But in war, the battlefield is ever changing, and any counter-attack that is planned for always has the possibility of not going exactly as intended. As I positioned my troops, manning machine guns that were picked up from fallen comrades, laying razor wire to halt the advance of enemy troops, and hiding my anti-tank gun in the hedge grove just behind my forces, I’d hoped that I would draw my opponent’s colossal tank into the opening where it could be shelled by my bazooka-toting infantry and that hidden AT-battery.
I still had a minute or so before my Sherman took to the battlefield, but the game clock was winding down, making the next five minutes the most important of the entire match. With only a handful of riflemen and a single anti-tank gun, the odds were clearly not in my favor. I scrambled to regain my senses and what was left of my men, and pushed forward to re-fortify the hotly contested capture point that had been fought over for the better part of 30 minutes. The percussive blast from a howitzer left me deafened and disoriented.
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