To avoid confusion, this is the unit organization used by tanks in the South:
Two tanks are a dyas, a fighting pair.
Four tanks are a Lance, the basic tactical unit.
Four Lances make up a Squadron (16 tanks)
Four Squadrons are a Company (64 tanks)
Four Companies are a Regiment (256 tanks)
Four Regiments are a Division (1024 tanks)

Chapter 1 -

Twelve Years Previous – the Great Desert Bridge of Northern Africa, the Sinai

They had been fighting for four days, the only break in the desperate retreat brought on by the sudden sandstorm. Appearing as if by magic, it dropped a violent curtain of dust, dirt, and chaos. Lances could barely stay in communication between distortion caused by the storm and the fact that half of the regiment's radios were out of commission. The only consistent order had been "retreat," and this was given three days ago.

The sandstorm had done what the enemy army had been attempting for months: it had eroded away the shaking morale of the Dragonaurs Corps as if it were a sad sitting stone, setting the survivors of the furious desert storm up for a ferocious, will-shattering blow.

To Eohelm, enduring the howl of the wind and the striking stings of the sand, the storm had done what no ordered retreat had: brought some small measure of peace. But as his turret slowly panned, the Cromwell had also realized what else the sandstorm had done, the damage it had wrought.

It made him feel alone.

The screaming of the gale drowned out his radio's music and made communication with the rest of the scouting team almost impossible. Visibility was at an absolute minimum and he could barely see Borris—covered in his tarp and half-buried with sand, his barrel angled into the dirt as if dead—twenty yards to his right. The rest of the four-man scouting party were beyond the T-34/85 and thus out of sight.

Eohelm's sigh was ragged but it was lost, rudely yanked away from him by the incessant howling, the banshees that surrounded him. He tried his radio once more, begging for some reprieve from his new-found loneliness.

He dared not risk turning his radio up loud enough that he could drown out the weather, for his lance was hoping to keep some measure of stealth. They had dug in and decided to endure the sandstorm when it came, but when it passed Eohelm knew they would continue their scouting run to ensure their force was not being outflanked in their retreat. With that in mind he kept his volume low, if the radio even worked. He took a hit near the casing two days ago and its performance had been spotty since. Fortunately for now, it decided to cooperate.

But the music was overpowered.

The wind continued.

He wanted to scream. Just thinking of the small unofficial ceasefire brought on by the storm made him realize that he felt better fighting. Action and work were the cure for his current ailment. He was run too ragged to think until he knew he was safe. Sitting here stewing in the middle of a storm was not safe.

Might be good to try and get a hold of Whisper. Whisper was Eohelm's cousin as well as the other half of their dyas, or fighting pair, a T20 heavily-armed Scout. The Dragonaurs always fought in pairs at absolute minimum, no matter what. Most were bonded for years when they joined the Corps. Eohelm and Whisper joined together.

"Sprinter Four, Sprinter Three. Over." He waited for a response. There was only static. He swore to himself, the oath lost to the gale. He ran a short diagnostic on his radio. Sand had leaked in, was working with all the interference flying around in the storm to screw Eohelm's range.

"Sprinter One, Sprinter Three. Over." He tried his radio again, opening a tighter personal channel with the lance leader. He silently begged for an answer. The voice that responded was gruff, rough. The quality was likely brought on by fatigue, but Borris always sounded at least a little grumpy.

"Go for One, over."

"I can't see the others. Are we still in formation, over?"

"Ask yourself."

"Storm's fucking with my range. Do me the favor."

There was a pause, a small exhale of frustration over the line, and a sudden cut-off of static as Borris changed channels. Eohelm figured that the T-34/85 was passing the request on down the line after taking a moment to compose himself. The past week was taking its toll on everyone. Borris was always gruff but he usually tempered it with the patience of a boulder.

In theory, he would be behind the other half of his dyas, Tear. The T-34/85 and his accompanying Panzer IV(H) were not as fast as the other fighting pair making up their lance—Eohelm and his cousin—but they were the only two with consistently working radios.

The 2nd Medium Regiment—of which Eohelm's Lance Charlie (Sprinter Lance) of Delta Squadron, 4th Company, served—were acting in this most recent campaign as flankers, raiders, and rapid-response support fighters. But with the casualties mounting in this disaster, tanks were being pressed into roles they weren't necessarily built for. Which is why a T34/85 was leading a scouting party.

Eohelm's radio crackled and Borris' voice came through, the weakness of the signal doing nothing to blunt his demeanor. "Sprinter Three, Sprinter One, over."

"Go for Three, over."

"Everyone's fine, Three. When the storm abates Four will rotate to the rear and the rest of us will move up as per normal. Two will take lead. I have a feeling the storm will break soon. Over."

"Here's hoping. Thanks for the information. Out."

The line cut off and the Cromwell was alone again. After a moment he felt his spirits plummet once more as the gale picked up his notice. The storm was angry at his trying to ignore it; the wind sounded twice as loud and the sand tried to get under his tarp and into his parts with renewed vigor.

Three more hours would pass until the storm broke.

Three more hours of rerunning the past week in his head, reliving the death of friends and family. Three more hours of raw temptation to call Borris once more, to beg the rough Russian for the favor of his company.

The fight had gone so well at first. After their border-lands were subject to unprompted skirmishes and raids, the Dragonaurs attacked. Their advance into the desert was met with great victory as the Almohaes Coalition's pickets were thrashed deeper west into the desert they claimed. Sprinter Lance and the rest of the 5th Company were holding the southern flank. This meant that they were not only deepest into enemy territory but also the most exposed to an outflanking counter-attack and farthest from water.

It all went well until the Almohaes counter-attacked. But they hit a portion of the front no one expected: the center, the weakest portion of the Dragonaurs line. The flanks had been strengthened the day before for fear of an outflanking strike. When the Corps leader—Feather, the legendary general—weakened the flanks to repel what he thought was the main Almohaes thrust, the enemy struck with their true strength: an entire Division on the Southern flank, 1024 tanks against the meagre 64 heavy tanks, 32 light tanks, and 160 medium tanks of the 2nd Medium Regiment.

While the 2nd was reinforced by the 3rd Heavy Regiment—all that could be afforded—it simply wasn't enough. The two divisions of the Dragonaurs had been on a retreat to their own lines ever since.

Four days and the Almohaes had not let up. The casualties were horrendous for the attackers—a good deal of these numbers were young tanks, only one of the regiments consisted of tanks past fifth tier—but they were still gaining the upper hand. The lights of both southern regiments faced an 80% casualty rate and the Command Company of the 3rd Heavy had sacrificed themselves yesterday to stem the tide of a massive thrust.

Eohelm could still remember seeing the E-100: Mack, the leader of the entire 3rdHeavy, blazing away with his massive cannon on his crest of dune, his tracks pierced and shattered in seven different places while his lance lay about him in smoking wrecks and his life-partner—dyas-half and wife—bathed in flames at his side as enemies began to over-run and circle their position. On fire for the glory of their leader's memory and the promise of the eternity that was their religious warrior's paradise, the last squadron of the 3rd died around their father as they were swarmed.

Eohelm was in the screen covering the retreat: what was left of the mangled 2nd Medium and those of the 3rd too wounded to fight, taking advantage of Mack's last stand. Sitting in his tarp, lost in his memories, the Cromwell could hear the chorus of the Third's last squadron. In their famous battle lust, they howled and sang as they slew and died.

Their sacrifice held off the enemy for the rest of the day, long enough for the storm to set in. Word had reached Feather, and rumor in the retreating columns was that he wept bitterly.

Holly, Mack's wife, was Feather's sister. The commander had lost the last two members of his family in a single horribly failed operation.

Three hours until the storm let up.

The silence was worse to Eohelm than the winds. There was no discussion as everyone shook out the sand that got past their covers, no banter as everyone took formation and Tear took point. Whisper was now tail-end-charlie. There was no talk as Sprinter Lance uncovered their tarps and rolled them back up, leaving.

Their company was relying on them for information and survival. Levity could wait.

The only noise that pierced the day was the low rumbling of engines. Eohelm was left in his silence. He prayed that he would be home soon. Home to safety and love, music and life.

The silence would kill him long before the enemy would, he knew.