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The tank crews proceeded down the narrow past. The tanks were fully armed with shells and machine guns.

Their pride was high. Their aim clear. They had the best technology, best quality equipment of their time, 1935.

The crews were skilled and guided by relatively new aircraft.

And they had practiced their mission. But in the mountain passes, the going was slow, and the aircraft couldn't help as much.

Then there were clanks. What was that?

Piece of equipment.

More clanks. And soon a cascade of them.

It was rifles from attackers and the hilltops near them, hitting their armor.

Surprising at first. But no matter. Few rifle shots weren't going to pierce a tank.

And the crew responded with machine gun fire.

They were Europeans, a modern army, operating in Africa.

Their opponents, so the cartoons printed in newspapers in their home country, told them.

Their opponents were buffoonish and antiquated, with spears for weapons.

Okay, they didn't just have spears. They had some rifles, but still, no match.

And as they sprayed some machine gun fire, the enemy turned tail and ran like they thought they would.

They were visible now. The uniforms were not the savage dress that they expected.

Those that they saw in those cartoons, they had cotton, khaki-looking outfits, some had white helmets.

But none the matter. They were running. The threat was neutralized.

Then came the boulder. Roll down the hill and stop them in their tracks.

The tank crew tried to reverse, but could not. There was a line of tanks behind them.

More rifle shots. Clank, clank. The noise was deafening.

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