Hundreds of weaves of metallic fibres join together. Heavy and cumbersome, yet powerful and dominating. They are inspected daily, beat with spanners,
wrenches and hammers. They are given names. A lover, a famous actress, or some sinister nickname are usually popular choices. They are given their own
identity, and we need them. Just like they need us. They hoist them high in the air, to gift themwith motion. If they only knew what was in store for them. If
only they could tell of their woes. Giant steel plates are moulded together and coated around them. Men dressed in suits walk around and admire their creation.
They laugh and stand in awe of their beauty and prowess. To those men, they are glorious tools, and nothing more. Five thousand of these are born everyday.
Forged from the strongest elements, and equipped with the latest technologies. Seventy five millimetres of purely destructive power. The men in suits applaud
such magnificence. The machines wait. They wait for the inevitable. They wait to be confronted with their destiny; their purpose. The call comes through. Men
rush around, sirens wail. The hanger doors are raised, and men in green leap forth from theirbarracks. Mounting the heavy machines, thunderous roars
penetrate the vastness of the hangar. Huge, shiny, golden shells are loaded into the main armament. The men take control of these machines,forcing them into
life. Heavy tracks begin to move, and after weeks of confinement, the machine is set in motion. Though this freedom shall be short lived, their work is of utmost
importance. They playtheir role well, with courage and with honour. Their death is just another statistic for the report. Tools for service. Nothing more. We give
them life, stand in awe of our creation, and grow attachments tothem. Name them, identify them, utilise them. Yet when they are destroyed, they mean
nothing to us. They are simply utensils of warfare. Though the Tank’s life is short, it is a necessary tool for victory.
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