For the past few minutes Belov has been engaging his gun in a long-distance gun duel with an enemy medium tank. Markov’s aim has been – for the most part – right on target. Belov has seen way too many dust plumes to the side or front of the tank. He is livid.
“Kill the damn beast,” he shouts, waving his arms wildly. The gunner only grimly hugs his aiming mechanism and changes the aim point slightly.
The enemy tank takes yet another hit to the front plates. Belov can see the sparks flying and it makes him angrier. As he is watching through the spyglasses, he sees a flame from the tank. His mouth hangs open for the bare seconds it takes for the enemy shell to hit.
The enemy shell impacts on the lip of their gun pit, throwing more shrapnel about the crew, but the gun shield protects them this time.
“How dare he,” roars Belov. “I am only a stinking corporal.” He sees motion in the corner of his eye and turns to see Popov with his idiot’s grin, nodding his head up and down in agreement. He swings to hit the man but Popov is pretty fast for an idiot and dodges the blow. “Load!” he screams and the man rushes another shell to the gun.
“Stop playing with the bastard and kill it,” orders Belov.
“I’m trying, Sergeant, but the shells won’t penetrate,” retorts Markov. “We are too far distant to get a kill.” There is anger and frustration in his voice.
Markov triggers another round which flies true, again impacting on the front plates of the enemy tank and showing a shower of sparks to mark the failure. He hears the roar of anger from his sergeant, like some unhinged beast about to go berserk, and he hunches down over his gunsight, expecting a flurry of blows from the man.