It was confusing.
The rumbling of the machine vibrated through the air and brought me to the Hollow. As I took a seat on the stonewall, I watched what looked to be a tank coming across an open field.
It didn’t look like any of the tanks I’d seen in France during the Great War, but it reminded me enough of them for the conjecture to seem plausible.
And like the tanks in France, this one didn’t maneuver particularly well.
Not well at all.
I watched for a few minutes as the machine pushed through long grass and then stalled out as the nose plummeted into an unseen ditch. The operator managed to work it out, but no sooner had he done so than the tank threw a tread on the left side.
The tank ground to a halt, then the cannon, much to my surprise, turned toward me. I’d not seen one do that before.
It took me less than a moment, though, to get the hell off the wall and away before the crack of the cannon rent the air. The round smashed into the wall I’d been on and sent stones and shards flying through the air.
More than a few lodged themselves in me.
It was an unpleasant sensation, and it ruined a new coat.
With my Colts in my hands, I stalked toward the machine.
I approached at an angle, keeping away from its forward gun and moving steadily to keep the main gun off balance. I’d gotten to within a hundred feet when the top of the machine opened, and a man tried to get on the machine gun.
A single shot from my Colt put him down and disabused any others from trying to operate it.
In moments, however, a pair of his colleagues exited the vehicle, pistols drawn and blazing away.
It did them no good. They were poor shots with their weapons.
I was not.
My mother was getting inventive with the dead.
I found I didn’t like it.
(My apologies for the shortness of this entry. My grandson was born today.)