Chapter 7: Moments Between Life

When Macarius arrived at the garage, his squad was chatting casually while diligently working on maintaining their combat vehicles. Maintaining a tank is no easy task, especially since, despite having many convenient tools, the academy mandated that during stationing exercises, all tank maintenance must be conducted as if in the field. This meant everyone had to switch to manual operation, rolling up their sleeves and swinging heavy hammers, showcasing their physical strength.

“Looks like I came at a bad time? Everyone’s busy. I won’t disturb—I'll just go get some ice cream!” Macarius said, eyeing his tank being serviced by others. He immediately stopped in his tracks, intending to turn and flee.

“No, you’ve come just at the right moment!”

One of the squad members quickly shut the garage door, and several of them swarmed him, firmly restraining him. Yudin even handed him a brand-new pair of work gloves.

With no choice, Macarius obediently took off his armored infantry jacket and joined in. He removed the jacket because it wasn’t standard issue; it was a custom-made high-end version, and he couldn’t risk getting it dirty.

Typically, the first task after a tank returns to the garage is to wash off the dirt and dust from its exterior. If not cleaned promptly, the dust accumulates around critical areas like the engine air intake, causing blockages that can lead to engine stalls. So thorough cleaning was essential.

Moreover, Macarius’s own Red Dragon One tank featured a striking red blazing dragon emblem on its turret—a personal symbol he had meticulously designed. But now, the once fierce red dragon had faded to yellow, and one of its claws had chipped paint, possibly from gravel abrasion. Before any repairs, the tank had to be cleaned spotless.

“Yudin, hand me the water hose!”

That dragon was his personal calling card, ensuring he always caught attention wherever he went. Usually, he guarded it jealously, refusing anyone even a touch. Seeing it dirty and chipped now, he was determined to fix it immediately.

Taking the hose, Macarius aimed it at the tank and switched it on. A powerful, spectacular jet of water blasted against the armor, splashing outward on contact. Clear water quickly turned into yellowish-brown mud, streaming down the armored plates.

Washing the massive Type 61 tank was arduous, especially given the fine sand and grit picked up on marches. These tiny particles clung stubbornly to the armor like grease, impossible to wash off with a single rinse. They had to be washed repeatedly and sometimes scrubbed manually to remove completely.

After grueling labor, the once grimy, dull tank finally revealed its original lead-gray hue. Even the personal emblem on the tank looked vivid again. But this was only the beginning. After cleaning the exterior, they still had to attend to the interior. Once everything was spotless inside and out, they could disassemble equipment, inspect circuits, and diagnose faults.

Of course, this work could be left to the maintenance crew, but a tank crew incapable of repairs was not a qualified crew. The maintenance staff couldn’t follow them around 24/7, so the trainees had to learn to handle it themselves. Naturally, if they got stuck, the maintenance veterans would step in to help.

Macarius was quite familiar with the maintenance crew, having often mingled with them when he first enrolled. Back then, he used to run ahead with his tank helmet while the maintenance guys chased him wielding wrenches. He was young and eager, trying to imitate a certain someone’s triple-speed tactics, but his driving skills were poor, constantly forcing the maintenance crew to work overtime repairing tanks he broke. It was only due to his grandfather’s influence that he wasn’t kicked out before graduation.

Now, as a seasoned veteran, he could skillfully coordinate the engine with his maneuvers, earning much more respect from the maintenance men.

Inspecting circuits and components was a massive undertaking. It wasn’t something human hands could manage alone. They needed cranes to remove power packs and other modules to conduct thorough checks. If any issues or foreign objects like pebbles had entered, they had to dismantle the power pack meticulously, piece by piece, for maintenance. This was time-consuming, laborious, and often thankless work. If the machine spirit displeased them, they might get sprayed with engine oil.

When repairing the power pack, Macarius borrowed some hidden cigarettes from André in Tank Two. He took three sticks out and offered them as a tribute to the tank’s spirit—if such a thing truly existed.

“Isn’t the commander not even Asian? Why so devout?” André whispered as he sneakily took back the cigarettes, sharing them with the Tank Three driver, who was looking for an excuse to slack off.

“I think it’s better to be respectful to the machine spirit. Our lives depend on this big beast!” The Tank Three driver took the cigarettes, shook his tank’s front as if making an offering, then put one in his mouth.

“Should I pay my respects too?” André was just getting up when suddenly a shadow shot out behind him. It leapt high, one leg stretched straight, the other bent beneath, forming a shape like the Chinese character for ‘sun’ (夕). The figure burst forward from the tank with incredible speed.

“Whoa, did the machine spirit manifest?”

The Tank Three driver shuddered in fear at the swift movement. Only when André was knocked down did he realize it was their commander.

“Commander, you?”

Seeing Macarius’s face now, half-covered in black engine oil, both men were stunned.

“Wait, what happened?”

“This must be the machine spirit’s displeasure!” Yudin, who had witnessed everything, stifled laughter.

“As soon as you took the cigarettes, the commander got sprayed all over!”

Everyone burst out laughing. Afterward, they all dutifully offered tributes to their own tanks one by one. No one wanted to be doused in engine oil—the stuff was hard to clean, and even after scrubbing with great effort, it left a strong odor that lingered for a long time.