The engine of the Sanglier Mk III groaned as it crawled up the muddy slope, its treads sinking into the shattered remains of what had once been a Belgian orchard. Smoke clung to the air like a shroud, the sulfuric tang of cordite mixing with the decay of rain-drenched corpses and rotting leaves. Shells burst intermittently in the distance, and every so often, the whistle of distant artillery would scream overhead before crashing somewhere further down the ridge.
Inside the armored hull, Emil Dufort braced himself with one hand on the hatch rim, eyes fixed ahead through the periscope. The world had narrowed into a shifting panorama of craters, wire, and ruin. This wasn't just warfare—it was annihilation mechanized.
"Forward five meters!" he barked.
The driver—a stocky, soot-faced mechanic named Loïc—obeyed, gritting his teeth as the tank jerked forward. Behind them, three more Sanglier units advanced in staggered formation, treads clanking and muffled voices echoing from inside the hulls.
To the west, smoke bloomed from the ruins of the village of Nivelles, where the German front had dug in with heavy emplacements. The Sanglier platoon's objective was simple in writing, impossible in execution: flank the village, clear the trench sector beyond the canal, and neutralize the forward howitzers dug into the orchard's edge.
The problem? The enemy already knew they were coming.
The Tactical Map Redrawn
Two nights ago, in the underground operations room of the Rouen Forward Command, Emil had stood over the battle map with General Forchette, Colonel Varin, and several other high-ranking staffers. Red pins dotted the Belgian front, with Nivelles surrounded by overlapping circles denoting artillery ranges.
"The Germans have installed a new pattern of overlapping fire lanes," Forchette explained. "If we send infantry over, they'll be mowed down."
"We won't send infantry first," Emil had replied, sliding a miniature tank across the board. "The Sanglier Mk IIIs can take the brunt, draw fire, and identify enemy emplacements."
"And if they fail?" Varin had asked, voice flat.
"Then we lose the orchard. And the canal. And we let the enemy pressure Brussels again."
That had been enough. Command had approved the plan, begrudgingly. But Emil knew what was at stake—Nivelles was more than strategic. It was symbolic. If they could reclaim it, France would show the world it was no longer on the defensive.
Combat Baptism
The first shell struck the lead Sanglier to Emil's left. It didn't penetrate—the angled armor deflected the blast—but the tank shuddered violently, listing for a moment before correcting itself.
Emil gritted his teeth. "Return fire! Primary turret, due west, bearing 295!"
His gunner—a young woman named Marianne, one of the few female recruits he had personally trained—rotated the turret with practiced ease and let loose a 47mm high-explosive shell. The ground rocked as it impacted an enemy pillbox, the structure crumbling in seconds.
"We've drawn their fire," Emil muttered. "Good."
From the rear, infantry units began advancing in staggered waves behind the tanks, using the hulking machines as mobile cover. Machine gun fire burst from the trenches ahead, tracers streaking the sky like malevolent fireflies.
Then came the counterbattery fire.
"Artillery!" shouted Loïc.
The second shell exploded just behind Emil's tank, knocking over one of the supporting Sanglier units and sending shrapnel skittering across the tank's flanks. Emil's ears rang.
We need to silence those guns fast…
Emil tapped the radio crank and gave orders to the rest of his small battalion. "All units, converge fire on the orchard's edge—target those howitzers! Prioritize splash suppression!"
The gun barrels of the Sangliers rotated in eerie unison. A thunderous barrage of return fire echoed, and through the smoke, Emil watched one of the German artillery platforms vanish in a plume of fire and steel.
The Sanglier's Edge
The Sanglier Mk III wasn't perfect. It was still slower than he wanted. The treads strained in deep mud, and fuel lines were always at risk of freezing in the night cold. But its modular armor and internal auto-loader system gave it an edge no other nation yet possessed.
"Reload!" Marianne called out. "Shell chambered!"
Another round thundered from the main gun, flattening a trench bunker and scattering the enemy within.
But just as Emil turned to check on the flanking unit, a metallic clang rang out.
Then a hiss.
"Gas!" Loïc shouted. "Gas shell landed right of us!"
Inside the hull, Emil's blood turned to ice. The Germans were using chlorine again.
He yanked the emergency lever beside the driver's seat, which deployed the internal filter shutters—his own invention—and sealed the ventilation system. A thin green mist rolled past the periscope slit outside, and the screams of unprotected infantry wailed in the distance.
"Too slow," Emil murmured. "We were too slow."
He could see men stumbling, choking, clawing at their throats. His tanks were safe—for now—but the infantry wasn't.
Emil's Fury
As the tanks pushed through the poisoned fog, something in Emil cracked. This wasn't just strategy anymore. The enemy was unleashing horrors to break morale.
"They're using weapons from hell," he growled. "Then we'll forge them weapons the devil himself would envy."
The Sanglier line regrouped as they neared the canal ridge. The final strongpoint was a concrete fortification dug into the hillside. Three anti-tank guns. Dozens of entrenched troops.
Emil knew what had to be done.
He keyed the radio.
"All Sangliers—scatter formation. Flank left and right. Primary hull unit—on me."
"You're going in first?" Marianne asked, incredulous.
"I'm not sending anyone where I won't go myself."
She nodded once. "Then let's end it."
Crushing the Ridge
The assault began with an eruption of smoke and flame. Emil's unit smashed into the ridge, plowing through barbed wire, lobbing incendiaries, and scattering defenders. His custom-fitted flamethrower port spewed a jet of fire into the side trench, flushing out enemies like rats.
To his left, another Sanglier rolled forward, absorbing two anti-tank rounds before retaliating with a triple burst. The hillside buckled. The main fort crumbled.
Then it was over.
The enemy, what was left of them, fled into the woods or surrendered outright.
Nivelles was retaken.
Aftermath
By nightfall, French flags flew over the shattered town. Emil stood atop the lead tank, his face blackened with smoke, his coat torn at the shoulder.
General Forchette arrived via convoy hours later and walked the battlefield in stunned silence.
"You did it," he murmured. "Your beasts broke them."
Emil nodded. "And they'll keep doing so—if we build faster."
Forchette turned. "You'll have everything you need. Steel. Fuel. Men."
But Emil didn't smile.
Because as he looked at the broken bodies, the green-stained mud, and the burned-out trees, he knew this was just the beginning.