The rail line east of Paris was a warpath.
Rattling over hastily repaired trestles and skimming past blackened villages, the flatbed carrying the Sanglier Mk Vroared through the countryside like a metal prophet. Its olive-painted hull gleamed under the morning light, streaked with soot and rivets. A tricolor flag had been hastily bolted to its rear.
Inside the forward personnel car, Emil sat hunched over a crate, his coat unbuttoned, eyes fixed on the schematics once more. Not to revise them—just to steady his nerves.
"Do you think it'll survive?" Roland asked from the next seat.
Emil didn't answer at first.
"We didn't build it to survive," he said at last. "We built it to break something."
The Last Stop
At Vitry-le-François, the train hissed to a stop under the charred canopy of a bombed-out station. Shells had hit the west yard just two nights prior—metal girders lay twisted like bones.
A platoon of infantry stood waiting, led by Captain Morel, his face grim beneath a bandaged brow.
"We've spotted them," he said. "Three Feuerschreits. They're thirty minutes east, headed to disrupt the Champagne rail junction. We've got men. We've got rifles. No armor."
He glanced at the massive silhouette of the Sanglier being lowered by crane onto reinforced treads.
"Now, I suppose we have a miracle."
"Not a miracle," Emil said. "Just engineering."
Ready the Beast
Under Marianne's direction, the final checks began:
Radiator pressure: stable
Shell feed: manual with assisted reload
Rangefinder alignment: crude, but workable
Tracks: reinforced with steel cleats to cross trenchworks
The six-man crew mounted in silence. Emil took his seat at the commander's port. Roland would gun. Marianne would handle diagnostics and backup operation.
As the hatch closed above them with a thundering clang, the world narrowed to a view slit and periscope.
"All units ready," Roland reported.
"Engine live," Marianne added. "Throttle at your command."
"Then let's wake the Bastille," Emil said.
The Mk V roared to life and rolled from the yard.
The Battlefield
They crested a ridge east of the junction—and saw hell.
The Champagne plains were ablaze with fire and smoke. Shells had cratered the vineyards into moonscapes. In the middle distance, three Feuerschreit tanks lumbered forward—black beasts with serrated plows, their gun turrets swiveling like executioners in search of prey.
A unit of French infantry was retreating across an embankment, chased by machine-gun fire from one of the German behemoths.
"Target the leftmost," Emil ordered. "We need to draw attention—fast."
"Armored plating, angular nose," Roland murmured. "Looks like their newer variant. We'll have one shot."
The Mk V accelerated downhill, the treads snarling against mud and debris.
"Range: 350 meters. Steady... steady..."
First Blood
The Sanglier fired.
Its twin-barrel autocannon screamed. The first shell ricocheted—too shallow.
The second punched into the Feuerschreit's side—exploding near the engine housing. Flames burst from the tank's rear vents as it jerked to a halt.
"Direct hit!" Marianne called. "Engine breach!"
"Enemy's turning," Roland barked.
The remaining two Feuerschreits locked onto them. The lead machine's cannon fired—a thunderous blast that threw mud and gravel into the air. The shell struck the hill behind them, narrowly missing.
"Keep moving!" Emil shouted. "Flank left!"
The Mk V shifted, its weight causing the ground to tremble. A second shot slammed into its side—but the new angled armor deflected the worst of it.
"We took it like a wall!" Roland shouted, grinning like a madman.
"Now punch back."
Trial by Fire
For fifteen minutes, the battle raged.
The Sanglier Mk V circled the enemy like a predator, using terrain to mask its movements. It fired in bursts, coordinating with the infantry below to force the Germans into exposed positions.
One of the Feuerschreits charged downhill—only to have its tread caught in an old irrigation ditch. Before it could reverse, Roland fired again.
Boom.
The turret shattered.
The third and final German tank reversed and began retreating toward the eastern treeline.
"After it," Emil ordered.
"That's not in our orders," Marianne warned. "We've proved the Mk V works. Let it go."
"No. If we let that one go, it comes back with friends."
The Sanglier surged forward, its engine growling louder than ever.
Ambush
But the Germans weren't fleeing.
The third Feuerschreit led them into a gulley—where a fourth tank waited, hidden in low ground.
"Trap!" Roland shouted.
A shot rang out.
The Sanglier jerked. Sparks exploded from the left tread. Inside, the cabin rocked violently.
"Tread's snapped," Marianne cursed. "We're immobile!"
"Gunner, 20 degrees left! Fire!"
Shells roared.
The hidden Feuerschreit surged forward—but its turret was too slow.
Emil grabbed the secondary controls and pivoted the Sanglier's hull as best he could, exposing the front armor to block the next shot.
"Brace!"
Boom.
The shell slammed into the frontal plating. Bolts popped. The hull groaned.
But it held.
Roland fired again.
This time, the shell struck the turret seam—and detonated the magazine.
The fourth Feuerschreit exploded in a fireball.
Aftermath
Silence fell.
Smoke curled from the wrecked enemy machines. French infantry emerged cautiously from foxholes and trenches, watching the smoking Sanglier with awe.
Inside the cabin, Emil exhaled slowly.
"Report."
"We're hit but alive," Marianne replied. "Engine stable. Tread gone. We're not going anywhere fast."
"But we won," Roland said.
"We endured," Emil corrected.
As medics and engineers approached, Emil climbed out of the top hatch.
He stood atop the battered Sanglier as the sun broke through the clouds—and the men below began to cheer.
The monster had held.
France had held.
And history had just changed.