Learning (The Gentlemen’s War)

The snaps and cracks of weapons fire sounded like popcorn to Colom Fraus. The armor surrounding the tank crew muffled everything from thundering roars into mild disturbances. The rumblings of its own twin diesel engine proved louder than some of the firepower the enemy had thrown at them. The battle continued ahead of them, while the crew of five sat idling.

Fraus himself held a small pen light with which to read the textbook he had snuck in. Cramped in the co-driver position, he hunched over the book and murmured important passages back to himself. A random shell landed close by, shaking the M4 Sherman, and caused enough annoyance for Fraus to look up momentarily.

“What the feck was that?” The driver, Pan, exclaimed over their intercom. Fraus merely turned to the next page in his reading material.

“Lord Oikawa. Calm yourself, child. His mortars are amateurs,” Moskvin intoned. The tank commander’s exhaustion came through clearly over the antiquated communication line.

“That was awful close for amateurs,” Pan whined.

“Broken chrono’s right twice day.” The gunner butted into the conversation.

“Speaking of days, how much longer?” Asked the young Pan.

“Two days,” Moskvin stated.

“Sat here two days now. Sit here two more?” Asked the gunner.

“We’ll do as we’re told,” Moskvin sighed.

“More money out there. Less money here.”

“I’m sure we’ll have our chance to play for the cameras.”

Fraus looked up, mulling something he’d read over in his mind. An absentminded stare out the multi-layered glass viewport revealed an almost idyllic environment outside. Their makeshift operations base had been set up in a rural-esque village. A few of the buildings had burned down from the initial battle around the area, but most still stood beside cobblestone streets. Ahead of the Sherman had been built a small checkpoint with a machine gun sat on a table scavenged from around.. He watched as one man walked up to the guard, exchanged pleasantries, then swapped places. The man relieved of watching the opposing hills for Onis quickly left the frontline and the limits of the viewport as he headed back for the improvised barracks.

“Oughta go out, stretch legs.” The loader broke his usual silence.

“We could move at any moment,” countered Moskvin. “We’re told to sit. We sit.”

Fraus pulled a highlighter out from his coveralls and marked a certain passage. The felt tip squeaked across the glossy page. Pan looked over.

“What’s that now?”

Fraus didn’t return the attention, only muttering “A book.”

“Book of what?”

“Measor non-linear field theory.”

“Sounds like bullshit.” Pin sniffed and turned back to his own viewport.

Fraus took the notepad he had rested on one side of the textbook and began to practice an equation mentioned. The pen he used slid across the page with ease. His eyes followed as each number, symbol, and variable poured out from the pen. In his mind, Fraus could see the rest of the function coming to life and creati—

“You have a book?” grunted Moskvin.

The thoughts evaporated as Fraus looked behind him to the center of the tank. Moskvin hadn’t left his perch in the turret, but Fraus still felt scrutinized.

“Um, yes. I do.”

“Is it religious?”

“Most would say no.”

Moskvin didn’t speak for a moment. “How’d you get it past the pre-game inspection?”

Fraus sighed and closed the book, keeping two fingers inside to mark his spot. “I found a discarded munitions box no one was using during training. I just put everything in the box and slid it on the rack with the others.”

“Thought monitors checked boxes.” The loader sounded, unsurprisingly, confused.

“They do, just not the kind we’re thinking of,” remarked Moskvin. “You’ve been reading this whole time?”

Fraus braced himself. “Well, no. I only do it during the downtime. We’re not doing anything, see?”

“Were you reading when the Onis hit a rocket on Tomas’ tank?” This question came with a veiled anger. Everyone knew the subtext in the question. Moskvin was still looking for someone to blame.

“No. But it wouldn’t have mattered. Medics said the rocket hit the back half of the rig. We were in front of them.” Fraus still tried a defence, though now wary of the delicate territory the conversation had entered.

“Hmmm. Maybe their bog had been reading when the rocket hit.” Moskvin’s comment didn’t appear to be directed at anyone in particular. Everyone in the vehicle seemed rather relieved at that. “It’s getting late. Fraus, hop out to the chow point and grab us bowls.”

Thankful for the excuse to leave, Fraus acknowledged and took off his headset. Fraus set the book and notepad down on the floor beside his stool; he had given up the dummy ammo can when they last resupplied. Opening the deck hatch with a brief struggle, Fraus braced his hands on the sides and pulled himself up and out. The atmosphere outside hinted at gunpowder residue and wood smoke. He swung both legs over the side and slid off.

The cobblestones clicked under his boots as Fraus hurried to the building the support element had dedicated to food and supplies. He paused by one collapsed house, digging a reasonably-sized piece of wood plank out. A few soldiers, rifles slung over shoulders, nodded to him as they passed in quiet conversation. The closer Fraus got, the more the smell of cooked something or others joined in the general aroma of the battlefield. His stomach noticed as well as his nose.

The interior of the house-turned-chow-hall was illuminated by the fireplace and several lanterns. A row of tables had been set up with bowls, cutlery, and a few large containers that wafted steam into the cool air. A soldier waiting behind the tables motioned for Fraus to approach.

“You’re in luck. We just finished this batch. Tanker?” He asked as he made note of Fraus’ uniform. “How many in your crew?”

“Five,” replied Fraus. He brought the plank up and held it as a platter for the cook to place completed bowls on. After a few quiet moments, five were lined along its back.

“You’re with that armor company that’s been sitting out there?” The cook attempted conversation.

Fraus hummed an affirmative as he turned to leave. He didn’t hear what the cook had to say next, instead quickly footing his way back up the street to the crew. The slush inside the bowls mixed left and right as he walked. Chunks of gristle floated at the top of the thin stew.

Moskvin had opened the top hatch on the turret and sat on it, smoking a thin cigarette and dangling his legs over the side. The gunner had also come out and stood on the deck. A stream of urine landed on the cobblestones with a sound like rain. Leaning out of the top hatch was the loader who also enjoyed a drag off a nicstick. The long cannon jutting out from the turret had someone’s socks drying on it. Along the side of the cannon barrel was scrawled the tank’s nickname, Queball. Fraus set the plank of wood down on the deck of the tank and began handing the paper bowls up to his crew members.

“Book boy’s back,” observed Moskvin in his thick Kherson droll. “Learn anything?”

Fraus didn’t respond, instead giving Moskvin a bowl.

The gunner stamped his boot a few times next to the deck hatch. The noise summoned Pan who stuck his soot-streaked face out the hole.

“What’s the dinner?” He asked with a careful eye on the bowl’s contents.

“Dinner,” the gunner snapped back.

“Fair ’nough,” the boy disappeared back into the tank.

Fraus sat against the side of the tank. He fished a spoon out of his pocket and quickly worked through the small meal. Once finished, he tossed the bowl and spoon to the street and stood up.

“You got spoon for you?” The gunner glared at the discarded utensil. “Not us?”

Fraus looked back at it with him. “Oh. Sorry.” He stood up on the track of the tank as a foothold and clambered onto the deck. He dropped himself into the darkness of the hull once more and retrieved his study materials. Pan noisily slurped on the thin broth from his driver’s stool. Fraus grimaced and tried to ignore him, hunching further over his book and notes.

“Didn’t get us spoons, huh? Probably thinks spoons are just for uni boys.” Moskvin’s voice drifted through the open hatch. The gunner said something in response but Fraus couldn’t hear it. Both men outside laughed.

The loader awoke with a small cry. “Bossman. Radio.” There was the sound of someone climbing around the top of the tank. Then, Moskvin began shouting for the tank to be readied.

Fraus stuck himself up and snatched the deck hatch’s handle. Pulling the heavy lid with a resounding bang, he sat back down and gripped the handle of the .30 caliber machine gun resting in front of him. The gimballed machine gun was Fraus’ only contribution to the game until someone in the tank got themselves killed. Then, life got a tad more complicated.

He swung the weapon left and right, making sure it still could. And once satisfied, he let it hang again. Fraus pulled on his headset to hear the radio chatter between the tanks of the armor company.

“Quaker Company is being moved forward. First and Third platoon are meeting us at the road’s intersection a mile up. Queen Bee will take point. Queball, bring up the rear.” Someone ordered.

“Copy, Queball in rear.” Moskvin’s radio voice was substantially more level-headed sounding than the voice he used to speak to the crew.

“Queen Bee moving to the front. Watch yourself, Quickie. We’re moving up on your right.”

“Don’t scratch the paint, Queen.”

The company commander’s proxy spoke over the tankers’ chatter. “Quaker Company, move to grid zero one nine, three one five. Use three-steepled church as reference. Infantry companies in the area report contact with light armor. Casualties approaching high. Get there before they rout.”

Fraus watched through his periscope as the other three surviving tanks of Second Platoon lumbered past them. The black exhaust vomited from the individual stovepipes caused him to wrinkle his nose. He ducked back down and picked up his book. He wouldn’t be needed for a while.

“Driver, forward steady. Keep us fifteen behind Quarrel,” ordered Moskvin.

“Yeah, yeah,” Pan muttered. The tank lurched forward and began rolling. The sound of the tracks spinning and hitting the road made a constant clack-clack-clack. Even with the ear muffs of the headset, Fraus glared at the wall for its failure to deafen the track’s sounds enough. He refocused on his book and clicked the penlight on.

Equations, questions, answers leapt out at him from the text. He smiled as he read. Fraus felt like an explorer in a movie peering into a forbidden chamber full of treasure. Whenever a particular point stood to him as especially beautiful, Fraus would sketch it in his notes and play with whatever math lived within it.

“Quaker Company, be advised. Roman Company’s final platoon has lost contact in vicinity of three-steepled church. Initial estimate of armor is to be increased.”

The gunner cursed in his maiden language. “Bossman, armor pierce?”

“Yeah, load one. Push comes to shove, we’ll just make some Oni footman’s day a lot worse.” Moskvin sounded more awake now. Fresh orders made for fresh purpose.

A tinkering of metal behind Fraus was then followed with a clang as the loader readied the cannon.

“Up,” stated the loader.

“Up,” echoed the gunner.

Fraus ignored them as he found an especially interesting passage. He turned to a fresh page in his notepad and set about dissecting its inner workings on the paper. The sounds of the vehicle around him lulled to a drone when focus set in. Fraus chewed on the end of his pen for a moment when an algorithm stumped him. After brief rumination, he smiled and congratulated himself as he found a way around the problem. It all fell into place for him.

“Are you still doing that reading?” Pan asked after a few minutes.

“Hmmm?” Fraus looked up.

“Yes, are you fecking reading right now?” Moskvin joined in with a hint of hostility.

“Oh, um, yes. Yes I am.” Fraus looked over at Pan, who had since put his eyes back to his viewport. The light let in through the porthole made for a reverse raccoon eyes effect on the young man’s face.

“How can you even read in this dark?” Pan wondered aloud.

“How about you don’t goddamn read, yes? Watch for rockets.” The terse order from Moskvin caused Fraus to grit his teeth. He reluctantly replaced his study materials and took the machine gun up in hand. He didn’t see much save for the sides of the road and the back of the tank ahead of them.

The thought of the last concept he read stayed alive in the back of his mind. He contemplated it over and over. In his mind’s eye, he tried to picture how it affected nature and how he could affect it. The materials the university had suggested were truly marvelous, Fraus felt, and he felt some contempt towards Moskvin for delaying his work.

“I don’t even understand why you would bring that shit on board. Don’t do this again,” ordered Moskvin. “Fecking reading during Opening Hostilities. What’s got in your head, boy?”

Fraus shrugged, more for himself than anything, before speaking. “Fall quarter starts a few weeks before the end of the season. I want to be prepared for what I’ll miss.”

“You’ll miss the goddamn Onis if you keep your nose in that book,” growled Moskvin. “Fecking boy wanting to go to Uni. I wanted to go to Uni. You know what’s better money? The game. It’d behoove you to learn that.”

Fraus flitted his eyes back and forth across the viewport. The open fields to the left and right of them wouldn’t hide anyone. He relaxed only a little, but kept his hand on the weapon grip. It was more out of a fear of Moskvin than of death that he tried to stay alert.

“First Platoon in contact,” came a cry across the radio waves. “Lost one. Onis are past the church. We’ve got infantry in that orchard behind it.”

“Second, Third, report,” the proxy picked up after the panicked announcement.

The platoon leaders each reported nothing interesting. Second Platoon reassured First. Third merely stated they were on the way before addressing the platoon directly.

“Okay, Third, we’re going cross country. Turn off this road and cut across the field. Get ready to lay fire on the orchard when we pass the hill.”

“Eyes open, boys,” Moskvin reminded quietly. Pan pulled on one of the steering levers to veer Queball off the cobblestone into the dirt field. The column of armor kicked up mud as they roared across the land.

Fraus allowed his mind to wander, entertaining thoughts of theory and thesis. Answers could be elusive, but he pursued them in his thoughts. Noting questions to ask when finally moving to uni, Fraus reached down and snatched his notepad to scribble in.

“Holy shit,” Pan exclaimed breathlessly. The others in the tank cursed in similar fashions. Fraus took a peek through his periscope. A Sherman rolled in reverse down the road on the other side of the fields. The turret atop was torn open with a hellish blaze shooting out of it, the fuel and ammunition contributing to the fire’s reaching height. Fraus scanned the area it had appeared from, but upon finding nothing looked back down to his notepad.

He was halfway through sketching out an equation he wanted a professor’s clarification on, when a belch of cannon fire reverberated through the tank.

“All, Queen Bee has infantry bearing zero seven one in the treeline!” Queen Bee’s report followed the cannon quickly. It summoned a discord of automatics and cannons. Fraus peered through the periscope again, seeing the edge of the orchard being quickly churned over as tracers from the other tanks raked it back and forth. Their cannons ripped holes in the earth as each long gun slowly lobbed high explosive shells at them.

“Hold fire,” Moskvin told the crew. “Keep watching for armor.”

“Holding,” affirmed the gunner.

The super-heated metal of a rocket streaked out of the orchard and passed in front of the line of armor.

“Pivot the formation to face that orchard!” The platoon leader yelled into his radio.

The tanks in unison began to move the line to bear on the infantry’s refuge. Their barrage continued as they slowly crawled forward.

“Hold fire…” Moskvin reminded, unease setting into his voice. Fraus took the chance to finish his thought on the paper. And as he ended that one, another one popped in his mind. He began to add that particular what-if to the questions he already had recorded. His eyes struggled without the penlight, but Fraus did his best to squint and make sure his writing was legible.

A sound like that of pebbles on metal began to sprinkle back and forth along the front of Queball. Fraus took another look. Tracers came from within the orchard and stroked the forward apron. Satisfied, Fraus returned to the notepad.

“Bog, fire a few bursts at whoever thinks they’re making a difference,” ordered Moskvin as if it was almost an afterthought to him, an annoyance at best.

“Copy, copy.” Fraus dropped the notepad in his lap and took to the machine gun. His only reference for aiming were the green iridescent smears that ran through the air as the ammunition belt encountered another tracing bullet. A gentle motion of his hand let the bullets arc across and pepper a wide area of the treeline. The opposing tracers, and their corresponding impacts on the hull, ceased.

“Good enough, good enough,” Moskvin commented. Fraus released the machine gun and picked his notepad up. Had he finished that query? Fraus held the pad up to the light of his periscope to be sure. Once satisfied, he sat with his hands in his lap, trying to think of anything else he might want to ask. The first section of reading had been self explanatory. It was a refresher from secondary school. He’d had no problems understanding. The second section, however, had be—

Queball jolted with a violent banging. Pan and the loader both yelled in alarm. The turret squealed as the gunner swung it in the direction of their attacker. Pan began to turn the tank, but stopped when Moskvin shouted at him. Fraus just stared at the side of the impact. A brief thought asked what would have happened if the shell penetrated, but Fraus banished it from his mind. The thought retreated but taunted him from within.

“Gunner, swing to two seventy.” Moskvin’s voice held a lick of excitement in its vowels, though stayed flat as he spoke. “Right there, I think they threw some bushes on its deck but that’s definitely armor.”

“I see,” the gunner agreed.

“Fire when ready.”

Queball barked, shook on its haunches, and the sound of an empty shell sliding out of the cannon and hitting the floor echoed.

“Higher,” urged Moskvin. “To the left more.”

“Higher. Left,” repeated the gunner.

“Up!” The loader yelled just as the cannon’s breech slammed shut.

“Fire when ready.”

Queball rocked again. Fraus shook his head and broke off the staring contest with the wall. He checked the periscope. The orchard had more still bodies than moving ones now. One of their sister tanks moved along the tree line firing sporadic bursts here and there.

“All, Queball has armor contact across the road in the treeline. Two seven zero. Camouflaged.” Moskvin invited the other tank crews as the loader and gunner worked Queball’s gun over. “Driver, face left.”

“Yeah,” Pan complied. Queball turned in place slowly. The tank treads gripped the earth and pulled them all forward a little as she spun around. Queball convulsed with the sound of a bell’s toll as another shell glanced off and whistled away in ricochet. “Feck me, they’re trying.”

“So are we. Gunner, fire when ready.” Moskvin hadn’t even finished the order when the cannon recoiled. The gunner whooped and cheered something ineligible.

“Good hit, good hit.” Moskvin allowed him.

Queball finished turning and brought the offender into view of Fraus’ periscope. The now-defeated vehicle had been tucked by an outcropping of rocks. Fire leapt up from the hole in it and singed the leaves of the trees by it. A hyperson monitor, orbiting above the vehicle, swooped in to look at the vehicle for a moment before flying away.

A creeping pain in Fraus’ knuckles reminded him of the death grip he held the notepad in. He set it down, all thoughts being drowned in the adrenaline of being hit.

“Queball, take the road. Queen Bee, finish your sweep of the orchard. Quickie, follow us in. We’re going to tail Queball,” came an order.

“Don’t have all the fun without us,” warned Queen Bee.

“We just don’t need anyone slowing us down is all,” taunted another one of the tank commanders.

Fraus wiped at his brow as the heat of the cannon expanded into the rest of the tank. Queball groaned while Pan steered her up onto the road. A ways ahead sat a church with three steeples, though one steeple had collapsed off its tower.

“By the Deep, they really pushed,” Pan marveled. Multiple Shermans sat burning on either side of the road. A few bodies of crewmembers were scattered in the dirt by one. Figures crossed the road by the church in a hurry. “I guess we found Roman Company.”

“Bog, you got your fecking eyes in the book again? Those were prime targets on the road just now.” Moskvin’s anger shown clear through his words.

“I couldn’t tell who they were,” reasoned Fraus. He had one hand on his weapon, the other grasped the notepad as if it held a salvation.

“I doubt our boys are the ones who cracked open Roman. Next time you see those fools, you drop them.”

“Yes, sergeant.”

“Pan, you catch that bluntbrain reading or whatever, you tell me.” The order caused a shiver across Fraus’ shoulders.

“No problem.” Pan’s response came almost too quickly. Fraus glared over at the driver.

A hyperson monitor zoomed overhead towards the church. Three beams of energy left the core of the oblong drone, and exploded over the top of the main roof. The hyperson flew a small circle above before leaving.

“What was the point of that airstrike?” Pan asked.

“Probably was meant for the road. Rules say air and heavy artillery are approximate. The Lord took a gamble,” reasoned Moskvin. “Not the worst one I’ve seen. A monitor dropped napalm on us during Asia in Arms Two. It was two hundred meters off.”

Fraus thought he saw something in a shed as they rolled past the orchard. He hurriedly squeezed the trigger and pointed the machine gun’s barrel at the wooden structure. The flurry of lead broke the wall in several places while he fired. Something told Fraus to stop, and he sat back on his stool.

“Hit anything?” Moskvin asked after a few seconds passed.

“I… don’t know.”

“Least he ain’t reading,” quipped Pan.

“Thank the Deep for that,” Moskvin agreed.

A massive shockwave rippled through the tank. It threw Fraus against the dash, and he dropped his notepad in panic. The sound of shrapnel pitter-pattered on Queball’s back. The loader and gunner made loud exclamations, forcing Moskvin to shout them down.

“Quickie’s gone. Where’d that shot come from?” The radio squawked to life.

“I didn’t see nuffin!”

“Scoping now. Left side maybe?”

“Queball, halt.”

Queball protested the sudden braking loudly as Pan obeyed the radio. The turret twisted about. Fraus swallowed and looked out. Still nothing.

“Anything?” Moskvin asked.

“Naw, bossman,” the gunner replied.

“Yeah, me neither. Wait, three twenty has movement. Swing the gun.”

“Swinging.”

Fraus pushed himself off the dash and patted himself down. He knew he couldn’t be hurt but it helped instill a small sense of agency for him. Glancing back towards the turret, Fraus wondered what they’d find.

“Front, front!” Screamed Pan. “Tube in front!”

Fraus startled. He re-engaged the machine gun. Sure enough, some brave soul had ran out and crouched by a Sherman carcass. The wide faceplate of a panzershrek obscured the Oni’s face. Haphazardly, Fraus began firing. The tracers flew far off the mark, towards the other side of the street.

“He’s right there!” Urged Pan.

Fraus clenched his jaw and swung the hail of bullets towards the man. He watched a flash of fire burp out of the panzershrek and Queball revolted. The impact elicited a cry from the loader. Fraus hit his head on the periscope in whiplash. He kept the trigger down. When the smoke of the blast cleared, no one was in the road.

“How’d you miss that?” seethed Moskvin.

Pan groaned something inaudible.

“Were you feckin reading?” Moskvin asked.

“No… I just…”

“I’ve had enough of this. Loader, go grab schoolboy’s shit. We’re tossing it next chance we get.”

The loader ducked down out of the turret and crouched towards Fraus. Fraus panicked and stuck an arm out toward him off. The older man easily overpowered him and invaded his space.

“No, please, it’s not that!” Fraus tried. The loader put a strong hand on the side of Fraus’ jaw and pushed his head into the wall roughly. The hit stayed Fraus as his ears began ringing. He saw the man rummaging at his feet.

“Found book, bossman.”

“No…” Fraus said weakly. His head stung. Both hits, so close to each other, merged into one growing headache across his scalp. He blinked in several times to fight back tears.

The loader quickly scampered away before Fraus could grab at him. The man snaked his way back up into the turret.

“Good. Now there’s nothing distracting you. Loader, toss that shit the moment we unbutton hatch.” Moskvin spoke with an air of confidence. He started to say something else, but the radio awoke with someone asking their status. Fraus sat on his stool numb as he listened to Moskvin report in. That book had cost Fraus a good bit. Fraus glared over his shoulder before bending down and scooping up his notepad. The notepad he stuffed into his coveralls. He patted the pocket for reassurance a few times. Then, Colom Fraus gritted his teeth and looked back through the periscope.