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Alexandria: “I see.”

At that moment, the driver Beliyakov said, “All set, Warrant Officer, Your Excellency General.”

Alexandria: “Would you like to inspect it?”

Wang Zhong nodded and walked towards the “Parade Tank.”

The tank’s paint job was entirely that of a parade, with white rings on the road wheels, making it look imposing and striking, but its concealment in the open field was nearly zero.

The tactical number on the side of the turret had been changed to 422, with a white horse pattern added behind the last 2.

Wang Zhong: “The white horse is?”

“You’re known as the White Horse General, an enemy title, so I drew one,” Beliyakov said, shrugging his hands.

Wang Zhong nodded, then took one last look at the thickened antenna where a flag had been dyed red over half of its surface.

The obvious bullet holes and traces of gunsmoke scorching on the flag emitted a unique aesthetic of the battlefield.

Wang Zhong admired his new ride, and while the T3485’s large head paired with the short 76 tank gun seemed strange to him, this didn’t prevent him from liking this new mount.

In his eyes, it was his Gundam, his real Getter Robo, his Iron Sheriff.

Suddenly, Wang Zhong remembered old man Rezenov who had introduced him to this flag and hurriedly asked the surrounding Guardian Army, “Where is old Mister Rezenov?”

“Sacrificed.” The Guardian Army replied, “He called us to recover your remains. That flag likely still carries his blood.”

Wang Zhong fell silent, then after a few seconds, he clenched his teeth and said, “I won’t let him regret leading the charge, not at all.”

At this point, this life was no longer just my own.

Wang Zhong had never understood Wang Changling’s frontier fortress poem so profoundly—although he was now on foreign land in an alternate spacetime.

Battle-scarred amor coated in dust, unwavering till the fortress fell!

Wang Zhong took a robust step to climb the tank and said to Grigori, “No need to guard me anymore, go help the Priest organize the Guardian Army! Regroup at the brigade headquarters after the battle!”

Grigori saluted and turned to leave.

Wang Zhong stood atop the tank and shouted to the people who had not yet dispersed,”Folks! Women and children, head to the train station immediately! There’s a train that just arrived, and they will transport you to the rear for retreat!

“Women who don’t wish to retreat can join the Labor Camp and help with repairs, but children must go!”

“Men follow the Priests, and veterans with combat experience, please step forward to be squad leaders! Today, we’ll fight the enemy to the bitter end!”

“Hurrah!”

“Hurrah!” the deafening cheers echoed in response to Wang Zhong.

Then he climbed into the tank, urging Alexandria, “Quick! To battle positions!”

Alexandria climbed the tank and squeezed through the cabin door on Wang Zhong’s right into the turret. The loader and driver were also in position.

As the driver slipped into the cabin, Wang Zhong saw him with a hammer and asked puzzled, “What are you doing with a hammer?”

“For turning. You can’t move the lever on the left without a hammer. Many of this batch of T34s have this problem,” the driver answered.

Seems like I have read about this in many memoirs!

While making this mental note, Wang Zhong put on his headphones and adjusted his throat microphone, “Can you hear me?”

The other four people on the tank replied in unison, “Heard you!”

“Move out!”

With a crisp “bang,” the tank engine roared to life, slowly accelerating.

Not just for turning, even shifting gears needed a hammer!

The tank gradually picked up speed, people hastily made way, and the road was quickly cleared.

Then Wang Zhong said with a taunt he had taken from “The Wandering Earth 2,” “Beliyakov, are you pedaling a bicycle? So slow!”

The next moment, the engine roared, and the tank, like an enraged beast, lunged forward with a fierce push that nearly threw Wang Zhong out of the turret.

The 32-ton behemoth hurtled down the street, the wind it raised blew off a girl’s kerchief on the roadside.

Everyone was cheering, “Charge, General!”

“Defeat them!”

Wang Zhong stood upon the “Parade Tank,” just as Alexandria Yefimovich had described, he could fully feel the sensation of the wind blowing through his hair.

In moments like this, one’s spirits can’t help but lift.

The static noise in his headphones seemed to transform into the classic “Oh Fields, My Fields.”

Another 24 T34s closely followed behind tank number 422.

The racing tank division’s rising dust seemed like a cavalry charge.

But without the sound of hooves, only the rumble of tracks crushing helmets.

The squadron charged out of Loktov, maneuvering towards the flanks of the enemy’s second echelon.

————

Major General Randolph spotted the large clouds of dust rising from the city: “What’s that? Are the Ante People launching a cavalry charge?”

He adjusted the magnification of his binoculars and peered towards the dust.

However, all he saw was a tank flying a red flag leading the charge through the dust, with whatever was behind it completely obscured by the rising dirt.

Unlike other Ante tank operators Randolph had seen those past days, the one in the tank with tactical number 422 was not cowering in the turret—yes, the Major General, like almost all armored troops, thought the Ante People didn’t pop their heads out because they were cowards.

On the tank number 422, the officer poking his head out stood tall and proud, as though he was being reviewed in a parade.