. Dean, breathing hard but steady, walked to the front of the building and surveyed the battlefield.

"Good work, Rangers," he said, his voice calm despite the chaos around them. "This fight isn't over, but we just gave them something to think about."

Sean, grinning ear to ear, looked over at Daniels. "Not bad for your first real mission, huh, kid?"

Daniels smiled, wiping the sweat and dust from his face. "Yeah... not bad at all."

The sound of heavy tank engines rumbling filled the air as the Shermans rolled up the street, kicking up clouds of dust as they advanced toward the Kuromorimine tanks dug in at the far end of the city. The battle for Talos had intensified, with the infantry clearing the buildings and the tanks moving to engage the enemy head-on. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the urban battlefield.

Inside one of the lead Shermans, Commander Harrison leaned forward, eyes glued to the optics of the periscope. Her voice cut through the noise of the tank's engine as she communicated with the crew.

"Driver, keep us moving. Gunner, target the Panther up ahead, 300 meters. Load armor-piercing!" she barked, her voice steady despite the tension.

"Roger that, loading AP!" came the response from her loader, Private Mason, as he hefted the heavy shell into the breach of the 75mm gun. The metallic clank of the shell sliding into place was followed by the quiet hum of the turret adjusting its aim.

"Gunner, on target," the gunner confirmed, his hands steady on the controls.

Harrison narrowed her eyes, focusing on the distant Kuromorimine Panther tank. The German-engineered vehicle was a formidable opponent, its thick armor and powerful gun making it one of the most dangerous tanks on the battlefield. But the Davy Crockett boys had dealt with them before.

"Fire!" she ordered.

The Sherman's gun roared, sending the 75mm shell hurtling toward the Panther. The shell struck the Panther's front armor with a resounding crash, causing sparks to fly. Though the Panther's armor absorbed the impact, it rocked back from the force, momentarily stunned.

"Direct hit!" the gunner called out, already adjusting for the next shot.

"Good, keep the pressure on them. Load another AP!" Harrison commanded, her eyes scanning for other targets.

Around her, the other Shermans and Pershings moved into position, engaging the Kuromorimine tanks in a coordinated assault. The streets of Talos echoed with the thunder of tank fire and the sharp crackle of airsoft rifles from the infantry skirmishing nearby.

Inside another Sherman, Commander Jenkins was coordinating his tank's movements with Harrison's, his voice calm but urgent.

"Alright, boys, we've got a Tiger II on our right! Load HEAT, we need to punch through its side armor!" Jenkins shouted, his hand gripping the periscope handles tightly.

"HEAT loaded!" his loader, Corporal Davis, shouted back as the gunner adjusted the turret, aiming for the heavy Kuromorimine tank slowly advancing through the narrow street.

"Fire!" Jenkins ordered.

The Sherman's 76mm gun spat fire, the HEAT round streaking across the battlefield. The high-explosive anti-tank shell struck the side of the Tiger II with a deafening boom, penetrating its thick armor and marking the powerful tank out of the match.

"Hit confirmed! Tiger's out of action!" Jenkins grinned, giving a satisfied nod. "Let's move up, don't give them any breathing room."

Behind them, the massive Pershing tank of Commander Wallace rumbled into position, its powerful 90mm gun aimed directly at a Kuromorimine Jagdpanther holding a defensive position behind a building.

"Jagdpanther at two o'clock," Wallace muttered, his voice a low growl as he peered through the optics. "This one's mine."

The Pershing's loader slammed another AP shell into the breach, and Wallace gave the order.

"Fire!"

The Pershing's cannon let loose a deafening boom, the recoil shaking the entire tank as the 90mm shell flew toward the Jagdpanther. It struck the Jagdpanther's front armor, sending a plume of smoke and dust into the air as the heavy German tank was marked out of the match.

"Nice shot, Commander!" his gunner shouted over the intercom, grinning widely.

"Don't get cocky, we've still got Panthers and Panzers to deal with," Wallace replied, his eyes already scanning for the next target. "Keep us moving forward. We're supporting the infantry push."

Back in Harrison's Sherman, the battle was heating up. Kuromorimine tanks were regrouping, trying to form a defensive line as Davy Crockett's Shermans and Pershings pressed the attack. Explosions from powder grenades and smoke grenades filled the streets as infantry from both sides fought bitterly for control of the city.

"Panther's turning its turret—brace for impact!" Harrison shouted, her heart pounding in her chest.

The Panther's 75mm gun barked, and a shell slammed into the side of Harrison's Sherman, rocking the tank violently but not penetrating its armor.

"Minor damage, we're still in this!" her driver called out, quickly adjusting the tank's position.

"Hit them back! Gunner, take that Panther out!" Harrison ordered.

With another deafening blast, the Sherman fired, the AP shell streaking toward the Panther and striking it square in the turret. The Kuromorimine tank jerked violently before coming to a stop, marked out of the match.

"Target destroyed!" the gunner shouted triumphantly.

"Good work. Now let's mop up the rest of these guys and secure Talos," Harrison said, her eyes sharp as she surveyed the battlefield.

The tide of the battle had shifted. With the combined firepower of Davy Crockett's Shermans and Pershings, the Kuromorimine tanks were being pushed back, their lines breaking under the relentless assault. The infantry, supported by the tanks, were steadily advancing through the city, clearing buildings and securing key positions.

As the last of the Kuromorimine tanks were marked out, Harrison leaned back in her seat, letting out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

"Alright, Rangers. Talos is ours," she said over the radio, a slight smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Good work today."

Sergeant Dean's squad stood at ease, having just cleared the last building of Uncle Sam infantry. The boys sighed in relief, wiping sweat and dirt from their faces as they caught their breath. Dean gave them a nod, pleased with their effort, as he casually lit a cigarette, ready to give his squad a moment to recover.

"Nice work, boys," he said, his voice gruff but approving. "Check your ammo levels, reload, and smoke 'em if you—"

Before Dean could finish, a loud, metallic rumble echoed from the street. Without warning, a Kuromorimine tank, previously hidden from sight, rumbled into view at the far end of the block. Its turret swiveled toward their position with deadly precision.

"Tank! Incoming!" one of the squad members shouted, panic flashing in his voice.

In the blink of an eye, the Kuromorimine tank's cannon barked, sending a shell streaking toward them. The building they had been holding exploded into a cloud of dust and debris as the shell impacted, sending the squad diving for cover.

Dean was the first to react, quickly pulling his squad back behind the rubble of a collapsed wall. Dust filled the air as the sound of the Kuromorimine tank advancing grew louder.

"Everyone stay low!" Dean barked, his sharp eyes scanning the street for any sign of help. His mind was racing; they hadn't expected a counterattack this quickly, and now they were pinned down. "Damn it! I thought we had the city locked down."

"Where the hell did that tank come from?" Sean yelled, crouching next to Dean, rifle in hand. "I didn't even hear it moving in!"

"Doesn't matter now. We're sitting ducks if we don't call in some support," Dean said, his voice calm but edged with urgency.

Hector, nearby, peeked around the corner of the ruined building, spotting more enemy tanks moving in alongside Uncle Sam's reinforcements. "We've got Uncle Sam tanks rolling into the city too! We're gonna get overrun!"

Dean gritted his teeth and grabbed his radio, trying to hail any friendly units in the area. "This is Sergeant Dean, we've got enemy armor on our position! Kuromorimine tanks and Uncle Sam's reinforcements! We need support now!" He released the button, waiting anxiously for a response as the sound of tank treads drew closer.

The squad exchanged nervous glances. They were light on anti-tank options, and the Kuromorimine tank was closing in fast. The streets were narrow, and their building was now nothing but rubble, offering little protection.

Dean looked over his squad, seeing their resolve despite the danger. These were Davy Crockett boys—trained, disciplined, and ready for a fight.

"Alright, listen up!" Dean barked, standing tall amidst the chaos. "We've got no choice but to hold this position until help arrives. Sean, Hector, take positions behind that wreckage and start laying down fire on any infantry that gets too close! Mandlebaum, prep a powder grenade—see if we can't slow that tank down."

The squad snapped into action, adrenaline surging through their veins as they moved into position. Sean and Hector darted behind the remnants of a destroyed jeep, their airsoft rifles at the ready, while Mandlebaum pulled a powder grenade from his pouch, his hands shaking slightly as he set the fuse.

"Ready when you are, Sarge!" Mandlebaum called out.

Dean glanced over at the Kuromorimine tank, now rolling slowly down the street, its turret scanning for targets. He knew they didn't have much time.

Just then, a crackle came over the radio, and a familiar voice broke through the static.

"Sergeant Dean, this is Commander Wallace. We're dispatching a Pershing and two Shermans to your location. Hold tight, we're five minutes out!"

Dean felt a surge of relief wash over him, though he knew they had to hold out until reinforcements arrived. Five minutes could feel like a lifetime in a fight like this.

"Copy that, Wallace. We'll hold," Dean responded, then turned to his squad. "Alright, boys, backup's on the way. We just need to hold out a little longer."

The Kuromorimine tank rumbled closer, its engine growling as it rounded the corner. The squad braced themselves, weapons ready. Mandlebaum, positioned behind a half-collapsed wall, readied his powder grenade, waiting for Dean's signal.

"Now, Mandlebaum!" Dean shouted.

Mandlebaum hurled the powder grenade with all his strength. It sailed through the air, landing just in front of the advancing Kuromorimine tank. A cloud of white powder exploded upon impact, obscuring the tank's vision and sending up a thick plume of smoke-like dust.

"Nice throw!" Sean called out as he and Hector opened fire on a group of enemy infantry trying to advance under the tank's cover. Their airsoft rifles cracked with rapid bursts, sending a hail of plastic pellets toward the approaching Uncle Sam infantry, forcing them to take cover.

The Kuromorimine tank, momentarily blinded by the powder, halted its advance. Its turret swung wildly, trying to find a target through the thick cloud of dust.

Dean took the opportunity to reposition his squad, keeping them out of the tank's line of fire. "Hold tight, boys! Just a little longer!"

The ground shook as the roar of engines echoed from behind them. Dean glanced over his shoulder and saw the reinforcements approaching. The Pershing, flanked by two Shermans, charged down the street, their guns already aimed at the Kuromorimine tank.

"Support's here!" Hector shouted, a grin breaking through the tension.

The Pershing opened fire, its 90mm gun blasting the Kuromorimine tank with a direct hit. The enemy tank shuddered under the impact, smoke pouring from its engine as it was marked out of the match.

"Target down!" Wallace's voice boomed over the radio. "Let's clean up the rest of these Uncle Sam tanks and secure the area!"

The Shermans moved up, firing at the remaining enemy armor while Dean and his squad took care of the last pockets of infantry. With the enemy tanks in retreat and the streets of Talos firmly under their control, the Davy Crockett boys had secured another hard-fought victory.

Dean finally let out a breath he had been holding. "Nice work, everyone. We held out. Now let's finish clearing this sector and get some rest. We've earned it."

With the city of Talon now firmly in Davy Crockett's hands, the battle had become a turning point in the match, pushing their school further up in the S-Rank standings across the state. The strategic control of Talon opened critical roads to the cities of the west, giving Houston's forces a decisive advantage.

As Houston's units pressed southwest, Welsey and Elijah's contingents advanced toward the northwest, while Muller and Graham's forces made significant gains, smashing through enemy defenses in the west and southwest, all the way to the city of Homedale, a key point controlled by both the Association and the Federation.

The battle-weary Rangers now found themselves regrouping after the fierce urban combat in Talon. Two Rangers, standing near the edge of a field command post, seemed less than thrilled about the aftermath. Dust still settled in the air, and the constant hum of vehicles and equipment filled the atmosphere. One of the Rangers, clearly agitated, paced back and forth while his friend leaned against a nearby sandbag wall.

"Guy sticks his gun right in my face," the disgruntled Ranger muttered, frustration evident in his voice. "You don't think that's enough to get me a transfer into a different platoon?"

His friend, half-listening, cracked a smile. "Have you ever thought of writing to Houston?" he quipped, knowing full well the absurdity of that suggestion.

The first Ranger shot him an annoyed look. "Yeah, real freaking funny, man," he retorted, shaking his head. "As if Houston has time to deal with that crap. He's out there planning battles, not babysitting platoon drama."

His buddy laughed softly. "Hey, just sayin'. Maybe he'll appreciate the honesty. Or maybe not, and you'll just have to deal with Sergeant 'By the Book' for a while longer."

The first Ranger sighed deeply, rubbing his face with his hands. "I just don't get it, man. We're all supposed to be on the same team, and here we are almost pointing guns at each other. It's not right."

Before the conversation could continue, their sergeant from another platoon strode over, eyeing them both sharply. "What's the holdup here? Get your gear ready. We're moving out soon," he barked, his voice carrying the weight of authority.

Meanwhile, in the southwest of Tomodachi Island, the camera pans over a firebase recently captured by Kuromorimine and Uncle Sam forces. The scene is somber as disabled Shermans, Pershings, and Chaffees from Davy Crockett's ranks lie scattered across the battlefield, the once-mighty tanks now silent. Crews and Rangers alike, many with their hands behind their heads in surrender, stand in lines with defeated expressions as they're marched off as prisoners of war. The air is thick with the bitter taste of defeat.

Watching the captured men and disabled vehicles from a vantage point, Maho Nishizumi and Edward, one of joint high school's commanders, observe the scene silently. The sounds of boots and the clinking of metal from tank wrecks echo in the background as they speak.

"Okay, I never expected to deal with their strike force being here in this town we captured," Maho remarks, her eyes narrowing as she surveys the scene.

Edward walks beside her, his expression calm but calculating. "Of course. This is Houston's Vice Commander at work. I've got a feeling Houston is just waiting on us," Edward replies, his voice firm.

Maho nods slightly, but her tone carries a hint of skepticism. "Waiting for what? For us to make a mistake? Well, to think of it, I might just give him that." Her voice has a confident edge, as if she enjoys the challenge.

"Yeah..." Edward agrees, though his mind seems to be working through a different train of thought.

After a brief pause, Maho shifts the conversation. "Hey, speaking of this match... I wonder what really sparked this whole war match again. I know Nonna was assaulted, but what caused it?" she asks, glancing sideways at Edward, curious to hear his insight.

Edward sighs, recounting the event. "Well... I spoke to Austin about it, and from what Nonna said, she was walking with Katyusha, doing their usual thing. Then they suddenly crossed paths with a patrol of Rangers. As they passed by, something was said that offended Katyusha. It escalated quickly from there."

He continues, "Katyusha, being who she is, confronted the Rangers by blocking their way. One of the Rangers, clearly annoyed with her complaining, demanded that she move. When she didn't, they shoved her aside. That's when Nonna stepped in, seeing Katyusha pushed, and retaliated by shoving one of the Rangers. Of course, one of the hotheaded Rangers didn't take kindly to that and knocked Nonna to the ground."

Edward's tone turns more serious as he finishes the story. "Nina, who witnessed the whole thing, reported it to Austin, and... well, you know the rest."

Maho listens intently, her face betraying a mix of understanding and disdain. "I see... Houston is a smart man, but he's got childish Rangers," she mutters.

Edward nods. "That he does. But we shouldn't underestimate them. His Rangers might be undisciplined at times, but they're dangerous when cornered. Houston knows how to push them."

Maho smirks. "He's going to need more than just raw talent to win this. We'll be waiting for him."

Meanwhile, at Houston's camp a few miles from the city of Talon, the atmosphere is tense and chaotic. Houston sits shirtless, his pants hastily put on, revealing a muscular build adorned with scars from past battles. An eye patch covers his right eye, a grim reminder of the dangers he faces. Ben, his head medic, kneels beside him, carefully stitching a cut on his shoulder while muttering his frustrations.

"You've got to get your rest, Boss. You're so stubborn you'd keep going even if death were serving you crackers," Ben scolds, focused on his task.

Houston grimaces at the pain but manages a half-hearted chuckle. "Yeah, well, I don't have the luxury of sleep when there's work to be done."

Just then, a familiar voice interrupts their conversation. Jefferson, Houston's Vice Commander, approaches with a stack of reports in hand, his brow furrowed with concern. "Boss, here's the latest update," he says, handing over a document while shaking his head at the gravity of the situation.

"Any word on Sergeant Dean and my Rangers?" Houston inquires, worry etched on his face.

Jefferson glances at the report before responding. "Not yet. They're probably still securing up in the city. My guess is they're making sure they are holding their position."

Houston nods, his expression darkening as he processes this news. "Damn it..." he mutters, frustration bubbling beneath the surface.

Ben finishes stitching and applies a clean bandage, taking a moment to meet Houston's gaze. "Look, Boss, I get it. But you need to take care of yourself too. You can't help them if you're passing out from exhaustion."

Houston leans back, rubbing his temples. "The reason I don't sleep is that some of the boys in this unit are untrained, undisciplined, and ill-equipped. We don't have enough resources, and I can't afford to let my guard down. They rely on me."

Ben sighs, stepping back to assess his work. "That may be true, but losing sleep doesn't help the situation. It only makes things worse. You need to recharge, or you won't be any good to them, either."

"Yeah..." Houston says, his frustration apparent as he unrolls another report, his eyes scanning the text. "Damn it..." he curses under his breath, feeling the weight of responsibility on his shoulders.

"I just hope Graham and Muller and the other's are doing just fine." Houston said to himself as he put on his shirt.

Meanwhile

As Houston said that, the scene shifts to the forces of Grand Lake High's Marine Division riding alongside North High School's Panzer Division. The North High soldiers are packed into old German Wehrmacht half-tracks, their weathered exteriors evoking an image from a bygone era. Meanwhile, Graham's Marines hitch a ride atop M60 Patton tanks, grinning and chatting as they roll through the dust-covered landscape. The radio in one of the tanks blares "Lay All Your Love on Me" by ABBA, adding a surreal contrast to the tense atmosphere of the battlefield.

Not far from them, North High's mortar crew, stationed in a dug-in mortar pit, load 81mm rounds into their tubes. These rounds, unlike traditional explosive ordnance, are packed with powder—designed to disorient and mark enemy positions rather than kill. The steady thoomp of the mortars launching fills the air, as they support the siege of Valverde. The city, fiercely defended by two League schools, is under pressure from all sides, while Pravda High and Edison High desperately attempt to break through Muller and Graham's lines.

In the thick of it, Muller's Tiger I tank, an iconic symbol of World War II's German might, emerges onto the battlefield. The distinctive rumble of its engine echoes across the plains as it leads two Panthers into formation. Muller, standing tall in the command hatch, surveys the scene with a calculating eye. To his left, he sees the enemy—Edison High's M6 heavy tanks and Pravda's T-34s—racing toward them, determined to punch through the German armor.

"Kertz, vorwärts!" Muller commands in German, his voice cutting through the clamor of the advancing tanks.

"Jawohl, Kommandant!" Kertz, his loyal driver, responds without hesitation, shifting the Tiger into gear as it surges forward.

From his position in the command hatch of an M60 Patton, Graham watches the battle unfold, his eyes narrowing in focus. Seeing his old friend Muller charging with him, a grin spreads across his face. "Let's do this, my old German friend," Graham mutters into the mic.

Muller, hearing Graham's voice over the shared comms, grins as well. "Ja!" he shouts back, rallying his crew. His Tiger tank roars to life, and the Panthers to his sides follow, their turrets swiveling to track the approaching enemies.

As the tanks close in, Muller barks orders to his crew in rapid-fire German:
"Lade die 88mm, auf den M6 zielen! Haltet die T-34 in Schach, wir müssen den Durchbruch verhindern!"

"Panzergranate geladen!" shouts his gunner, as he swings the turret to align with the approaching M6. The Tiger's long 88mm barrel steadies, and with a thunderous BOOM, the round fires, slicing through the air and slamming into the side armor of an M6.

A massive explosion rocks the battlefield as the M6 grinds to a halt, its crew scrambling out in panic. Muller doesn't take a moment to relish the victory—he's already scanning for his next target.

Inside Graham's M60, the atmosphere is just as tense. "Loader, give me HEAT! Gunner, target that T-34! Get them before they can flank Muller!" Graham orders, his Southern drawl cutting through the radio chatter.

"HEAT loaded!" comes the swift reply from his loader. His gunner lines up the shot, and with a sharp pull of the trigger, the M60 fires. The high-explosive anti-tankb   round rockets forward, striking a T-34 square in the turret. The Soviet-era tank buckles under the impact, its turret popping off in a fiery blast.

"That's a kill!" the gunner shouts, adrenaline pumping through his veins.

"Good work!" Graham replies, still scanning the battlefield. His M60 moves forward alongside the Tiger, both commanders expertly coordinating their strikes. "Keep them pinned down! Don't give them any room to breathe!"

Muller's Tiger rattles off another shot, this time hitting a second M6 tank in the tracks, immobilizing it. "Gute Arbeit! Weiter vorrücken, lasst sie uns zerquetschen!"  Muller shouts with a rare burst of enthusiasm, feeling the momentum shift in their favor.

With the enemy tanks in retreat and the siege of Valverde broken, Muller and Graham regroup in the heart of the city, their tanks rolling back to a temporary command post established in one of the more intact buildings. Dust, debris, and the remnants of battle still hang in the air as their vehicles come to a halt. Exhausted but victorious, the crews begin maintenance on their tanks while their commanders meet to discuss the situation.

Muller climbs out of his Tiger I with a satisfied expression, his face streaked with soot. Graham, similarly battle-worn, steps down from his M60, his jacket slung over his shoulder.

"Looks like we held them off for now, but this won't be the last of them," Muller says, approaching Graham. "Edison High and Pravda will regroup, and we can expect reinforcements."

Graham nods, wiping sweat from his brow as he surveys the battlefield. "Yeah, we knocked 'em back good, but they'll be back with more. And we're running low on supplies and manpower. I've already lost two M60s in that push." He pauses, a serious expression crossing his face. "We need reinforcements, and we need them fast."

Muller folds his arms, looking down the main street where smoke still rises from the wreckage of the enemy tanks. "Agreed. We can't hold Valverde indefinitely without more support. What's the status on our supply lines?"

"Cut off for the time being," Graham replies, his tone grim. "Edison and Pravda managed to sever our southern route during the assault. North High's supply convoys are delayed, and we won't see anything from Houston's forces until they secure the southwest. We're on our own for the moment."

Muller frowns, deep in thought. "If we don't get help soon, Valverde will fall."

Graham leans against the side of his tank, thinking for a moment before speaking. "I've got an idea, but it's risky." He pauses, meeting Muller's gaze. "I could send a small strike force of my Marines out to get help. They're fast, well-trained, and can move through enemy territory undetected. If they can link up with any of our allies nearby, they could bring back reinforcements or at least open a route for supplies."

Muller raises an eyebrow. "A strike force through enemy lines? That's a hell of a gamble, Graham."

"I know," Graham admits, "but it's the best shot we've got. If we sit here and wait for help to come to us, we might be overrun before it gets here. We need to take the initiative."

Muller looks out over the city, the weight of command heavy on his shoulders. "You're right. We need to act before the enemy has a chance to regroup. How many Marines are you thinking?"

"Small unit, five or six at most," Graham answers. "They'll move fast, stay under the radar. I've got a squad ready to go."

Muller nods slowly, considering the plan. "Alright. You have my approval. But make sure they know what they're getting into. If they're caught, there's no guarantee we can rescue them."

"They know the risks," Graham replies. "These are my best men—they'll get the job done."

Muller extends his hand to Graham. "Then let's do it. Valverde won't fall on our watch."

Graham shakes Muller's hand firmly. "We hold the line. And when those reinforcements arrive, we'll push them all the way back to the coast."

As they finalize their plan, Graham walks off to prepare his strike force, while Muller stays behind, overseeing the defensive positions being strengthened around the city.

A few hours later, Graham's small squad of Marines is assembled. Clad in camo and lightly equipped for speed, they check their gear one last time before receiving their orders. Graham stands before them, his expression stern but encouraging.

"Listen up," Graham begins. "Your mission is simple but critical. Get through the enemy's lines, find our allies, and bring back reinforcements. Speed is your ally here—move fast, stay hidden, and avoid unnecessary engagements. We're counting on you to get this done."

The squad leader, a seasoned Marine named Corporal Turner, nods sharply. "Understood, sir. We'll get it done."

Graham looks them over one last time. "Good luck out there. We're depending on you."