The incessant rain drums on the metal of the tank, constantly showering Logan with irritating, little sprinkles.
Not like it matters, as he himself is already drenched, trying his best to ignore the water soaking his uniform and fur.
It drips down from his dark mane partially hanging over his face, only barely held back by his goggles.
He doesn't even need them anymore, they are just for welding... but they feel familiar.
The slight pressure around his head from the elastic band, and the two cold round fittings holding the dark glass.

He should be somewhere right now, those goggles over his eyes, and welding or repairing something.
That was what he had signed up for and was trained for, after all.
Mechanical work.
Not fighting.
They had assured him he'd just be in the backlines, in the logistics camp, driving his truck with tools, and doing maintenance.
He had thought it'd be the best way to get around having to fight or kill, while not having to make himself a criminal for draft evasion.

But war has a habit of not making things go as planned.
Even the best plans tend to go sideways if fate decrees.
And in the field, decisions have to be made on the spot to keep the machine running.

Sherman No. 30333976 "Hurricane" had only two weeks ago been in the care of Logan's repair platoon, for an engine change.
Logan had been the one doing the test drive after the refit to make sure everything works.
Little had he known back then that he would find himself in that same driver seat again, but now permanently.

It had been an unfortunate twist of fate that the same day his maintenance platoon got taken out of action by a surprise airstrike, "Hurricane"'s tank company had taken some losses and had been on the way to the maintenance camp.
H company had proceeded to simply pick up the survivors and put them to work where they could - so that the advance could resume as quickly as possible.
"Hurricane" had taken an HE shell to the front plate right at the driver's position, and while it left the tank mostly unharmed, the same could not be said about the driver, who had succumbed to the violent concussion he had been subjected to.
The aftermath had been mercifully clean, considering the other things Logan had witnessed when damaged tanks had rolled into the maintenance camp.
But there still is something eerie about sitting in this driver position, with a big flat blast damage mark in the armour right in front of it.

Logan's eyes shift down to the sloped upper front plate of the armour.
Rain rolling down the angled metal runs around the raised edge of the circular wound in the steel.
A shiver rolls down his spine.
Would he be the next one?

His eyes shift ahead again.
The rain falls incessantly, oblivious to his meandering thoughts.

Somewhere, miles ahead, is the frontline.
And tomorrow, he would have to pilot this metal box on tracks towards the enemy.
From a hail of water, into one of steel.
Fighting alongside people he met mere hours ago.

And all he can do is hope the next shot coming their way won't hit the driver position again.
What would be the odds?

The rain keeps falling, running down Logan's back, dripping into the interior of the tank along his now very heavy tail.
A slap on his leg from the hull gunner, and a curse to come inside and close the damn hatch already.
A reminder that he is not alone.

One last look around the surrounding forest, the rain, the eerie emptiness.
And Logan lets himself slide down, slamming the hatch shut with a deafening clang.

The rain would keep falling until the next morning.

Nature cares little for the war going on under its oppressive hand.

---

Very moody piece of my army boi Logan, drawn by  ljesak ! Her striking art style immediately put this artwork idea in my head, and I was very glad she was willing to draw it, even though it is so far outside of the themes she usually draws. (Do check her other art out though, it is wonderful stuff!)
Ljesak was excellent to work with, and super friendly. Defo recommended c: