"Contact left! Gunner, SABOT, tank!"

"Up!" Clang!

"Identify!"

"Fire!"

"On the way!" BOOM!

"Tracking. Target hit! Gunner, scan for targets."

"Saber One-Six, this is Tower. Table complete. Proceed to range entry point."

"Tower, this is Saber One-Six. Roger."

"Driver, follow the road back up to the start point." Without a word, the M1A2 Abrams Battle Tank picked up speed as it rolled down the dirt road. First Lieutenant Carlos Rayth popped the hatch of the command cupola to let fresh air enter the hot turret. His loader, Specialist Andrew Smith, did the same with the loaders hatch. Carlos tried to wipe the sweat that was dripping into his eyes, but what was wiped away was quickly replaced by more sweat. Minnesota was unforgivably hot and humid in July.

"Where do you want me to park it, LT?" asked the tanks driver, Private First Class John O'Hare.

"Park it at the far end of the Platoon's tank line. The other crews can park alongside when they finish their Table Eight's."

Within a few minutes, John had the tank parked where the Carlos wanted it and began to shut down the tanks engine. Locking the turret into place to prevent an accidental turning, and potentially killing someone, Carlos pulled himself up and out of the turret through the command hatch. His gunner, Sergeant Anthony James, quickly followed him out of the hatch. When all four of the tank crew members were out of the tank, they walked up to the Range Control Tower, where they would receive their debriefing and scores for their final gunnery table. No one said anything about the run - they felt like it went well. But Tankers are a superstitious lot, like most soldiers, and congratulating themselves early for a successful run was inviting a "Failed" rating.

The Table Eight was the most important of the gunnery "tables" or exercises that a tank crew underwent. The only way to become a qualified tank crew was to pass the Table Eight. In order to pass, the tank crew not only needed to actually hit the targets being aimed at - they had to shoot with the proper ammunition and weapon, use the proper fire commands, handle the tank properly and above all, work as a well disciplined team. Failing the Table Eight would require weeks of retraining and going through the entire gunnery qualification process again - not to mention result in endless amounts of teasing and laughter from the other tank crews in the company. And earn the wrath of the Company Commander.

Reaching the tower, they sat at the debriefing table and waiting for the Company's Master Gunner to come and debrief them. In silence, they waited for several minutes until Sergeant First Class Troy Alm came in. He came over to the table as he was paging through several pages of notes and printouts.

"Alright. Not too bad today. You hit 85% of your targets - so not bad shooting Towns. You used the correct ammunition on all your shots. Lieutenant, your fire commands were a little shaky at first, but got better as you went. Two of your shots took longer to get off than they should have - Smith you fumbled with getting a couple of SABOT realms out of the magazine. You recovered quick enough, but any slower and it would have cost you more points. Overall, you gentlemen did well. You pass - congratulations." Without another word, Alm turned around and went back into the control room to get the next tank crew started on their gunnery run.

Once out of the tower, the stoic reserve held by the tank crew quickly evaporated into hoots and laughter and a round of high fives. They were now a qualified tank crew - and that meant they were cleared to deploy with the rest of the Battalion overseas.

"Well done! Good job today gents. Now, I need to go report to the CO. Go get the tank cleaned up and then your clear to rest until the rest of the platoon finishes their gunnery."

"Understood Sir. Let us know if you need us for anything." Towns replied.

"Thanks Towns. Just don't let the First Sergeant catch you guys sleeping. Again."

"I'd never dream of it sir."

As the three crew members walked off back to the tank, Carlos started to head towards the Commander's tank, but stopped and decided to take a detour. He walked up to the observation bleachers which offered a full view of the gunnery range. Unlike a rifle ranges used by the Infantry, tank gunnery ranges were several kilometers long, not a few hundred meters. Standing next to the bleachers, he could see the next tank roll into the first shooting position and begin its run. The tank rolled to the top of the berm it was hiding behind, just high enough to get the gun barrel clear, but not high enough to expose the tanks belly, and stop. As soon as the tank stopped, the a loud boom went off as the tank fired. At nearly the same time the tank rolled back down into cover. Carlos traced the shell and smiled as the round sliced through the plywood target it was shooting at. That tank was the second in his Platoon and was commanded by his Platoon Sergeant, Sergeant First Class Adam Hunts. He was an excellent tank commander and trained his men well.

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He watched the tank "kill" another couple of targets before he turned to report to the CO, Captain Ray Johnson. Captain Johnson was sitting next to his own tank in conversation with the First Sergeant and the Executive Officer. Carlos joined them and waited to be addressed by Johnson before he spoke. Rayth thought of Johnson as an excellent CO. He had served under him for the last two years and had learned a lot of being an officer from him. He had the respect of nearly all his soldiers and NCO's as well. Which was not an easy feat for any officer to accomplish. Even though Rayth greatly respected the man, he could be intimidating to talk to.

He was a tall, well built man of solid muscle. Everything about the man, from his short cropped hair, his fit physique down to his some how clean boots, was the spitting image of a soldier. He had been a Marine in a previous life, before joining the Minnesota Army National Guard, and had seen action in the late stages of the Iraq War. He had an intense gaze and bearing developed only men who had seen combat. The heat wasn't being kind to Johnson either - his ebony skin nearly glistening from sweat.

"So, Lieutenant, did you qualify?" was all Johnson asked.

"Yes sir. We are qualified. The rest of my platoon is going through gunnery now. First Platoon should be complete with our runs by 1400."

"Excellent - good work. Once your platoon finishes, take them back to the barracks and begin cleaning up your tanks. Second and Third platoons will do their gunnery tomorrow. First platoon and the Scout platoon will come back to the range tomorrow in the trucks for range detail."

"Understood sir." Carlos acknowledged with a nod before he turned on his heels and went back to his vehicle. The rest of the afternoon went by slowly, and at the end of the day, all four of the platoons tank crews had qualified. It was time to celebrate. And tankers celebrated these kind of events and accomplishments in only one way - good old fashioned barbeque.

By time First Platoon had gotten back to the barracks and got their tanks parked and secure for the evening, offloaded all of the gear and cleaned up, dusk had fallen over Camp Ripley. And even though it was late, and they would have an early day tomorrow, the grills came out, accompanied by stacks of burgers and brats. As Carlos looked over the circle of sixteen soldiers, he realized he would be going with these men in just a couple of weeks into a combat zone. A realization that was both exciting and terrifying to him. These men would depend on him to make the right decisions to bring them home alive, and he was going to depend on these men to help keep him alive. And not for the first time, he wondered if he would be up to the task. Absently, he fingered the crucifix hanging around his neck on his dog tag chain, and felt reassured by its presence. But for now, he pushed those thoughts aside. There was plenty of time to dwell on his worried and anxieties. Tonight was a night to relax and enjoy. They had put in months worth of work to get to this point, and now, it was there turn to join the fight that was raging in Europe.

After a while, and one too many cheeseburgers, Carlos drained his root beer can - they were "on orders" and so couldn't drink alcohol - and tossed it in the garbage bag sitting next to his lawn chair and stifled a yawn. It was started to get late and the platoon needed to be at the range by 0600 to start their range detail. Which meant getting up at O Dark Stupid - which was an unofficial Army term for getting up extra early to get somewhere quickly - just so you could sit there and wait. He turned to Hunts, who was sitting next to him talking with another Sergeant.

"Hey, Hunts, I'm going to hit the rack. Don't let the men stay up too late. We need to be up at and on the road to the range by 0515."

"Yes, Sir. Don't worry LT. I won't let them stay up too late."

"Sounds good. Have a good night Sergeant."

"Good night Sir."

With a wave of his hand, Carlos got out of his chair and headed into the barracks and slid into his bunk and promptly fell asleep. It had been a trying day and he was exhausted - tired enough that he didn't hear the rest of the platoon come into the bunk bay they all shared. It didn't take long before snoring could be heard from fifteen bunks in the long room, with one bunk remaining empty. Outside, staring into the burning embers of the camp fire that had been lit, Hunts sat alone with his thoughts. Slowly, he reached into his blouse pocket and pulled out a photo with well worn fold lines. Gently, he unfolded the photo to look at it in the dim light.

Here I am. Going to war. Again. But this time...I have a reason to come back, he thought to himself. He folded the photo back along the now permanent creases and placed it back in his pocket. Kicking some dirt on the embers to make sure they were out, Hunts went into the barracks and slid into his bunk. As he did so, and unknown to all the soldiers in the barracks, a shooting star streaked across the night sky. And then another, and another. And then it appeared as though new stars winked into existence in the night sky.