As dusk falls, Corporal John Delancy's Valentine tank rumbles into camp. Last in, it parks next to the rest of C Squadron. As the engine stops, the crew climb out. Over the lick-tick of the cooling engine, Delaney hears the squeal of tracks. "That's odd," he notes, "I thought we were rear-guard." The latecomers loom in the darkness. From the Valentine's turret, Malloy, the gunner, watches. "Hey Corp," he calls, "I don't think they're ours..." His words interrupted by brilliant muzzle flashes as the advancing German Panzers open fire. A neighbouring tank, hit broadside, explodes with a deafening roar, the turret spinning through the air. The Valentine's engine grinds back to life as Malloy slams the breech closed on a two-pound armour-piercing shot. Delaney scrambles back into the turret, breathless. "Traverse left! Target, ten yards! Fire!" Delaney orders. Another explosion rocks the tank as the two-pounder gun barks, tearing off the lead Panzer's track, slewing it around. "Holy Mother of God," mutters Malloy. swinging the gun back on target. The second shot hits square, punches clean through the thin side armour, shooting a pillar of flame from the Panzer's hatch. At this range, the two-pounder is more than a match for any Panzer.
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