True romance exists only in tank troops. The well-fed growl of tank diesels a few minutes before dawn. The tanks are filled to capacity, the ammunition racks are full, the belts are tucked into 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, behind the distant hills, awaits a white city, immersed in greenery, where girls, flowers and beer are waiting for tired tank crews. 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 let there be burning ruins again instead of the white city, UNITA snipers instead of girls, and the rationed rum of Raoul’s panzergrenadiers instead of beer, but still, we won again. The armor is strong and our tanks are fast! Fifty stories about wars that never happened