"You have to be joking."
Nika, the tank crewman, muttered. Beryl glanced at him, and the trooper shrugged without saying another word.
They stood in one of the main evacuation zones, merely one among many, waiting to see what would happen next.
The officer standing atop the turret looked ill. His skin was pale, his eyes lifeless, as though he thought the world around him was a dream and desperately hoped to wake up soon.
Sindula knew that look. It was the look of someone who believed he had just uncovered a piece of history.
"Reconnaissance duties will be assigned to the light armored units."
The officer spoke. Judging by his uniform, he was a colonel. His gaze deliberately avoided the men gathered around the tank he stood on.
He glanced at the slate in his right hand and tried to straighten it, nearly dropping it onto the ground.
"This is getting worse and worse."
Nika whispered, shaking his head, while Beryl kept staring at the officer.
That was fate, like rolling dice.
If there were a god Sindula could pray to, he would have wished to remain forgotten forever.
But he had been ordered to report to this colonel, who looked as if he might die at any moment. Someone had found him and delivered that order. It could not mean anything good.
Beside him, the tank commanders crowded together to hear what the colonel wanted.
Their battalion had originally belonged to the Third Army, but the Ork offensive had completely shattered their organization.
Those had been terrible days. They had suffered grievous losses, and in the end, less than a third of their tanks had made it back to the safe zone.
Now they had learned that they had been placed under the command structure of the First