Hello War Gamers! 

I'm delighted to announce a significant update today. 

We have two new models for you to play with - the Utility Truck that excels in moving squads around the battlefield quickly, and the Anti-Armor Team, a dedicated anti-vehicle squad that'll make your opponent think twice about moving out in the open..

Attached to this post you will find a render of all five new Support Units, as well as building instructions and parts lists. You can upload the parts lists directly to BrickLink! 

You will also find version 0.53 of the rules, which concludes the Support Units update. There are numerous updates, tweaks to rules, and other efforts to streamline the game. The most noteworthy changes are rules for the new units, and a tweak to how cover works to make it more intuitive. 

As always, I would love to hear from you! You can join our Discord Server or send me a note at BroDadBrickWorks@gmail.com. 

Without further ado, the Lore Update, courtesy of R. E.: 

Office of Correspondence Review – Coalition Armed Forces 

Document No. 2178-B 

 Review of outgoing personal letter dated [REDACTED], originating from Lt. Jean-Baptiste Mercier, 4th Infantry Division. No explicit breach of operational security detected. Mentions of personnel movements and high-ranking individuals noted but assessed as non-actionable. Logged and cleared for dispatch. ------------- 

To My Dearest Brother, 

You wouldn’t believe who I saw tonight at the Stag. One of them—a proper Bounder ace, the kind they write stories about in the papers. It was like seeing a knight step down from his warhorse, except this one drank liquor and wore medals instead of armor. 

They walked in like they owned the place. 

 We all knew the brass jockeys had a reputation—high society types, cut from finer cloth, groomed for glory in the control thronez of those walking behemoths. But seeing one up close, in the flesh, was something else entirely. 

The Rusted Stag isn’t much—tin roof, warped wooden floors, a place where mud-caked boots leave permanent stains. A proper infantryman's haunt, not some polished officer’s club. And yet, when he stepped through the door, every conversation in the place dimmed just a little. Not from fear, not from command—just from his presence.

Capitaine Rémy Dufort. At least, that’s what the other grunts whispered. We’d seen the name stenciled on the side of his machine, Le Vautour Bleu, a machine that had single-handedly ripped through a Pact armored column last month when we were on the other side. The papers made it sound like a knightly duel—a lone warrior against impossible odds. That’s how they always wrote about the aces. As if they weren’t men, but legends carved from steel and gunpowder. 

 He didn’t wear a uniform like us. No mud-streaked trousers, no frayed greatcoat. Just a crisp officer’s jacket, medals polished, collar stiff. He carried himself like he’d never had to trudge through knee-high sludge on the way to an ambush site, never had to sleep under the open sky with mortar shells as lullabies. And yet, when he reached the bar, the barkeep already had a glass ready—a top-shelf Génépi, the kind we’d never be able to afford on a grunt’s pay. 

I don’t know what compelled me, but I stood up, half in a daze, boots clunking against the wood. Maybe I wanted to see if he was real; see if someone like him even acknowledged men like us.

"Monsieur," I said, because what else could I call him? 

His gaze flicked toward me, sharp, assessing. A man who had seen war in a way we never would—perched above it, orchestrating death with mechanical grace. Then, just for a moment, a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. 

"At ease, soldier," he said, voice smooth, measured. “You fight in the dust and the thick of it, yes?” 

I nodded, and he chuckled, shaking his head. “Braver than me.” 

And that was it. He turned back to his drink, already moving past me in his mind, the way someone might look at a fine painting before strolling on. Not unkind, not arrogant—just distant. Like we lived in two different worlds, even though we fought the same war. 

I sat back down, but I couldn’t shake the feeling. They weren’t like us. They never would be. But by God, did we still raise a glass in their name. 

Anyway, I doubt he even noticed me staring at the medals he wore, totems gained from fighting those... things on the other side; glinting metal carved to look like one of their skulls. Whether he noticed or not I swear, just being in the same room as a man like that makes you stand a little straighter. Maybe one day I’ll be good enough to serve under one of them—hell, maybe even shake their hand. Until then, I’ll keep my boots laced tight and my rifle clean. 

Give my love to Ma, and tell her I’m keeping my head down. 

Yours,

Jean