Hello, this is the author here. First off, a disclaimer: I do not own GuP. All characters are fictional and any physical resemblance to real life people are purely coincidental.

Now, with that off, let's get down to business. This is my attempt at a GuP fanfic, and the main parts of the story take place sometime after GuP: de Film. This is also my first attempt at anything involving tanks, so I'll greatly appreciate feedback!

Fair warning: although extremely rare due to them not being the main focus of the story, some scenes may feature injury or even death due to the gruesome nature of the Second World War. On a more common occurrence, profanities will be used, either for comedic effect or an expression of anger/annoyance.

I hope you'll enjoy this!

24 August 1944

The war against the Germans had turned its tide, and after the landing at Normandy, the Allies were pushing hard towards Berlin.

Tank Commander Joshua "Josh" Tuckerman looked around his French surroundings as his tank cruised steadily at 30 kilometers an hour, along with the 4 other medium tanks in the platoon.

In the single-line formation, his tank was the second from the front, the lead tank, an M4A2(75)D named Grey Wolf, right in front of him. Directly behind him was the British Sherman VC Firefly called "Pluck" by her crew, followed by Peaches and Snowball, an M4A1(76) and M4A3(75)D respectively.

And of course, there's his tank; an M4A3E8 named Ace of Spades. Or just Ace in short, with a single black spade painted around the top left of the front of the projectile-scarred hull, directly above the right headlight and unobstructed by the additional track armour she carried.

The E8, or what everyone calls the Easy-Eight, is the best tank in the platoon, being the only one with the Horizontal Volute Spring Suspension system, or HVSS for short, allowing Ace to travel more smoothly compared to her peers. Other than better mobility and a more comfortable ride, this allows the 76.2 millimeter M1 cannon, formidable and already supported by the Sherman Westinghouse stabilizer, to fire at enemy targets earlier from movement and much more accurately at low speeds.

Ace, also the only one in the platoon with this trait, also has wet ammunition racks. In the event that the enemy penetrates and hits the ammo storage, the tank would not blow up and, if lucky, be potentially able to remain operational. All in all, the Easy-Eight is, so far, the best variant of the Sherman in existence, both on paper and battlefield.

A shot was heard and Grey Wolf suddenly exploded, its turret thrown in the air as the shockwave.

All of the tanks immediately stopped.

The young man, his ears ringing, froze for a few seconds before frantically looked around for what fired upon them.

Another shot. A single shot went through the right of Snowball, the tank going silent less than a second after it was struck.

Tuckerman, recognizing the sound of the gun, got down his hatch, closed it and picked up his radio, suddenly remembering that he is the second-in-command of the platoon. "Eighty-eight! All tanks turn 60 degrees right!"

As the three remaining Shermans traversed and turned their front towards the unseen enemy, the commander shouted orders to his crew through the intercom.

"Load shell!"

With a boom, Peaches is dead, the enemy shell having gone straight through the gun mantlet.

"Enemy tank spotted!" Pluck's commander shouted through the radio. "King Tiger, 400 meters, bearing 090!"

The one tank Josh was hoping wasn't the attacker.

"Pluck, turn to bearing 120 and advance, speed at your discretion! Fire at will!"

He switched over to his tank's intercom. "Ford, advance at 5 miles an hour! Archer, fire at will!"

The 17-pounder of the Firefly fired towards a line of bushes. The 76.2 mm shell visibly bounced off something, likely the front plate of the enemy heavy tank.

Archer, the nickname the crew gave the gunner, turned the turret towards the foe as Ace advanced off the road and onto the grass, pulling the trigger.

With a bang, Ace fired, the M62 shell streaking towards the target at almost 800 meters per second. It struck the enemy tank, but bounced off the still-hidden Tiger's front plate harmlessly.

"Load shot, and keep loading that until I say otherwise!" Tuckerman ordered Butter, his loader.

"Aye boss!"

With another bang, the 88 fired once again, this time at Pluck. The Firefly exploded the same way as Gray Wolf, its turret blown sky-high as the hull crawled to a stop, a glowing hole on its front armour plate.

The remaining tank commander quickly considered his options. The Tiger hasn't fired at them probably because the camouflage and false muzzle brake was probably effective, marking the enemy commander think that the Easy-Eight was not an Easy-Eight, instead being a weaker variant with a shorter gun barrel. However, being the last target left, one shot would've all that would be needed to kill him and his crew, and he was too close and exposed to retreat.

There was only one thing left to do: fight.

"Ford, let's flank!" Josh shouted through the radio. "10 miles an hour, get us closer and to his side!"

Ace fired again, her gun stable as the M93 composite-rigid shot left the barrel.

It bounced off the Tiger's front armour harmlessly, like the M62 fired before.

"Archer, I need you to aim for the turret of that son of a-"

"I'm trying my best-"

The Tiger fired at Ace, but miraculously, the shell whizzed past the back of the Sherman with just an inch to spare, impacting the ground and throwing dirt into the air.

Ace returned the favor, this time striking the turret. The M93 shot, however, grazed past the right side of the Tiger's turret rather harmlessly.

"Shit shit shit shit shit!"

The Sherman advanced sideways, and Tuckerman noticed that the Tiger was getting more visible. It was, however, in a field of bushes, and its sides were effectively visually blocked by said bushes.

"Ford, adjust heading, 40 degrees right!"

As Ace veered right, her turret barely keeping up at the enemy tank, the Tiger fired again, hitting the ground at where Ace would've been if she hasn't turned away.

The Tiger 2 was now 200 meters away. Archer fired, and this time the shell would've hit the enemy tank... if it didn't back up at the very last second.

The commander could make out the German tank adjusting its position, angling its hull towards the advancing Sherman.

It fired again, its shell grazing across the left side of Ace's turret, leaving a deep scrape while the tracks placed there were knocked away

Ace's crew was stunned by the impact, all their ears ringing.

"Load shell, load shell!" Tuckerman screamed into the intercom, recovering.

Frantically, Butter put the nearly-shoved-in M93 back into the rack and grabbed a M62, shoving it into the gun breech as quickly as he could, the momentum sending the shell into position and automatically shutting the breech. "Gun loaded!"

And at that moment, the Tiger fired, and this time the 88 mm shell found its mark on the hull.

Tuckerman's ears rung and his body felt numb. It wasn't long, however, before his ears cleared up and he felt a searing pain throughout the lower portion of his body.

Groaning in pain, he looked down.

His crew is dead. Everyone had shrapnel all over their bodies. Blood was everywhere.

Somehow, he's still alive.

It must've been APCR, the half-dead commander thought numbly. That one doesn't spall as much as APCBC. He must've thought that this is a Jumbo. The wet rack did its job well.

Staring out of his sights on the now-stationary tank, he saw the Tiger 2, about a 150 meters away now, roll out of her hiding place, her commander climbing out his hatch, smiling triumphantly.

Looking down, he noted that his gun breech was shut and looked okay. He could not hear or feel the engine running, not sure if it was simply stalled or was dead.

The commander suddenly got an idea. Painfully sliding down and gently pushing the dead Archer out of the bloody gunner's seat, he tested the manual traverse system.

He felt and saw the turret move without any problems. The drive gear for the turret wasn't damaged at least, although he was not sure whether power traverse was okay.

He was betting that it is.

King Tigers keep ammo in the back of their turrets.

Climbing back into the commander's position, he observed the Tiger heading closer towards his tank. He watched as it past Ace on her right at around 10 miles an hour, the Maybach HL 230 P30 audible from even inside the Sherman. The German commander took a little interest in the American medium tank, as if not convinced she was dead, before relenting and looking away.

A short but long-enough distance away and behind from Ace now, Tuckerman slipped down onto the gunner's seat as quickly as he can, grabbing the red joystick-like power traverse controls and turning the turret right.

The electric motor of the OilGear system was indeed working, and the turret turned swiftly towards the Tiger 2.

Finding the German tank in the gunner sights, Tuckerman turned left to correct his overshoot before elevating the gun and quickly fine-tuning his aim right at the back of the heavy tank's turret.

"Die."

Tuckerman pushed the button.

The gun fired, the recoil opening the breech and shoving the shell casing out.

Tuckerman watched the turret of the Tiger explode as the rest of the German tank, which was basically just the hull, crawl to a stop, flames licking out of the inside.

The commander slumped back into the chair, in great pain. He was, however, satisfied, and most of all, relieved.