True romance exists only in tank troops. The well-fed growl of tank diesels, a few minutes before dawn. The tanks are filled to the brim, the ammunition racks are full with shells, the belts are tucked in the course and coaxial machine guns, and the commander sets up his favorite DShK on the turret, looking on the horizon for the impudent Alouette fly, which 12.7 can easily be removed per kilometer. And the confidence that there, beyond the distant hills, awaits a white city immersed in greenery, where girls, flowers and beer await tired tankers. And we just need to pass through this plateau, dotted with the charred skeletons of Elephants and Saracens, and we will pass, as we have passed more than once. And even if instead of the white city there are again burning ruins, instead of girls there are UNITA snipers and instead of beer there is the rationed rum of Raoul’s panzergrenadiers, but still we won again. The armor is strong and our tanks are fast!