Craig DiLouie

THE BATTLE OF NORTH AFRICA

“Our people from the very highest to the very lowest have learned that this is not a child’s game.”

—General Dwight D. Eisenhower after the Battle of Kasserine Pass

HISTORICAL NOTE

While this book is based on real events occurring in North Africa in 1942–43, significant artistic license was taken to create a compelling work of fiction. Some timelines are compressed for simplicity, while our tankers’ regiment is a composite of several armored units that fought in the campaign. In some cases, further license was taken with the tank, including giving Boomer a loader’s hatch (presumably a retrofit) before they became a standard part of the M4 design. Finally, the information is limited to what our tankers know, sometimes based only on rumors.

Otherwise, every effort was taken to capture what it was like to be in an M4 medium tank battling German panzers. Any errors are, of course, the author’s.

If you’re a history buff and see any errors you’d like to share with the author, email him at Read@CraigDiLouie.com

MAP: Theater of operations. North Africa, 1942.

THE STAGE:

OPERATION TORCH

After suffering catastrophic losses in 1941–42, the Soviet Union pressured the Allies to open a new front against Nazi Germany. The Allies weren’t ready to invade Germany via France, so they planned to attack Axis forces in North Africa.

Operation Torch called for 100,000 troops landing in French Morocco and Algeria to liberate more than a million square miles of territory. This done, the British would push east to Tunis to trap the Afrika Corps between the invaders and Lieutenant-General Bernard Montgomery’s Eighth Army, which was advancing through Libya. By securing North Africa, the Allies hoped to secure Mediterranean shipping lanes and expose southern Europe to invasion.

French loyalties remained an open question. After Germany overran France in 1940, its armies occupied the northern part of the country, while the French government moved from Paris to Vichy and adopted its own form of fascism. The sixty thousand French troops in North Africa were loyal to Vichy, but it was hoped they would join the Allies in their fight to liberate France.

On the night of November 7, 1942, President Franklin D. Roosevelt broadcast a message calling on the French to free themselves from the Axis yoke. The U.S. Navy shot salvos of fireworks over Casablanca, Algiers, and Oran that burst in the sky to reveal the Star-Spangled Banner. The message was clear: America is coming. Don’t resist. Join us in the fight against Nazi Germany.

The next morning, the landings began.

ALGERIA

CHAPTER ONE

COMBAT READY

I’m actually in Africa, Tank Sergeant John Austin thought.

Aside from stands of date trees, it looked like any other coastline. Two villages bookended the beach. Farmland ahead, the Tell Atlas Mountains in the distance.

Not as exotic as he’d thought it’d be, and right now it was a god-awful mess.

Armored vehicles, trucks, jeeps, and soldiers crowded Beach Z’s landing zones. The tanks growled under a haze of blue exhaust. Red-faced beach masters waved and blew whistles to corral them all inland.

At first light, troops began landing on three points around Oran. From there, they’d strike out to seize key installations before converging on the city.

Austin didn’t care about the big picture right now, however. He had an immediate task, which was to capture an airfield. If anything got in his way, he’d destroy it.

But first he had to get off this beach.

A coastal gun boomed in the south. He turned in the cupola of his M4 “Sherman” medium tank to gaze back toward the sea. Riding a moderate swell, lighters and other landing craft came and went from the great fleet. Geysers sprayed into the air as shells splashed around one of the boats.

French 75, Austin thought bitterly.

Below the turret, Private First Class Anthony Russo, his driver, yelled from his hatch, “Hey, Boss! Don’t they know they’re being liberated?”

Pivoting his attention back to land, Austin raised his binoculars to study the valley that led to the distant purple mountains. “I guess they didn’t get the message.”

“Maybe the President broadcast it in English.”

He zeroed in on smoke plumes rising above the farmland. A pair of planes, which he hoped were American, soared across the sky. Gunfire thudded over the roar of engines, more felt than heard at this range. The Big Red One, the 1st Infantry Division, was out there, getting killed by the people they were freeing.

The radio crackled. “Bears 3 Actual to all Bears. The captain found us a road. Get ready to roll.”

Bears was the call sign for Company B, 3 meant Third Platoon, and actual was Lieutenant Whitley, leader of this platoon of five M4 tanks and commander of Betty, distinguished by his Texan accent.

The platoon’s other tanks sounded off: Buckshot, Boxer, and Bull, all having nicknames starting with a B as they were Company B. Then it came time for Tank #34, nicknamed Boomer, to respond.

Austin keyed for transmission. “Bears 3-5 here. We still can’t move.”

In the chaos of disembarking on the lighters, his tank was loaded with the company’s maintenance section consisting of a couple of M3 halftracks and a jeep. Gunfire had forced the lighter off course, resulting in the boat landing them two hundred yards south of the rest of the company.

“We’re moving out, Five,” Whitley said. “Y’all catch up soon as you can.”

Austin winced at the lieutenant’s tone, which betrayed his frustration at losing twenty percent of his strength before the operation even began. “Roger that.”

“We’ll tell you all about it when we see you,” another voice buzzed on the radio. Sergeant Cocker, the commander of Buckshot.

“Thanks a lot,” Austin muttered. “Five, out.”

The platoon frequency filled with whoops as the tanks formed up in a column and moved off the beach, kicking rooster tails of sand. Whitley’s Betty led the way, an oversized Texas flag flying from his tank’s radio aerial.

“What’s the plan, Boss?” PFC Russo yelled up at him. “Hurry up and wait?”

Austin surveyed the soldiers and vehicles crowding the beach in front of him. He was officially in the rear with the gear. “Damn.”

He was going to miss the show. Heroic fantasies aside, he was all too aware his tank was just a tiny cog in a giant war machine, but he’d come a long way over a long time to get here, starting even before he was born.

Austin men had fought in every American war since the Revolution. Now it was his turn to face the baptism of battle. He imagined going home and telling his father he sat out his first combat mission. The squashed lump of lead in his breast pocket, a family heirloom carried into battle by Austin men since the War of 1812 for good luck, suddenly felt like a dead weight.

He switched the radio from RADIO to INT, which allowed him to talk to his crew on the interphone. “Driver, get us off the beach.”

After a long pause: “How?”

“Put the tank in gear, and lean on the sticks, Shorty.”

“You want me to run people over, Boss?”

“Nudge them out of the way.”

“Nudge them?”

The tank was nineteen feet long and nine feet wide, and it weighed thirty tons.

“Keep her in granny gear,” Austin said.

Another long pause, during which the driver was no doubt contemplating a few decades of hard labor for running somebody over. “You’re the boss.”

Originally built for airplanes and now used for tanks, the M4’s four-hundred-horsepower engine snarled. The tank crawled forward on clanking treads. Soldiers cursed and jumped out of the way. A surprised corporal started his jeep and backed it out of Boomer’s path.

His heart in his throat, Austin kept an eye peeled for officers but didn’t see any nearby. He was risking his stripes and possibly more. He hoped this stunt wouldn’t get anybody hurt.

A mean-looking, broad-shouldered beach master hustled over screaming. “What the hell do you think you’re doing on my beach, Sergeant?”

“We’ve got a malfunction! We can’t stop!” Austin swept his arm in front of him. “Clear a path for us!”

The crew interphone filled with laughter. The tank commander didn’t laugh with them. He wiped sweat from his weathered face, his terror being authentic.

The military policeman had already taken note of the tank’s designation emblazoned on the hull beside the twenty-inch white star: 1▲ 6▲ B34, which translated as, 1st Armored Division, 6th Armored Regiment (1st Battalion), Company B, Tank #34. Instead of busting him, however, the MP blew his whistle to get the milling soldiers and vehicles out of his way. The gamble was paying off. The MP was no tanker. He carried too much on his plate and had to act fast.

Keeping Boomer in low gear, Russo found a path toward a stand of date trees at the edge of the beach.

“We’re gonna make it, Boss,” the driver said on the interphone.

Austin grunted. Sure enough, everybody was too busy with the invasion to care what he was doing. “Good driving.”

Russo guffawed nervously. “Yeah. Okay.”

The tank commander still wasn’t convinced his crew had what it took, and he didn’t like his driver being an Italian-American for the obvious fact America was at war with Italy. Russo was short and stocky and way too slick. Every time the kid called him Boss, Austin suspected he was being made fun of.

Still, Russo was shaping up to be a good tank driver. Austin would soon lead him and the other men into combat. They were a gunner, loader, driver, and assistant driver/bow machine gunner. They still acted as individuals, not yet a real team. Good men, but they all rubbed each other the wrong way and constantly got on each other’s nerves. They loved the tank for its colossal power, but they had no love for each other. Getting them to cohere into a single fighting organism would be a test of Austin’s leadership.

Boomer navigated the date trees and emerged facing a southerly road choked with armored vehicles raising an enormous dust cloud. Austin switched to RADIO and reported in to his platoon.

“Yup, I’ve got my eyes on y’all,” Whitley said. “Welcome back, Boomer. We’re on your two. Fall in behind Buckshot.”

“Roger.” Austin switched back to INT. “Driver, you heard the man.”

Boomer rolled forward and filled the gap that opened in the column. The commander pulled his goggles over his eyes and raised his bandana to cover his nose and mouth.

The loader’s hatch beside the cupola swung open. The loader popped up.

“What are you doing?” Austin asked him.

“I’ve never been to Africa,” PFC Amos Swanson said in his Appalachian accent. The big tanker was pure hillbilly and half animal. The crew called him Mad Dog. The swirling brown cloud enveloped him, and he coughed. “Never mind.”

“Plenty of time to sightsee later. We’ll be staying a while.”

“Not that different than home.” The hatch banged shut.

The platoon crossed the American lines. A thrill ran Austin’s spine. This was it.

He keyed his microphone. “We’re in injun country now, boys. Stay sharp.”

Buckshot emerged looming from the dust. Before he could yell a warning, Russo pulled on the sticks. Balking and grinding, Buckshot rolled off the road. Engine trouble, probably the transmission. If the crew couldn’t fix it, they’d have to wait for the maintenance platoon, which was still stuck on the beach.

“Bad luck, Barney,” Austin grinned.

“Get one for me, John,” Buckshot’s commander replied over the radio. “Out.”

An aggravated Whitley cut in, “Bears 3, at the junction up ahead, clock three and steady on First Platoon.”

First Platoon was already making the right turn. Russo geared down and swung Boomer in a wide arc to the right until the tracks found the new road. Then he threw the transmission into fourth gear. The tank charged ahead at a steady fifteen miles per hour.

The sun blazed high in the African sky. The morning air warmed steadily. Tafaraoui Airfield lay twenty-five miles away. The battalion’s fifty-odd tanks would be in action in less than two hours.

Intense firing crackled and boomed from St. Cloud in the west, one of the approaches to the city of Oran, which was the operation’s final prize. From the sound of it, the French had quite a bit of fight in them. To switch sides, apparently they’d need some additional convincing in the form of heavy shelling.

“Bears 3, clock nine at the junction up ahead. Steady on First Platoon.”

The final stretch of road, going southwest. Every minute brought the airfield closer. First, Tafaraoui, where they’d deny the formidable French air forces a base and give it to American planes now staging from Gibraltar. Next, La Sénia Airfield to the north. Then on to assault Oran and end the operation.

Austin shivered as another thrill shot down his spine. The French African Army didn’t have much in the way of armor, but they had 75s, artillery pieces powerful enough to punch holes in tanks. However, aside from a general fear he’d make a wrong decision and let his boys down, he wasn’t scared, not really. Surrounded by all this armor, it was impossible to feel anything but safe. Mostly, he was just plain excited. He wanted some action.

He’d made it to the party, and he was eager to do his country proud and live up to his family’s legacy.

Let’s go, he thought. I’m ready. Let’s get this show started.

The Tanker in the Sky must have heard his prayer, because the air filled with the thunder of guns.

CHAPTER TWO

WARMING THE BENCH

PFC Anthony Russo was having the time of his life as a gasoline cowboy, and to top it off, the government was paying him $54 a month for it.

Not bad for a poor kid from the wrong part of Trenton, New Jersey.

He was a long way from there and Armored Force School at Fort Knox, reveille at 4 AM, sitting at attention during class, uniform inspections, instructors barking, “Ten-shun!” After all the bullshit both pointed and pointless, he felt remarkably free, able to do what he wanted, which was drive this beautiful tank.

What a rush, working the steering sticks to make the thirty-ton Boomer go where he wanted. After his harrowing drive navigating personnel and vehicles on the beach, he felt like he could thread a needle with it. Though he’d sweated then at the risk of running some poor sap over, his biggest dream actually was to drive over something and crush it with his tracks. A jeep, maybe, or a big ol’ shack.

War was proving to be a real hoot, even if he’d spent most of it so far eating African dust.

Guns pounded outside, the sound thudding against the tank’s armor. The radio erupted with chatter.

“Button up!” Sergeant Austin yelled over the interphone.

Russo didn’t have to be told twice. Closing the hatch not only offered protection from gunfire, it allowed the turret to traverse without killing him. He lowered his seat, pulled his hatch shut, and removed his goggles and bandana from his face. Beside him, assistant driver and bow gunner Eugene Clay did the same and hunkered behind his .30-caliber machine gun.

The driver’s world shrank to a small, thick glass viewport.

“Driver, come alongside Boxer’s three,” Austin said.

“Wilco, Boss.” Russo pulled the right steering stick, which turned the tank in that direction. He was careful not to let up on the throttle during the turn, which could allow slack to build up in the track and throw it. He’d done that once during maneuvers in Louisiana and had learned a hard lesson reinforced by kitchen police duty.

Russo could barely see through the dust build-up on the viewport. He raised his rotatable periscope and tightened it until it faced forward.

“Driver, clock ten,” the tank commander said.

“Got it.” Russo reversed the sticks to bring the tank into line on Boxer’s right.

“Left stick! Okay. Stop!”

He pulled back on both sticks as the firing outside intensified. The tank ground to a halt. “Sorry, Boss. I was driving half blind there for a minute.”

“You’re about a yard away from Boxer.”

Sergeant Austin switched back to the radio, which blatted, “And tell your driver if he rams us, I’m going to drive my tank up his ass.”

That was Boxer’s commander, bitching about the close shave. Russo grinned.

“Come on,” Clay fumed at his station. “What’s going on?”

The assistant driver and bow gunner, or bog, added a machine gun to the tank’s armament. The scrawny kid hunched over his gun, chewing his Wrigley’s, which added a spearmint note to the gasoline stench.

Through Russo’s periscope, he saw armored vehicles receding in the distance as the dust began to clear. “I don’t know, Eugene. I think there’s a war going on.”

“I can’t see shit through my port. I have nothing to shoot at.”

Austin updated the crew over the interphone. “We’re in reserve. The Alligators are having all the fun.”

“There you go,” Russo said. “Company A is taking the airfield.”

“Damn.” Sweat poured down Clay’s face. “We’re warming the bench.”

“The boss will let us know if they need us. Until then, take it easy.”

“It’s just that—”

“Or don’t,” Russo said, still smiling. “I don’t care.”

The bog glared at him. “Why the hell are you so happy?”

“I got to drive a tank today! Don’t worry. You’ll get to shoot something soon.”

“It’s the waiting I hate. If we’re gonna see action, I just want to get it—”

Russo’s finger shot up in a hold-it gesture as his headset buzzed.

“Driver, move out,” the tank commander said.

“This is it,” Clay said. “We’re going in.”

Russo dropped the clutch, shifted straight into second gear to prevent stalling, and depressed the foot accelerator to channel engine power to the treads. He nudged the steering sticks forward; the tracks bit into the gravel. The thirty-ton monster rolled forward with a loud cough of exhaust.

The bog clenched behind his gun, searching for a target.

“It’s just a little sand got in the air filter,” Russo said. “Stay cool.”

Or go suck on a lollypop, the driver thought. I don’t care. The crew weren’t his friends, and he owed them nothing. From day one, they called him Macaroni for his Italian-American heritage and Shorty for his height.

Shorty he could handle—guys had to rib each other about something, or the sun couldn’t come up—and his height made him an ideal fit for the driver’s seat.

On the other hand, he hated Macaroni. His parents had emigrated from Sicily back in the ’20s, so what? It wasn’t like they wanted to cross an ocean to learn a new language and get crapped on. It was that or face starvation and Mussolini. And then Anthony Russo was born in the USA, the same as the rest of the crew. That made him as American as they were, with the same right to its soil.

The hazing had a purpose, and he knew how this story was supposed to play out. He was supposed to work hard, be the best tanker he could be, kill a lot of men from the Old Country, and maybe get wounded himself in some heroic self-sacrificing gesture. Then, at last, they would accept him as an equal.

Aside from his family, which took pride in him serving his country, Russo didn’t need to prove himself to anybody, and he sure as hell didn’t need their acceptance. They could all go suck a lollypop.

Clay fidgeted in his seat. “Where’s the enemy? Are we in action?”

“The battle’s over, boys,” the commander said over the interphone. “The Alligators took the airfield in no time, and no casualties. The doughs are mopping up.” He sounded disappointed at the missed opportunity to blood the tank. “Driver, steady on, then march on the hangar on the left.”

“Is it all right if we open the doors, Boss?”

A long pause then: “Go ahead.”

Russo raised the hatch and adjusted his seat until his helmeted head emerged from the oval-shaped opening. He blinked in the bright sun. “Ah, fresh air.”

And even better, a clear view. For the first time, he wasn’t driving in anybody else’s dust. Tank treads had a special talent for turning dirt and gravel into a fine choking powder and hurling it in the next guy’s face, especially here in a dry region like this. A downside to the job.

Clay stared at him. “You weren’t scared at all. When the shooting started.”

“Not even a little,” Russo admitted, surprised by this.

“I wasn’t either. I was just excited. I want to get in the game.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m just wondering why you weren’t even a little bit scared, Shorty.”

Russo steered the tank toward the hangar. “I’ve got two inches of armor separating me and the outside world, for starters.”

“That armor might as well be butter against a 75,” Clay said.

“It’s even thicker because the armor slopes, you know that. It isn’t butter, chum. Besides that, we’re just one of fifty tanks. That’s pretty good odds.”

“The turret is filled with bombs in dry storage. One hit and we’ll blow like a firecracker. If that doesn’t kill us, we’ll burn to death before we can bail out.”

The blood drained from Russo’s face. “Christ, Eugene.”

“Yeah, it’s kind of scary—”

“You want me to think about all that when the shooting starts? I drive the tank. I get us from point A to point B. It keeps me so busy, it’s hard to worry about anything else, which is out of my hands. I don’t even have a weapon.”

“I was just wondering why you weren’t scared,” the bog muttered.

“Well, keep your wondering to yourself while I’m driving.”

Third Platoon clanked past antitank guns in shattered sandbag emplacements and onto the airstrip, which now resembled a tank park more than an airfield. M3 and M4 tanks snorted like bulls as they parked in platoons. Armored infantry, which the tankers called doughs or dogfaces, milled around captured French African Army vehicles and planes. Grinning with victory, a platoon marched a rabble of prisoners in khaki desert uniforms.

“So what happens next?” Clay said.

Russo rolled the tank to a halt and let it idle before cutting the engine and closing the main fuel supply valves. “You keep asking that like I know more than you do.”

The tank commander stepped off the turret onto the sponson, looking like a movie star playing a tank commander. Russo found it inspiring and irritating at the same time.

“Stretch your legs, boys,” Austin said. “We’ll be hitting La Sénia Airfield next. Then we take Oran.”

Russo nodded. The driver’s station was relatively roomy and comfortable, its seat thick with a decent backrest. But it was spring instead of padded. His rear was going to have callouses by the end of this operation.

He twisted and pulled himself out the oval hatch then stretched his back in an arch. He froze at the sight of a trio of dead French soldiers lying tangled nearby on the ground. Machine gun fire had torn them apart. He wished somebody would come along and adjust their limbs to a more comfortable position.

He’d seen a dead body before. When he was a boy, his family had buried his grandmother, but Nonna had been prepared for a viewing. This was different. It was the most horrible thing he’d ever seen.

He sensed a profound truth, one telling him only life and death were real, and everything else was just an illusion, stuff humans made up to make it all mean something, including the very idea of war.

Clay paled as he zeroed in on them too. “What’s going on, Sergeant? Are the French going to surrender?”

Austin frowned. “When I know something, I’ll share it.”

The bog kept on staring at the bodies. “They should have surrendered.”

“We have to make a lot more bodies before we get to go home. You think this is bad? Wait until we go up against the Krauts. And we don’t surrender.”

“Right.” Clay had turned pale. Then he seemed to steel himself. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”

“What about you, Shorty?” the commander said. “You ready to do whatever it takes to beat the fascists for Uncle Sam?”

What did Austin expect him to do? Parachute into Rome and kill Mussolini? “I’ll drive your tank where you want it to go, Boss.”

True-blue, gung-ho guys like the sergeant wouldn’t bat an eye before putting you in prison for freedom. They all had a little fascist in them. It’s why he called the sergeant Boss, not to kiss up but because Austin was just that, a member of the class that ran things back home. The man’s family traced its roots back to the American Revolution. In their mind, they were fighting for their America, not Russo’s.

Thinking this, he started to tell the commander to shove it. Then he looked again at the bodies on the ground. “Yeah, Sergeant. I’ll do what it takes.”

Anything to avoid ending up like these Frenchies, lying dead in the dirt.

CHAPTER THREE

THE AIRFIELD

PFC Amos Swanson asked for the M3-7 wrench.

Twin tracks propelled the tank on a system of wheels. Bolted to the hull, six two-wheeled, rubber-tired bogies supported the tank on springs. Drive sprockets at the front end pulled the tracks from the rear and laid them in the path of the advancing bogie wheels. Single rollers supported the upper track’s weight.

Russo handed over the wrench and laid a straightedge along the top of the track midway between two of these rollers. Swanson set the wrench on the adjusting nut and turned until there was only a half-inch clearance between the straightedge and the top of the track.

Having gained the right tension, Swanson moved down the track. It paid to tighten up the track anytime the tank halted on a march.

As Boomer’s loader, he was responsible for the ammunition, but he’d claimed the role of main mechanic. Machines fascinated him. The tank was plenty sophisticated and could be fussier than a rich man’s daughter, but everything about it was cause and effect, which made the iron gal simple enough to figure out. Energy was produced here, pushed there, unleashed and throttled.

Swanson hadn’t even finished high school, but the Army was teaching him far more useful skills than he’d ever learn in a classroom or elsewhere back home. Skills he could put to good use if he ever made it out of this war.

Nearby, the gunner sat in the sponson’s shade, face buried in one of the many books he’d brought with him to the war. Right now he was reading a thick tome by some guy named James Joyce. Charles Wade was a cool hand behind the tank’s 75, but all his book learning had put him on a high horse.

“You’re gonna just sit there,” Swanson said, fixing the man with his best predatory sneer. “Afraid to get your hands dirty with the little folks.”

Wade gestured to the double chevrons on his sleeve, which marked him as a corporal. “Privilege of rank, Private.”

“Privilege of being a snob.”

“Only to you, Private,” Wade said, eyes still glued to his book. “Only to you.”

Fist clenching the wrench, Swanson glared at him. Even the way the corporal called him Private was snobby and insulting, deliberately drawing attention to their difference in rank. Where he came from, folks looked down on his family as being poor white trash, but nobody talked down to him. An insult was cause for a blood feud. It was why everybody was so damned polite in his neck of the woods. But he was in the Army now and a long way from Applewood, West Virginia.

Sweating and red-faced, Swanson growled as he struggled to compose a suitably cutting comeback.

“Come on, Mad Dog,” Russo said. “Let’s get this show on the road. We might be moving out soon.”

He fixed his gaze on the driver now. He didn’t like Russo either, a little guy with a megaphone for a mouth and always reminding you he was Italian. “Hey, Mac. How many gears does a ginzo tank have?”

“Oh great,” Russo muttered. “It’s my turn now.”

“Five just like ours, but four are reverse.”

The driver left the straightedge and dusted his hands. “You can finish up by yourself. I’ll be somewhere else.”

Swanson tightened another nut. “It won’t take me long. You’ll be running over crunchies in no time. I’ll bet you ginzos make a different sound, though.” He blew a raspberry.

“More like, ‘Ffangul, scustumad.’”

“There you go again, Mac. Anybody who brags about his heritage as much as you do has either got a big chip on his shoulder or is rooting for the other side.”

Wade looked up from his paperback in alarm. The driver turned red and stepped glaring into Swanson’s space.

“Call me a traitor to my face,” Russo said.

Swanson grinned. Six-three and built like a gorilla, the Army’s biggest uniform barely fit him. Hell, the tank barely fit him. He was more than a match for anybody in the company. That didn’t mean he wanted to trade punches with Russo, who was the bulldog type and wouldn’t give up until he was hamburger.

It didn’t matter, though. He’d already won. He’d never been able to rattle Wade, but the excitable Russo was easy as pushing a button.

He said, “What if I call you a runt instead?”

The megaphone mouth blared, “What if I punch that smug look off your face?”

“Russo! Swanson!” The tank commander stomped toward them. “What the hell is the matter with you two? Save it for the Germans.”

Russo reddened to a deeper shade. “He was calling me a—”

“I don’t care! We have another airfield to assault, and then we’re taking Oran.”

“That’s right,” Swanson gloated.

“And you, stop being a misanthrope and antagonizing everybody.”

He frowned. “What’d you just call me?”

“A misanthrope is somebody who hates everybody,” Wade said.

“Misanthrope.” Swanson savored the word. Yup, that was him.

“Scustumad,” Russo chimed in.

“We speak American in my tank,” Sergeant Austin said.

“That’s right,” Swanson said.

“And you, don’t talk at all. Shut up—”

Across the airfield, tankers and armored infantry belted out a ragged cheer. The men looked up. Fighter planes were approaching.

“I’m guessing by the cheering that they’re ours,” Wade said.

Austin climbed up the sponson and trained his binoculars across the airfield to the northwest. “Yup, they’re ours. Twelfth Air Force Spitfires from Gibraltar. They’re late, and we’re behind schedule.”

They’d been cooling their heels for hours out of concern, if they pressed on, the French would take their airfield back and stage bombing missions from their rear. Some French planes had counterattacked, only to be shot down by Royal Navy fighters. For now, while French 75s intermittently lobbed shells at them from the nearby hills, the battalion would wait for reinforcements to take over here so they could get back on the attack. So far, only an ammunition train had driven onto the airfield, which turned out to be French and was promptly captured.

At this rate, they’d be lucky if they made it to La Sénia before tomorrow.

The Spitfires converged into a line for landing. Another four planes approached from the west.

“More of ours?” Wade wondered.

“The lieutenant says we’re expecting some Hurricanes and C47s to show up,” Austin said. “The Spitfires aren’t reacting, so I’m guessing they’re—”

“Mannaggia,” Russo said as the newcomers broadsided the Spitfires.

Tracers flicked across the sky, guiding cannon fire toward the lead American plane. Trailing smoke, the Spitfire spiraled to the earth and crashed in a wave of dirt, taking with it some poor bastard dying on his first day of combat because his squadron had mistakenly identified the French planes as Allied.

The rest of the Spitfires veered into the attack. The ensuing dogfight weaved across the sky.

“Wow.” Clay’s eyes gleamed at the show.

One by one, the French planes flamed out of the sky. French 1, Americans 4.

“Mannaggia,” Swanson echoed the driver. “Good word.”

“Yeah,” said Russo.

“What’s it mean? ‘Long live Mussolini’?”

Sergeant Austin glared at him, but the loader smirked. Go ahead and transfer me, he thought. He didn’t care. He didn’t want to be here. He wanted to serve in a maintenance platoon where he could work on tanks all day, safe behind the idiots getting themselves killed by the idiots they were trying to liberate.

Some of the Spitfires buzzed like angry wasps around the sky, searching for enemy planes, while the rest reformed a line to land on the airfield.

A man called out: “Incoming!”

Across the airfield, tankers hit the dirt. Battalion had placed the company far from the airstrip, which the 75s were aiming at, but the shells were all over the place. A few rounds fell near their hangar, angry blasts that filled the air with dust. The first Spitfire landed in propeller roar, followed by another.

Clay crashed next to Swanson in the slit trench they’d dug beside Boomer. “Why aren’t we moving? We’re sitting ducks here.”

“We’re sitting ducks out there too,” the loader said.

“We’ll go when they tell us to go,” Austin said.

Without orders, they had nothing to do but wait. Swanson lay in the trench and wished they’d dug it deeper. He suddenly felt homesick, though home had little going for it. Moonshine merchants but otherwise doing as little as possible and never having enough to get by, his clan were mountain people, isolated and suspicious of anybody who wasn’t kin. No, he didn’t miss that life, but it was familiar, made sense, and was safer than this.

If only he hadn’t fallen for a girl. Hadn’t dreamed of her every night before he went to sleep. Hadn’t seen her with another man. Hadn’t cut that man in a fight and started a feud that could end only with somebody dying, maybe him.

Hadn’t enlisted to get out of Dodge.

Oh boy, what a mistake. Talk about out of the frying pan and into the fire.

Whatever his privation and social status, he’d had it easy in Applewood compared to the Army. Armored Force School at Fort Knox, Kentucky. Reveille at 4 AM, sitting at attention during class, always some NCO yelling in his face and calling him a hillbilly and giving him demerits during every inspection. The heat, sweat, hard work, bare-bones food, raw tedium—even the marches up and down Agony Hill to get to the live-fire range—didn’t bother him. He hated the ass-chewing, regimentation, and endless chicken-shit pep drills—in general, having to kow-tow to authority with no real purpose to it. In the Army, you were just a pair of dog tags, and a whole lot of shit rolled downhill.

After a few months of this, the instructors put him in a worn-out M4 with a 37mm gun. Swanson spent the next few months roaming around brush and gullies, shooting at wood panels representing enemy tanks, antitank guns, and infantry. When the red flag went up, the commander shouted the order to fire. Swanson bivouacked, loaded during the simulations, scraped and polished his tank, played war games at Camp Polk in Louisiana, and suffered endless inspections. The only bright spot was a cold beer waiting for him at the PX at the end of the day.

Then for once, the latrine rumors proved right, and the division was packed like cattle into Pullman sleeper cars and trained out to Fort Dix. After that, the Brooklyn Army Terminal, where they shouldered their musette bags and tramped aboard the RMS Queen Mary while big cranes hauled their tanks into the holds. Thousands of soldiers waved at the cheering crowds from the railings. Later, they drifted past the Statue of Liberty and wondered if this was the last time they’d see their homeland.

Across the Atlantic, the division landed in Ireland, where they trained for months on the moors and spent their liberty chasing the colleens. When the medics punched them with another round of inoculations, Swanson knew they’d be shipping out soon. By the time they embarked again, even he was chomping at the bit for some action. Allowed topside to get some sun, the tanker gaped at the sight of American and British transports and warships filling the sea to the horizon. All the brass told them was they’d get off their ships fighting. The general consensus among the boys was they were going to France to start the drive to Berlin, but as usual, the consensus was wrong, and now here they were in some godforsaken patch of Africa, about as far away from home as Swanson could get.

Huddled in their trench, Sergeant Austin gave him the stink-eye again for his remark about being sitting ducks, but the man said nothing. Swanson would have no luck getting himself booted into the maintenance platoon. For some reason, the sergeant considered it his duty to convince his tank’s loader they were all brothers in arms and needed to do or die for each other.

The attack trickled off, and orders came down that the battalion was bivouacking here for the night. Remain overnight, or RON in Army lingo. Rumor had it the French had stopped the Allied advance and were gathering their strength for a counterattack. They weren’t the allies everybody assumed they were, and they weren’t pushovers, either.

The tankers set up their stove to make chow. Swanson watched them work and listened to them bitch, and thought, I ain’t dying for you.

A C47 landed on the airstrip and unloaded paratroopers who dodged another French barrage. Several planes had already been hit and were burning. The supply train arrived to deliver water, heavy oil, and gasoline, escorted by Buckshot, which had gotten its maintenance and was back to rolling. The camp quieted as night fell. Swanson pulled first watch, giving him some peace and quiet for two hours.

Shrouded in dark, an alien continent lay all around him. He’d crossed the great Atlantic, visited a corner of Europe, and come to Africa. The war was showing him a world far bigger than the tiny patch of ground he’d called home. Applewood may have proved too small for the likes of him, but the world was too big for comfort. He’d never felt more alone in his life. These sleeping men weren’t kin. And despite the growing bond he felt for Boomer, the big tank wasn’t home.

MAP: Progress of invasion of Oran, Algeria on November 8, 1942.

With the exception of the task group including elements of 1st Armored, which captured Tafaroui Airfield, French resistance stopped all other forces.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE BATTLE OF ST. LUCIEN

Corporal Charles Wade awoke feeling the way he always did: trapped, angry, and like the world’s biggest idiot.

“Christ,” he muttered. “I’m still in the Army.”

For some reason, he felt even worse than usual today. A real case of the ass.

As was typical, he was the last awake in the entire battalion. Dawn was a red sliver on the eastern horizon, the sky still dark yet purpling at its edge. He shivered in the chill as he climbed out of his roll, unable to believe he was doing this.

The loader was tying his own rolled-up fartsack to the tank’s rear. “Top of the morning, Wisenheimer.”

When he’d enlisted, Wade had painstakingly created a strongman persona right down to the fictitious nickname, Hawkeye, which he’d claimed everybody called him back home. To avoid being singled out for tedious abuse, he didn’t want anybody to know he was a history teacher at the University of Minnesota.

It didn’t stick. Swanson was the first to call him, Wisenheimer, derogatory slang for a smart guy and which was doubly insulting because it sounded vaguely German. The loader wasn’t that smart, but like most bullies, he had a certain animal cunning. He also had it in for Wade.

“Swanson,” Wade grunted, still dazed from sleep.

“The war waits for no man, not even one as important as you.”

“I had this weird dream you were worth talking to, Private.” Wade had no interest in trading barbs with this Neanderthal until he’d had a strong cup of coffee.

He filled a large mug with water and used it to brush his teeth, shave, and wash. Russo climbed into the tank to warm up the engine. Men strolled past, a spade in one hand and a roll of Army Form Blank—toilet paper—in the other. The sun was up now, so the men could light their one-burner tanker stoves and boil water for coffee.

While he waited, he opened a breakfast box and pulled out a can of bacon and eggs, which came out in the form of a cake. Instantly, black flies buzzed around it. “What the hell is this?”

“Listen to you bitch,” Swanson said as he finished wolfing his down and bent to light a cigarette. “It’s like music to my ears. Keep it up.”

“Eat fast,” Sergeant Austin said. “We’re on the move in five.”

Clay handed Wade a mug of coffee. “Here you go, Corporal.”

“What’s the word, Sergeant?” Wade asked.

“We’re going to Oran,” the commander grinned. In other words, he didn’t know anything about how the invasion was going.

Wade blew on his coffee and drank it quickly, wishing he had time to get a few more pages into Ulysses. Right now, books were the only thing keeping his brain and soul from withering away and dying.

“Mount up!” men called across the tank park. “We’re on the move!”

Wade climbed into the tank through the commander’s hatch and settled into his vinyl-covered seat. Austin pulled mosquito netting over the hatch to trap the flies inside, which the crew whacked until they were all dead. Russo cranked the engine. As usual, the turret compartment smelled like gasoline and ass. Otherwise, it was freezing in here, a situation the rising African sun would soon rectify.

Never a moment’s comfort in this man’s army.

Wade put on his headset and plugged it into a cord dangling from his control box. Behind him, Swanson switched on the radio transmitter and receiver then pressed their assigned channel button until it locked.

The commander switched to INT and said, “Check interphone.”

“Gunner, check,” Wade said.

“Bog, check,” Clay said.

“Driver, check,” Russo called out.

“Loud and clear,” said Swanson.

“Next stop, La Sénia Airfield,” Austin said. “Shorty, follow behind Boxer.”

“Roger,” Russo said.

Wade peered into his periscope, which offered a wide view on the left for acquiring targets and a six-times magnification, reticled telescope sight on the right for shooting. The battalion’s vehicles were rolling off the airfield and forming up to drive north toward Oran.

Loaded with gear, the big, dusty tanks looked more like a caravan of mechanized nomads than an armored fighting force.

He settled the scope on Boxer and said, “Boom, you’re dead.”

Seeing as he had nothing to do for the near future other than sit on his sore ass, he wished he had more coffee. Only the lead tank traveled with a loaded gun to prevent some Swanson-type from accidentally firing at friendly armor. More mind-numbing hurry up and wait. He wished he could nap or read a book. He wished he’d never joined the goddamn United States Army and went off to war.

Wade regarded the photo of his wife, which he’d stuck to the bulkhead with a piece of gum. He’d put it there not to remind him what he was fighting for and what waited for him back home, but to give himself a thorough punishment every day for enlisting.

Alice smiled at him as if to say, Thanks for making tracks, honey. Not that the sneaking around wasn’t fun, but it’s so much easier this way. I hope you make it home alive, Charlie, though do keep in mind that, if you do happen to get yourself bopped off, your loving wife will get your back pay plus a six-month bonus.

He had plenty of time to stew.

Wade had met Alice in graduate school. He’d hoped to ensnare her with his intellect and ambition. He’d always believed he was meant for great things, and he’d worked hard his whole life to take advantage of every opportunity.

In the end, it was she who snared him with her beauty and personality. He fell madly in love, and after graduation, he married her and landed a job teaching history. The war had started, and while he hated fascism and wanted to see it destroyed, he was too established in life to consider joining up.

Then he’d caught her cheating with Larry Enfield, a literature professor who’d recently gained an appointment as a staff officer in the Army, and something inside him broke. He realized he wasn’t a great man; he wasn’t meant for great things. In a blind fit, he marched to the recruiting office to make history instead of teach it.

Even now, he wasn’t sure what he’d really been trying to accomplish. A part of him wanted her to see him the same way she had seen his rival, a fighting man in uniform. Another part of him wanted to escape, put the whole thing behind him.

Escape he had, and he’d been paying for it ever since. There are some things you can’t take back, enlisting in the United States Army being one of them.

“—Bears 3, we’re turning around,” Lieutenant Whitley said over the radio on the platoon frequency. “The Frogs are getting set to stage an attack on the airfield. The rest of the battalion is going ahead without us. Over.”

“Any idea what we’re facing, over?” Bull’s commander cut in.

“Intel is they’re tanks, possibly company strength. Wait one… There’s a town called St. Lucien about five miles southeast of the airfield. That’s where we’re going. A platoon of M3 tank destroyers is coming with us. Out.”

“Roger that, out,” Austin said and switched to the interphone. “Driver, clock six right, steady on Boxer.”

“You got it, Boss,” Russo said.

“Let’s go kick some Vichy ass.”

The crew whooped. Wade stiffened in his seat. They were going into combat again, but this time, Third Platoon would be out front, going head to head with French armor.

“Hey, Wisenheimer,” Swanson said behind him. “Wade.”

“What?”

“I intend to make it home in one piece. You’d better shoot straight.”

“Then make sure you load correctly,” Wade growled back.

With the automatic breech and a good loader, he should be able to get two or three shots off very quickly. But Swanson was crazy. Wade could see the man taking his time loading just to be irritating and make some obtuse point.

His hands felt along the firing switch, L-shaped handle used to traverse the turret, small wheel used to elevate the main gun, and wheel and button used to aim and fire the coaxial .30-cal machine gun. He’d drilled so many times their uses were second nature to him, but feeling their presence was reassuring.

“Don’t worry about me,” the loader said. “I’ll do my part and help you get home with your dong intact to that perfect wife of yours.”

“If only you had something good you wanted to go back to.”

“My life was just fine before you showed up.”

“Everybody’s life is perfect except yours, Private. Poor you.”

“You think you’re perfect—”

“And it’s all their fault, not yours.”

Sergeant Austin cut in, “Clear the interphone.”

“At least my friends aren’t books,” Swanson muttered.

Wade laughed. Being the type who liked to dish it out but couldn’t take it, the loader was too easy to antagonize. “You’re right.” He did prefer the company of books to the other men in the tank. “That should bug you.”

It certainly bothered Wade. Behind all the cool sarcasm, he felt like he was dying.

“SHUT YOUR TRAPS,” the commander ordered.

Dust covered Wade’s scope and obscured his view. The four-hundred-horsepower engine ground on. The treads clanked on the bogie wheels. The radio buzzed with routine chatter. Alice mocked him.

He wanted to talk to somebody. And no bitching about officers and food. No gossip about where they were going and what they’d be doing when they got there. No discussion about the tank and whether all its complicated parts were working properly. And no endless pining about women and food. He wanted to talk about history. He’d always loved history and could gab about it for hours on end. Outrageous gossip about people who were long dead.

Algeria had a rich past. At one time, it served as a way station for people traveling between Europe and the Middle East, making it valuable real estate. The Carthaginians ruled it then the Romans then the Vandals. The Muslims conquered it in the eighth century. Later, the Ottomans added this land to their empire, during which time the Barbary Pirates plagued the sea, until the French made it a colony.

The only guy in this tank who cared about any of this was him.

The radio chatter intensified. The column was approaching St. Lucien. Then the radio exploded with excited voices.

“They’re firing at us,” Austin told his crew. “We’re having fun now. Button up. Driver, clock two to form up on Boxer’s three in that field.”

“Clock two,” Russo acknowledged.

The dust cleared from Wade’s scope to reveal farmland all around and a town in the distance. The tank growled off the road into a vast field, its wheat or barley recently harvested. It was like driving over a thick brown carpet richly textured by the light of the rising sun.

“The tank destroyers are moving up on the left to flank them. Clock ten and steady on, driver. Gunner, on my order, give him volley fire with shot.”

“Roger,” said Wade. It was all rolling out as they’d trained countless times.

Swanson opened the breech and slammed in an armor-piercing, or AP, round. The breech closed automatically. This done, the loader patted Wade’s shoulder. He instinctively flinched from the man’s touch.

“I ain’t sweet on you,” Swanson said. “You’re up.”

The round was loaded and ready to fire.

Wade switched to six-times magnification on his scope and spotted the enemy tanks advancing line abreast from St. Lucien. Char D1 light tanks.

Company B charged forward to meet them head on.

Pouring sweat despite the turret compartment still being cold, Wade gripped the traversing handle and elevation wheel.

“Target is the tank closest to our zero,” the commander said. “We’ll let him have it at a thousand yards.”

Wade grimaced at his scope. “Roger. I got him.”

He settled his scope on the enemy tank, resting the reticle on its turret. He traversed until confident the barrel lined up for a good shot. Shimmering in the morning haze, the enemy tank drew nearer with each passing moment.

Smoke mushroomed from its barrel. Wade flinched, every nerve tingling. The shot blurred away toward its target.

The light tanks were moving fast, however, which ruined their accuracy. In contrast, the M4 had the benefit of a gyro-stabilized gun. Boomer could fire while on the move, though not very accurately at high speed.

“Driver, stop,” Austin said. “Gunner, fire!”

Wade stomped the firing pedal. “On the way!”

The tank bucked as the main gun belched the AP round at the enemy. The hot, empty shell flew out of the breech and banged on the turret basket floor. Swanson was already ramming the next round into the smoking chamber.

Through the haze, Wade observed the effect. The shell had crashed into his target’s track, which whiplashed behind it as the Char D1 swung wild.

Not bad for a first shot!

“He’s immobilized,” Austin said. “The crew is bailing.”

“Should I scratch his back?” Clay called out. He wanted to know if he should shoot the crew off the tank with his bow machine gun.

“Negative, bog.” The French were still their allies, even if they were currently fighting the Americans. “Gunner, shift target, clock right. Range, about five hundred. Drop ten.”

Wade reduced the elevation to align the gun with the French tank, which had closed the distance to five hundred yards and stopped to direct aimed fire at the oncoming Americans. “Ready!”

Swanson patted his shoulder. “You’re up!”

“Fire!” Austin shouted.

“On the way!”

Nothing happened.

“Fire,” Austin said. “Fire!”

“The round is jammed!” Swanson said.

“Then unjam it!” Wade yelled.

“You unjam it! Try to shoot it out!”

Wade stomped the firing pedal then yanked the manual lanyard. “Nothing!”

“Get that round cleared now!” the commander screamed.

“Goddamn it, where’s my rammer?” Swanson was going to have to force out the jammed round. His rammer had a special shape enabling him to do that without striking the fuze and blowing them all up.

“Hurry,” Wade begged. “Hurry.” In the scope, the French tank traversed to align its barrel with Boomer, and it was now in killing range. With the magnification, it looked like the tank was aiming right at him. “Hurry up!”

The loader was pushing at the round. “Goddamn, stupid—”

Enemy machine gun fire pinged off the hull.

“He’s shooting at us!”

“I’m doing my best!” Swanson yelled.

“Don’t hit the fuze!”

“Shut up and let me do it!”

Smoke burst from the enemy’s 47mm gun. Wade cried out as the round glanced off his tank’s beveled armor and whirred away in red-hot pieces. The next shot splintered against Boomer’s glacis plate and rang the tank like a gong.

“Driver,” Austin said. “Get us moving! Balls to the wall!”

Wade joined the loader in swearing until they were howling at each other.

“I’ve got it!” Swanson told him. “You’re up, you’re up!”

Before he could fire, the Char D1 rocked as a round from another M4 passed clean through it. Smoke poured out of the hole in its plate. The tank caught fire.

Nobody bailed out. The poor bastards.

Wade swung the scope. “I need a target.”

“Cease fire,” the commander said.

“Cease fire?”

“It’s over. The French are pulling out.”

Russo belted out, “Allons enfants de la patrie!” The first line of the French national anthem. Clay was cackling.

“We’re alive,” Austin said. “So I guess we did good.”

Wade turned to take in a pale and gasping Swanson slouched behind the breech. Still absorbing what they’d experienced together, they stared at each other. That was one close shave.

Finally, he chuckled. “Yeah. We did all right.”

Swanson sneered back at him. “What? We’re friends now?”

The gunner turned away and clenched his eyes in frustration. Christ, I want to go home. Just get me home.

CHAPTER FIVE

GENERAL CHAOS

PFC Eugene Clay’s nervous laughter faded. “We kicked their ass.”

Nobody cheered. One by one, the stunned tankers opened their hatches and peered out to take in the battle’s aftermath. Clay counted fourteen knocked-out Char D1s scattered across the landscape and pouring smoke into the sky.

On his own side, he counted three losses: an M4, an M3 tank destroyer, and an M3 GMC. He wondered if the crews made it out or if they’d cooked in their armor.

The French survivors were a dust cloud in the distance, and good riddance.

“That was the scrub team,” Sergeant Austin said. “Light tanks, and antiques to boot. Wait until we meet the Germans.”

Victory turned out to be a lot more morose than Clay had pictured it.

He leaned to inspect the glacis plate where the second enemy round had struck. He found a deep pockmark at the center of black scoring. Amazing.

Amazing he was still alive.

He’d volunteered for this. For months, he’d trained with an artillery unit, learning how to shoot howitzers. That hadn’t been good enough for the would-be hero of Mapleton, Pennsylvania. He’d wanted to see action on the front line. He’d wanted to prove himself. He’d pictured homecoming parades in his honor.

And he’d gotten his wish, at least the part about seeing action in a front-line unit. His gung-ho nagging earned him a transfer to 1st Armored and an entry-level job as a bow gunner on an M4 medium tank, where he automatically received a series of colorful nicknames like New Guy, Shithead, and Eight Ball. Swanson showed him the ropes and gave him his first official duty, which was to run to the motor pool and to not come back without a can of squelch and a fallopian tube plug. The hazing eased up after a month, though it never really ended.

It hadn’t mattered. He was going to make a difference and help win the war. He’d thought of the tanks as mobile fortresses that delivered devastating firepower. They were the place to be.

It took only one brief battle to teach him a tank made a big target out in the open, one everybody was shooting at, and that he was about as useful as a fifth wheel on a motorcar. He hadn’t fought in the battle so much as come along as a tourist, his very existence in the hands of other men playing a game of life and death.

Clay shuddered. A wave of exhaustion overtook him. The day was just starting and he hadn’t actually done anything, but he was already spent.

“We did our jobs,” the commander’s voice rang in his headphone. “We gained some experience. And we’re alive. Now let’s get back to it. Driver, clock six left and steady on Boxer. We’re going to try to catch up with the battalion.”

“Roger that, Boss,” Russo said at his station beside Clay’s.

The bog pulled on his goggles and raised his bandana to cover his nose and mouth. “Hey, Shorty. Those rounds hitting us, huh? Crazy!” He patted the tank’s metal, which was already growing warm in the morning sun. “You were right about the armor. It’ll take more than that to hurt our gal.”

Talking tough calmed him, made him forget about how close it had been.

Smiling, he added, “I pity the panzer who wants to go head to head against us.”

The driver winced behind his goggles. “Shut up, Eugene.”

“I was just—”

“If we’d been hit by a panzer’s 75 at that range, we could have been killed.”

He quoted the driver back to him: “The armor is sloped—”

“Just shut up.”

Company B headed north in pursuit of the flying column on its way to assault La Sénia Airfield. Boomer might be in action again within hours. Until then, there was nothing to do except eat dust and think.

Clay sulked. “I’m just trying to stay positive here, man.”

When he was a kid, in the summers, he and his friends often went swimming in Mud Lake. While they splashed and dove, Ralph Wilson swam out toward the middle of the lake on some dumb dare and started floundering. Clay and Mike, his younger brother, stood on the shore watching the whole thing. As the older brother, Clay felt compelled to act first. He broke for the water but froze at the edge. Mike kept going, saved Ralph’s life, and became the gang’s hero, the kid everybody looked up to and followed. That one event marked Clay for life.

For the rest of his youth, he found himself taking bigger and bigger chances, doing crazier and crazier stunts. The other kids started admiring him far more than his kid brother. He didn’t care about that. To complete himself, Clay was looking to repeat the circumstances. He wanted a test where a crisis caught him flat-footed but he acted and did the right thing. The chance for his burgeoning manhood to prove itself in a trial by combat. Before the war, he’d planned to become a police officer, but then the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor.

At seventeen, he’d lied about his age and enlisted. Instead of fighting the Japanese, he’d be fighting Germans.

“Hey, Shorty, next time we stop, can I drive for a while?” he said.

The driver didn’t answer.

“I said—”

“I heard you the first time. The answer is no.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m driving,” Russo said in his usual loud voice, as if he thought his words might be interesting to the whole platoon. “If we end up on a forced march and I get tired, that’s when you drive.”

“So—”

“Which will never happen. Because while I’m driving, I don’t have to think about how a couple inches of metal barely stopped a giant bullet from killing me. How I’m basically driving a really big magnet.”

“Come on. I have nothing to do here.”

“You can keep your eyes peeled.”

Clay looked around at the giant dust cloud. “Seriously?”

“You can also be quiet. Mouth shut, eyes open.”

Until Oran, he was stuck in his uncomfortable seat with nothing to do but make conversation with the guy next to him. Russo, however, was a terrible conversationalist.

“Great. So I’m supposed to warm the bench until somebody gets killed.”

Russo glared at him through his goggles. “Why the hell would you say that? It’s bad luck.”

Clay shrugged. He’d said it because it was true.

The driver blew out a sigh. “Okay, I’ll let you drive sometime. But not today. And only if you button your lip.”

Clay popped a stick of Wrigley’s in his mouth and chewed. “Roger.”

An hour and a half later, Boomer rolled onto La Sénia Airfield and came to a stop in its designated tank park. Clay patted dust from his tanker jacket and overalls and climbed out of the tank to stretch his legs. Some tankers from Alligator were mingling among the cooling vehicles.

“All y’all missed out on all the fun again,” a rangy corporal called to him in a nasal Southern twang. “It was a piece of cake taking the airfield.”

Clay scanned the area but didn’t see any French planes. The French knew they couldn’t hold La Sénia and had pulled out, leaving behind a token force.

The rangy tanker grinned. “What were all y’all doing?”

He gnawed his gum. “We fought a company of French armor.”

The grin evaporated. “You get any tanks?”

“One, and on the first shot,” Clay bragged, though Wade’s good shooting only reminded him of how little he’d done in the battle himself. He now wished he could be the gunner. He wanted any job in the tank, in fact, as long as it wasn’t the bog.

“Well, I’ll be,” the corporal said, clearly irritated at being one-upped.

“Overall, the company knocked out fourteen enemy tanks.”

“Fine, fine.” The guy was already leaving.

“Hey,” Clay called after him. “What’s the word?”

“The Frogs threw in the towel is what I hear. We’ll be going to France soon.”

The bog turned and spotted Sergeant Austin returning to the tank carrying a spade and roll of toilet paper. “Hey, Sergeant, did you hear? The French surrendered—”

The commander climbed onto the sponson. “Mount up! We got our orders. One last fight to go and we’re done.”

The word, apparently, was wrong. Before they became an ally, the French needed more persuading. Clay couldn’t figure why they were fighting.

“Damn.” Swanson flicked away his half-finished cigarette. “Not even enough time for a smoke. Hey, Wisenheimer.”

“What now?” asked Wade.

“On the way!” With that, the loader fired a massive fart.

Across the airfield, the big tanks rumbled to life. Boomer’s crew squirmed through the hatches into their seats, plugged headsets into radio boxes, and sounded off. They moved with an eagerness that to Clay didn’t seem like a zeal for duty. Whatever waited for them in Oran, they just wanted to get it over with.

He was surprised he felt the same. He’d never been so simultaneously scared and eager for something in his life.

“Who got hit, Sergeant?” he asked after com check.

“Buster. First Platoon. The shot slipped in under the turret and set off their ammo. Nobody made it out.” After a pause, he added: “Driver, follow Boxer.”

Clay didn’t know Buster’s crew. The only thing he remembered was its commander had an annoying laugh. He’d guffaw like a donkey.

Now he was dead. It all seemed so pointless.

“What are we doing here?”

Russo said, “There’s a war on, Eugene. Remember?”

“I mean, why are the French fighting us?”

Corporal Wade piped in over the interphone. “Because they’re following orders, kid. The orders are coming down a chain of command from collaborators afraid of being hanged from a rope. Not by us, but by their own people. Plus we’re here with the Brits, and in these parts, the French hate them as much as they hate the Germans. Back in ’40, the Brits were afraid the French would hand over their fleet to Hitler. So they bombed it, right here at Oran. It was a slaughter.”

“Nobody cares,” Swanson cut in.

“I care,” Clay said. “If I’m going to kill people I’m supposed to be allied with, it’s nice to know why.”

“Why ain’t gonna get you home, New Guy.”

He growled, “I’m not new. I’ve been with the crew for six months—”

“I’ll tell you why we need to roll into Oran. Two words: French girls.”

“Cut the chatter,” the commander said. “We aren’t done with this op yet.”

The morning wore on like this. Periods of tedium with nothing to do but eat dust and listen to the shrieking treads and routine radio transmissions. Then bouts of bickering to blow off steam until the commander shut them down.

Ahead in the dust, shouts erupted only to be drowned out by deep rumbling. The radio chatter intensified. The flying column had run into its armored brethren of Task Force Green, which had invaded Algeria to the west. As an artillery man, Clay recognized the rumble as the rain of French 155s. Then he heard even deeper booms that seemed to come from the earth itself. A strange rushing sound like distant trains. Salvos fired by Navy battleships and cruisers.

“No, I don’t know what’s happening,” the commander said before anybody could ask. “You’ll find out when I do on the radio.”

The tanks slowed to a crawl. A jeep drove up alongside and paced Boomer long enough for its officer passenger to yell, “Keep it moving, boys! Nothing’s going to stop us. We’re going to Oran!”

“Yes, sir!” Clay yelled back with a salute then turned to Russo. “Who was that?”

“That was…” The driver shrugged. “I have no idea who that was.”

“Kid,” Austin said, “that was General Chaos himself.”

The crew laughed.

Lieutenant Whitley buzzed on the radio. The Bears were stopping south of Oran to wait for the infantry to complete the city’s envelopment. They’d hurried up to wait again. The dust cleared and revealed flat farmland leading to the sprawling port, the city and its flanking hills shining bronze in the afternoon sun.

Boomer parked where instructed. The crew climbed out for maintenance and chow. Sergeant Austin called them together to tell them they’d RON here. Leaning against the tank, Russo rubbed his aching ass. Wade gripped a book behind his back, kneading the cover with his thumb as if he couldn’t wait to escape into it.

“You guys did good today,” the commander said. “But we can do better. If we want to survive this war, we need to be the best.”

Nobody said anything. Swanson lit a cigarette.

“The French are tough, but their heart isn’t in this fight. We punched through every obstacle and made it this far. Tomorrow, we’re going to ram that city right in the gut. I don’t have to tell you how dangerous city fighting is. We’ll be in close quarters with an enemy that has plenty of cover and concealment and knows the ground. We’ll be relying on our infantry. So I want everybody to stay sharp. Especially you, bog, on your .30-cal. You see anybody hostile, you shoot.”

“Roger, Sergeant,” Clay said.

The tank’s job was to smash through the enemy line and plow into the rear areas, where it could use its machine guns and crushing power to deliver havoc. Oran was one such area, the final prize of the operation. The M4 had been designed for this, with the job of fighting other tanks tasked to tank destroyers.

“Let me put it another way,” Austin said. “If you don’t see somebody hostile, you don’t shoot. There’s something like 200,000 civilians living in Oran. We’re not here to slaughter them. Okay?”

Clay gave him an exaggerated nod. “Roger.”

“And make sure you have your fallopian tube plug ready, Eight Ball,” Swanson said. “We’re all counting on you.”

The commander fixed the gunner and loader with his steely gaze. “As for you two… We can’t have our main gun jamming right when we need it. That will not fly when we finally meet the panzers. I want you to grease it good. If there’s a defective part, replace it.”

Wade grimaced and gripped his book tighter. “Fine.”

Swanson sneered at the gunner. “We’ll get right on it. We’re a good team.”

“Shorty, you and Clay will be on track and engine maintenance. Then grab the cans and see if you can scrounge up some gasoline.”

“You got it, Boss.”

The meeting started to break up.

“And one more thing, listen.” Sergeant Austin paused long enough for his gray eyes to bore into theirs. “You all act like a bunch of unruly children. You want to be eight balls off the field, fine. But when we’re in combat, you cut the crap and do your jobs. You read me?”

“Hooah, Sarge,” the men said.

“Drive on. Go get your chow. The lieutenant says we’re attacking at dawn.”

After sunset, the men pulled mosquito netting between the tank and the ground to build a tent for their sleeping bags. Clay climbed into the commander’s cupola and took first watch. All around him, the battalion snored in their tanker rolls, probably dreaming of women while the bog thought about battle. The temperature dropped like a stone, the cold wind bringing bursts of sleet.

On the horizon, a black smudge had replaced the city. Dawn would bring it back. Tomorrow, the Bears would drive straight into its streets and alleys. The French might have infantry in every window, 75s dug in among the cafes and tenements. The commander was right; it was the kind of environment where the bow gun would play a big role in the fighting.

Finally, he’d get the test he’d craved.

MAP: Progress of invasion of Oran, Algeria on November 9, 1942.

CHAPTER SIX

ORAN

At first light, Tank Sergeant Austin drank his coffee until Swanson emptied his nose with a couple of wet-sounding farmer’s blows. He tossed the remainder of his coffee into the dirt and strode off to find Sergeant Cocker checking the voltage on Buckshot’s radio battery.

The man’s wide head emerged above the hatch frame. “Morning, John.”

Austin patted Buckshot’s dusty armor. “How’s she running?”

“Fine, now.” Cocker emerged from the hatch to check the radio antenna. “After we fixed the clutch from dragging.”

“Yeah, I heard your driver grinding gears before you rolled off the road.” A dragging clutch made it incredibly difficult to change gear.

“Too much slack in the clutch pedal. Maintenance was stuck on the beach, so we ended up fixing it ourselves.” He let go of the antenna. “Scary, though.”

“What do you mean, scary?”

Cocker eyed his tank with suspicion. “These M4s have what, thousands of moving parts? All it takes is one to bring the whole thing to a halt, right when you need it most.”

Austin didn’t want to think about it. The constant first-echelon maintenance was all he could do. He leaned to take in a layer of sandbags stacked in front of the glacis plate. “I see you got yourself a retrofit.”

“After seeing you take a 47 round in your chest plate yesterday, I figured every little bit of protection couldn’t hurt.”

“A 75 couldn’t even penetrate the glacis plate except at close range.”

“That’s what they told us,” Cocker said. “Me, I don’t mind a little insurance.”

The added hillbilly armor looked ridiculous, but he wondered if Cocker was onto something. He took off his helmet to scratch an itch. “The whole thing was a close call. Way closer than I care to admit.”

“Why’d you stop firing?”

“Gun trouble. We had to clear a jammed round.”

“Jesus.” Cocker shook his head.

“It happens.”

“Like I said, one little thing. How are your boys holding up?”

“My driver’s good on the sticks,” Austin told him, “and my gunner is good at laying the gun. Otherwise, they’re a bunch of unruly crybabies who are going to drive me up a tree.”

The sergeant chuckled and glanced at his crew eating their breakfast around their tanker stove. “You should get to know my gang of idiots and misfits. We tankers are a special breed of asshole and proud of it.”

Sergeant Dunlap, Boxer’s commander, sauntered over and torched the tip of a Camel with his steel lighter. “Glad you’re still with us, John. Did you hear about Buster?”

Using their superior mobility, some of the French vehicles had swung around and flanked the company. They fired at the American tanks’ weaker side armor until the destroyers took them out.

“Bad luck,” Austin said. “Sergeant Cooley was all right.”

“He had a funny laugh. Like a donkey having a fit.”

Dunlap was right about that. Austin wished there was some way he could honor the man, but he hadn’t really known him.

Cocker hopped down and bummed a smoke from Dunlap. “Hell of a way to go. If I buy it, I want to see a steely-eyed Kraut with an Iron Cross around his neck pulling the trigger. Not some Frenchman I traveled a couple thousand miles to liberate from the Nazis.”

“Those French tin cans made good practice, though,” said Sergeant Blackburn, Bull’s commander, who’d joined the group. “We shot them to shit.”

Dunlap spat. “Bunch of antiques, and they still took three of ours with them.”

“Almost four, if you count our pal John here.”

Austin frowned. “I wish everybody would stop bringing that up.”

“It was my Bull saved your ass. We put a round right through him.”

“I’ll pay back the favor soon enough. Any word on what’s happening?”

Dunlap flicked the remains of his cigarette into the dirt and nodded past Austin’s shoulder. “Here comes the man in charge. You can ask him.”

Carrying a clipboard, Lieutenant Whitley strode up to the group. “How’s everything, boys? Any problems?”

Cocker told him about his dragging clutch and said his boys had fixed it. Austin piped up about the jammed round.

“All y’all are ready for action otherwise?” Whitley asked.

“Yes, sir,” they said.

“What’s the word, sir?” Dunlap asked. “When are we stepping off?”

“The Navy dropped a lot of ordnance on the French arty standing in our way. I’m assured there’s now nothing between us and the city, though we don’t know what kind of reception we’re going to get once we’re inside.”

Cocker grimaced. “You mean there’s no intel on the—?” He glared at his crew. “What are you guys gawking at? Don’t you have ammo to stow? Get the ready racks restocked. Move it!”

“The last recon flight was yesterday afternoon, and they didn’t see anything,” Whitley said.

“Great,” Cocker grumbled. That was all they were going to get by way of intelligence. The battalion’s vanguard would have to do its own scouting.

“I just came from Captain Wyatt.” Company B’s CO. “He said the Bears will lead the charge on this one as the lead element for the main body. Third Platoon will be the tip of the spear.”

Austin felt a thrill but kept his cool. “I’d like to request the honor of Boomer being first in, sir.”

The lieutenant said, “All right, y’all will take point on the assault.”

“Boomer has a gung-ho bog who will be very pleased, sir.” Not to mention its commander, who wished his dad were here to see it.

Whitley showed them the map he had on his clipboard. “This here’s Oran, here’s us, and here’s the main strategic route. The plan is simple. We’re going straight into the city and driving for General Boissau’s HQ, here. The Alligators will follow and seize the port. Then Cat Company and the tank destroyers will grab the rest of the key installations. We’ll have the doughs with us to watch our backs, and we’ll have air and arty on call. Boomer then Betty, Boxer, Buckshot, and Bull.”

“Any word on gasoline?” Dunlap said. “We’ll make it to the objective, but only barely.”

“No resupply until Oran is ours,” Whitley told his tank commanders. “If we want to eat, we have to take the city. Any other questions?”

Austin pulled his helmet over his cropped head. It was crap, but what else was new? “It’ll be duck soup, sir.” An easy job.

“Let’s hope for that and plan for the worst. Well, this is it. We take Oran and we’re done. The limeys will be able to attack Rommel in the rear and clear the Axis out of North Africa. Then we go to France and then Berlin.”

The sergeants grinned, no doubt picturing a nice, long leave in Oran at the end of this. Good food, plenty of wine, and the attentions of French women. As for Austin, he envisioned invading France.

The lieutenant inspected his watch. “Get your tanks ready, gentlemen. We’re rolling at 0900.”

Cocker offered his paw to Austin along with a lopsided smile. “Good luck, John. We’ll be right behind you.”

Austin shook the man’s hand. “You too, Barney.”

He returned to Boomer to find his crew hard at work and getting along. It was a welcome change of pace. Regardless of how they might feel about each other, they were all growing to love their M4. They clambered like monkeys over the tank with their grease guns and wrenches, lubing the bogie wheels, tightening bolts on the track links, and topping up on heavy oil and radiator fluid.

“How’s the track?” he asked Russo.

“Good and tight, Boss. Batteries and fluids are good. No luck scoring gasoline.”

“We’ll have to make do.”

“We greased the main gun and tested the firing breech,” Wade chimed in. “I think it’ll behave next time we have to shoot. We even adjusted the sights and quadrants.”

“Outstanding,” Austin said. Maybe his little speech last night had motivated them to get their heads on straight. “We’re on the move in twenty. The whole battalion is assaulting the city, and we’re going in first.”

They gathered around at this news. Russo whistled.

“What’s the objective?” Wade asked.

“General Boissau’s HQ. We capture him, we can end this now, and then we’re looking at garrison duty until they send us to France.”

“I’ll fight for that,” Swanson said.

Wade said, “Any idea on what’s waiting for us between here and there?”

“The intel says it’s clear all the way to Oran, but it’s yesterday’s news,” Austin answered. “Battalion is going to push out a recon element ahead of us to scout the road. We won’t be bombarding the city, but we’ll have air and arty support on call.”

“Why aren’t we bombing the city first?” Clay said, jawing his Wrigley’s.

Russo scoffed. “Because they’re our allies, numbnuts.”

“Why,” Swanson said. “I think that should be your new nickname.”

Austin sighed. His crew’s armistice hadn’t lasted long.

Clay tossed his hands in frustration. “It just feels funny fighting these people with one hand tied behind our back. I appreciate they’re our allies and all, but they’re trying to kill us.”

“There’s no need to risk killing civilians without solid intel,” Austin said. “We want these guys fighting on our side and killing Germans in the future. Every German they kill is one less shooting at us. Is everybody clear on what we’re doing here? Any other questions?”

He had no takers.

“Good. Now get ready. We’ll be mounting up soon.”

Just enough time to write a letter home to his wife and infant son, Rex. Writing to them made him feel the comfort of home while also making him homesick. It filled him with dread at the thought of dying. Without his family, Austin would have gladly given his life for his country, but he couldn’t bear the thought of leaving them on their own.

He was getting through this. He’d make it home to look Uncle Sam in the eye and say, I fought for you. And he’d be able to take a knee and tell his growing boy, I fought for the world that will be yours.

In the letter, Austin told Marcy again he loved her and to give his son a warm hug. Love, John. He pocketed the letter and checked his watch. The time was 0855.

“Boomer, mount up!”

Across the tank park, crews tore down and rolled camouflage netting. Drivers hand-cranked their engines and climbed in to start ignition. The cool morning air filled with the growls and snorts of dozens of manmade monsters.

“Bears 3 Actual to Bears 3,” the lieutenant said over the radio, his voice tinny. “Let’s roll. Bears 3-5, take us out.”

“Tip of the spear,” Austin said and keyed his radio to INT. “You heard the man, gentlemen. Driver, move out. Loader, once we’re in the clear, load a round of HE.” High explosive. “Gunner, note the gun will be loaded. Time to button up.”

The crew responded with a flurry of roger and wilco.

Belching a stream of exhaust, Boomer growled forward smoothly on its treads. Russo navigated between the idling tanks and hit the road.

“It sure is nice being first in line,” the driver said.

Swanson emerged from his hatch and checked out the scenery. “Nothing but clear views and fresh air up here, Wisenheimer.”

“Christ!” Wade called out. “You’re an animal, Mad Dog!”

The loader grinned at Austin. “I cut a nasty fart in there. One of my C ration specials.”

Austin elbowed him.

“Hey, now! What’d you do that for?”

The commander elbowed him again. Swanson was a big, muscular ogre and confused vendetta with hobby, but Austin didn’t care. “I warned you. We’re rolling into a combat zone. Don’t start pulling your crap.”

“You don’t want to start with me—”

“Get back to your station, or I’ll knock you down there.”

“All right, all right. Shit.” Swanson retreated down the hatch.

“Injun country,” Austin told his crew. “Eyes sharp all around.”

Nothing much to see yet. The city was a purple haze in the distance. To the west, green fields unfolded to a great salt lake. Beyond lay a series of hills, which he kept an eye on, because that was where he’d place antitank guns if he were French. The sun warmed his shaven face even as the chilly wind stiffened it.

The first thing he noticed as the column rumbled toward the city was the quiet. Not a good sign. Then again, if a column of French tanks rolled into his hometown of Scranton, PA, he’d close the shutters and lock the doors too.

He felt the weight of the Revolutionary War bullet in his pocket and wished his dad could see him now, invading an African city. Boomer passed vineyards and copses of fragrant pepper, fig, and syringa trees.

“Obstacle in the road ahead,” Russo said. “I don’t see a way around.”

Austin raised his binoculars to take in wood roadblocks and sandbag emplacements, all unmanned. “Uh-huh. Drive right through it.”

“Oh, yeah. My pleasure.”

Boomer’s thirty tons smashed the barricades and chewed them to splinters.

Along the road, dense, reeking hovels transitioned to gleaming white buildings, exotic in their combination of Algerian and French art deco architecture. The road widened into an avenue lined with palm trees, Boulevard de Mascarad on the map. Mosques with soaring minarets, cathedrals, and stolid government buildings loomed over housing and markets.

Still no people, though. Oran appeared to be a ghost town.

Then a Berber boy emerged from a tenement and froze. Gaping at the tanks in wonder, the kid threw Austin a fascist salute and yelled, “God bless George Washington!”

Apparently, he didn’t know if the invading force was American or German and had decided to cover all the bases.

The commander smiled and flashed him a victory sign with his hand.

Then he glanced at his map. “Driver, right stick at the next intersection.” The Boulevard Paul Doumer.

“Roger, Boss. Hope we get there soon. We’re running on fumes.”

As Boomer turned the corner, Austin heard the music.

Boissau’s headquarters was located at the eastern edge of a large public square. There, a military band played a rousing march as if the American gasoline cowboys were visiting dignitaries and not an invading army.

A platoon of African soldiers with rifles fixed with yard-long bayonets flanked the arched entrance, where a group of French officers waited.

“What do you want to do?” Russo asked him.

“Wait, one.” Austin switched to RADIO. “Bears 3 Actual, this is Bears 3-5. Are you seeing what I’m seeing?”

“Looks like some kind of welcoming committee. Park right out front like you own the place, Five. Out.”

“Roger that, out. Shorty, you heard the man.”

“All Bears 3, deploy on Boomer,” Whitley ordered.

The column slowed to a halt in a line with their guns facing the French headquarters. The armored infantry dismounted from their halftracks and trucks and fanned out to cover.

The lieutenant leaned on Betty’s hatch frame and waved at the French officers. “How do you do, gentlemen?”

The officers saluted and waited for him to return it. A grizzled colonel called out in heavily accented English, “Welcome to Oran. You will wait here.”

“What are we waiting for?” Whitley called back to the French.

“General Boissau is negotiating an armistice with your commander.”

With that, the officers turned on their heels and withdrew into their headquarters, leaving the African troops coolly sizing up the Americans with slitted eyes.

“Well, I’ll be,” said Whitley. Then he grinned. “Bears 3 to Bears Actual… Cap’, the Frogs here say they’re on the phone with General Fredendall. I think they’re surrendering.”

Russo said, “We just seized a city. Is that cool or what?”

“Bears 3, the captain says to remain in place,” the lieutenant said. “We’re not to shoot unless somebody shoots at us first.”

“Roger,” Austin said. “Boys, you heard the LT. Stay in place until the big wheels make a deal.”

“Can we open the doors, Boss?”

The commander thought about it. “Yeah. Let’s be friendly. Swanson, secure the gun.”

Russo and Clay raised their hatches and seats to scan the area.

Clay leaned into his .30-cal. “Contact.”

“Relax, bog,” Austin said. “It’s just cits.” Cits, short for citizens. Civilians.

People were emerging from the buildings around the square for a closer look at the American show of force. Berbers, mostly, men in white robes and red fez hats and their veiled women, along with a handful of their French masters.

Clay released his hold on the MG. “I really thought today was the day.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Nothing,” the bog sulked. “Forget it.”

Austin shook his head, sorry he’d asked.

“Vive l’Amerique!” one of Frenchmen called out. Others echoed the shout.

“Wow,” the driver said. “Do you hear that, Boss? They love us.”

Swanson surfaced from his hatch and looked around. “I’ll be damned.”

The citizens of Oran lost their timidity as their numbers grew into crowds. Soon, around the M4s, they milled in their native garb and suits and dresses, smiling and handing out tangerines.

Swanson accepted a cigarette from one of the locals and took a puff. “It ain’t that bad.”

“You’ll smoke anything,” Russo said.

The loader pulled off his helmet and slicked back his thick black hair, eyeing up the French beauties. “Right now, I’ll fuck anything.”

“Swanson,” Austin growled.

“I can look, can’t I? Or is that not allowed too, Sergeant Killjoy?”

A bearish man in a fez hat appeared in front of the bog and launched into some grand speech in French.

“What’s he saying?” Clay asked. “Shorty, you speak Italian. Isn’t it similar?”

The driver giggled. “I think he’s the mayor. He wants to surrender Oran.”

Clay shot Austin a panicked glance. “What should I tell him?”

“Tell him, ‘Sure, pal.’”

Clay leaned out of the hatch to shake the man’s hand, and to the kid’s credit, he gave it all the diplomatic gravity he could muster. “I accept your surrender.”

“Oui,” Russo translated for the man.

“C’est merveilleux!” the mayor yelled.

“What’s that mean?” Clay asked.

“Wait a minute, mister,” said Russo. “Did you say, ‘C’est merveilleux’?”

The man nodded, his fez bobbing. “C’est merveilleux! Oui! Très bien!”

“Uh-huh, uh-huh. Jeez. What a weird custom. You’re in for it now, Eugene.”

“What?” Clay demanded. “You told me to say it!”

“He says now you have to take him to America with you.”

“What?”

Russo chuckled as French women threw hibiscus flowers in the air like confetti. The colorful petals fluttered across Boomer’s front deck. “Take it easy, I’m just kidding.”

Austin couldn’t help but laugh too.

Wade’s head popped up from the loader’s hatch. “Wow, look at all this.”

A gang of French officers exited the headquarters and addressed the crowd. Bells tolled across the city, drowning them out. The people broke into wild cheering.

“Bears 3 Actual to Bears 3,” Whitley said over the radio. “All units stand down and say howdy to our new allies.”

“I guess that’s it,” Austin said. “Peace.”

The operation was over. He couldn’t believe it.

“What now, Boss?”

He had no idea. “Wait for orders, I guess. I expect we’ll be shipping out to invade France at some point, but that could take a while.”

“We’ll be in Tunisia fighting the Germans in no time,” Wade said.

Swanson snorted. “For somebody who’s supposed to be smart, you don’t know anything. The Brits are gonna take that shithole. We’re sitting pretty.”

“Africa is Europe’s back door. Hitler isn’t going to let us just take it. He’ll gamble and send everything he’s got to Tunisia, which, if you ever looked at a map, can be easily held if they get to the mountain passes first. The British don’t have enough men to do it on their own.”

Austin frowned. The gunner was talking sense. One thing he’d learned in the U.S. Army, promises didn’t mean anything. Circumstances changed.

Swanson said, “Did we get orders to ship out? Did I miss something?”

“No, I’m just—”

“Then shut your trap, and let’s enjoy this while it lasts.”

“Do you really think they’ll send us to Tunisia?” Clay asked.

Austin knew the gung-ho kid wanted to go. “We’ll have to see.”

“Enough about the war.” Russo hopped off the sponson.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

The driver mingled among the citizens of Algiers, shaking hands. “Diplomacy, Boss.” Eyes flashing, a buxom brunette placed a garland of winter roses around the driver’s neck and pecked him on the cheek. He blinked in a daze. “Minch! I think I’m in love!”

Before Austin could growl a warning about fraternizing, an Army truck honked its way through the crowd. “Now what?”

The driver leaned out and flashed Austin fingers extended in a V. “I got some barrels of wine in the back for you and your boys! Courtesy of the colonel!”

Swanson rubbed his big hands together. “Now we got us a party.” He shot Austin a worried look that turned into an ingratiating smile. “I take it back about calling you Sergeant Killjoy. I was just teasing. You’re a great commander.”

Austin pictured Mad Dog drunk and thrown in the clink by the MPs for pawing the locals. He called out, “Send it back!”

“Killjoy,” Swanson muttered.

The driver cupped his hand around his ear. “What?”

Whitley jogged over to the truck to talk to the man. The platoon commander would get this sorted out.

The lieutenant turned and waved at his platoon. “All right, come on, boys! A helmet full of hooch for every man!”

With cheers, the tankers scrambled from their vehicles. Boomer’s crew eyed their commander with hope.

“Come on, Sarge,” Swanson said. “Live a little. We’re celebrating.”

Austin gazed back at them. Damn foolish, leaving their tanks before the ink on the peace deal had even dried. There still were snipers in the city who hadn’t gotten the message the war was over in this part of the world.

Although, they’d done well over the past few days. They’d earned a rest.

He took off his helmet and handed it to Swanson. “Bring me some.”

The crew whooped and spilled pell-mell off the tank in a tangle of uniforms. They rushed to the truck to fill their helmets with Algerian red.

Let them enjoy themselves, he thought. While there’s something to enjoy and the time to do it. Time, he believed, that would eventually run out.

TUNISIA

MAP: Tunisia and its major mountain ranges.

Tunisia, the next theater of operations in the North African campaign, showing its major mountain ranges that restricted roads and movement east.

CHAPTER SEVEN

RACE TO TUNIS

Scores of vehicles choked the coastal road. M4, M3, M5, tank destroyer, deuce-and-a-half, mobile artillery, jeep, kitchen truck, maintenance, hospital van, and other vehicles, all heading toward Algiers. Under the Berbers’ enigmatic gazes, the whole mess crawled, stopping and starting, starting and stopping, so much hurry up and wait it exhausted PFC Russo behind the sticks.

“For two hundred fifty years, the Barbary Pirates operated out of Algiers,” Wade cheerfully lectured from his station inside the tank. “America fought two wars against them.”

Russo groaned. They’d stopped near the ancient ruins of a Roman city, a colony Emperor Trajan established for military veterans. French archaeologists had dug it up and exposed fragmented walls and columns that jutted into air like a graveyard of colossal beasts. The gunner went out of his mind roaming its limestone streets, reading Latin inscriptions, and pocketing a chunk of marble he found in what he said was the Temple of Jupiter Capitolinus.

Now he wouldn’t shut up.

“George Washington had the country’s first navy built to protect our merchants from them. Jefferson beat Adams in the 1800 election on a promise to stop paying tribute to the pirates, which was something like a fifth of the annual federal budget—”

“Put a lid on it, Wisenheimer,” Swanson said. The loader was standing in the turret, the top half of him sticking out of the hatch with his arms draped over the .50-cal MG’s barrel. “What, making history ain’t enough for you? We’re in a world war, for land sakes.”

“Yeah, Wisenheimer,” Russo growled. “It’s your fault we got into this mess.”

For the past week, Boomer’s crew had whiled away their time chasing French girls, swilling Algerian wine, and haggling in bazaars filled with silk, grass mats, oversized teapots, and skinned goats. In base, they’d spent their hours writing letters home, playing cards, bickering, and watching “Mickey Mouse” Army films warning against the dangers of venereal disease.

Overall, it wasn’t exactly easy living, but it was comfortable enough. Discipline was relaxed, and nobody was trying to kill them. They were waiting for the bulk of 1st Armored to arrive, which was somewhere on the Atlantic.

Meanwhile, the Germans had gotten busy responding to the invasion of North Africa. They’d invaded Vichy France and rapidly occupied the whole country. They’d also tried to capture the French fleet at Toulon, but the admiral had scuttled it with the Germans right on their doorstep. At the same time, they’d poured men and materiel into Tunisia and rushed inland to plug the mountain passes.

As a result, General Sir Kenneth Anderson’s British and American brigades, which had struck east from Algiers to capture Tunis, didn’t have the strength to push through. So close yet so far, they were unable to advance, and soon they were retreating. They needed help. Around the middle of November, the tankers of 1st Battalion had been ordered back into the fight, and now everybody was sore at Wade, like it was his fault his prediction had come true.

Because it is, Russo thought, who believed in jinxes and malocchio, the evil eye. If you said the worst that could happen, he believed it would happen.

“Did we win?” Clay asked the gunner. “Against the pirates?”

The driver glared at him. The bog shrugged and chomped his Wrigley’s.

“Eventually, yes,” Wade said and went on with his lecture.

“Why are you encouraging him?” Russo hissed at Clay.

Another shrug. “I’m bored.”

“No need to take it out on the rest of us.”

“You know, I wouldn’t be so bored if you’d let me drive.”

The driver snorted. “Not a chance.” Truth be told, he could use a break from the march, but it was a point of pride for him to stay behind the sticks. He wasn’t Sicilian anymore, and he apparently wasn’t American enough. No, he was something entirely different—a Sicilian-American, combining the strengths of both worlds, a new breed of man, a man with cazzo made of steel.

“Are there any girls in this story?” Swanson asked.

“No girls,” Wade said.

“Then it ain’t a good story. Tell us one with girls in it.”

“Now you’re encouraging him,” Russo groused.

“He’s gonna beat his gums no matter what we say,” the loader explained. “At least this way, maybe he’ll be interesting.”

“I’d prefer a story that will help us fight the Germans,” Austin chimed in.

“History’s filled with sex and violence,” Wade said, “I could tell you about Dido, the founder and first queen of Carthage.”

“Was she good-looking?” Swanson drooled.

Russo studied the instrument panel, which told him speed, oil pressure, fuel level, and temperature. All indicators were in the normal range, and the column was moving at a steady five miles an hour. Wheat fields sprawled on his right, reeking of human waste the farmers used as fertilizer. In the distance, he spotted another fly-ridden mud-wattle village the tankers had taken to giving names like East Someplace, New Nowhere, and Another Shithole. The monotonous blue Mediterranean stretched into the northern horizon on his left.

Nothing to distract him. He had no choice but to listen.

“Very good-looking,” Wade said. “Originally from Tyre, she fled after her brother killed her husband to get his money. She stopped in Cyprus, where she picked up all the local prostitutes as wives for her ship’s crew—”

The loader bellowed a laugh. “And here I thought history was boring! You hear that, Sergeant Killjoy? That Dido was a born leader, I tell you.”

“I’m taking notes here,” Austin deadpanned.

“Give me a good woman,” said Russo, warming to the conversation, “and I’ll fight the world. It’s in my Sicilian blood.”

“Is that what it takes?” Swanson mused. “’Cuz from what I hear, you Eye-talians can’t fight for shit.”

“One of these days, I’ll show you firsthand.”

“Haw, haw, haw,” the loader gloated.

“Actually, at one time, the Italians conquered most of the Western world,” Wade said. “And ruled it for five hundred years, fifteen hundred if you count the Byzantines. My story includes the Romans as well as Carthage.”

“See?” Russo said. “The Italians know how to fight. Please continue with your excellent lecture, Corporal. I’m all ears.”

“All nose is more like it,” Swanson muttered.

“Dido landed in North Africa, right where Tunis is now,” Wade said in a loud voice before Russo could respond about Swanson being all mouth. “She made a deal with a local ruler she’d take only enough land that an ox hide covered, then cut the hide into strips small enough to stake out an entire hill.”

“Ha!” Swanson chortled. “She sounds like some broads I know back home. They sure how know to turn an inch into a coupla yards.”

“On that hill, she built Carthage. If you believe the poet Virgil, she then welcomed Aeneas, who’d just escaped the sack of Troy. They fell in love, but divine intervention forced him to leave. In her grief, she said Carthage would henceforth and always hate the Trojans, climbed atop a funeral pyre, and fell on a sword. There, she burned while Aeneas went on his way to found Rome, which later fought three wars with Carthage and finally burned it to the ground.”

“This isn’t surprising to me,” Russo said. “That the girl killed herself, I mean.”

“Why?”

“Once you’ve been with an Italian man—”

The crew’s collective groans drowned him out. He grinned.

“Just remember, we might be fighting Italian men soon,” Austin said.

“Too bad for them, Boss.”

“I’m just saying—”

“I know what you’re saying. And if you think I’m going to let them kill me out of some loyalty to a country I’ve never been to, you’re crazy.”

After a long pause, the commander said, “Well. Okay, then.”

“Good,” said Russo, hoping that settled the matter once and for all.

The crew fell back into its stupor. The men had nothing to do but stare blankly at the countryside mile after mile. The tank passed adobe villages, gum tree farms, irrigation ditches, mule-drawn hay carts, shepherds tending their goatherds, and Algerian buses with wood- or charcoal-burning engines. Every mile, it seemed, they passed another broken-down tank or other vehicle awaiting help from the maintenance section or tank retrievers. A squadron of French hussars on black chargers trotted past, making better time than America’s mechanized finest.

“I’m so bored, I could go for another one of Wisenheimer’s stories,” Swanson complained. “We had it made in Oran.”

“Then he had to ruin it,” Russo said. “Next he’ll predict how the Germans are going to wreck us, and it’ll happen.”

“Now that you mention it, it isn’t going to be the cakewalk everybody thinks it’s going to be,” Wade said. “The Germans are going to be tough as nails.”

“See what I mean?” the driver crowed.

“Reservists, I hear,” Austin said. “Coastal defense types. Not their best.”

“My only worry is they’ll get away before we catch them,” Clay said.

Russo scowled. “Shut up, Eugene.”

“I joined up to fight the Germans. Stop yelling at me for wanting to do it.”

“We’re going to Berlin, and we haven’t even made it out of Africa,” the commander said. “You’ll get your chance, bog. No need to chomp at the bit.”

The sky dimmed as the sun sank behind them. At last, the platoon commander relayed a halt order. After a lengthy inspection, the crew tramped down the slope to the shoreline while Clay remained at the tank with the Thompson. There, they stripped down and jumped into the surf to wash off the day’s sweat and grime.

Russo gazed across the Mediterranean and wondered if he’d ever get to see the Old Country. Maybe after the war, he’d visit and look up extended family. He wondered how they’d see him, showing up in an American service uniform. He hoped they had no love for Mussolini, who was ruining their country. More than anything, Russo prayed a good Sicilian girl—a strong, big-breasted, dark-haired, fiery beauty—would fall in love with him, and he’d bring her back as his wife.

At last, Austin called out it was time to return to the tank and get chow. Russo lingered another few moments to enjoy the feel of sand under his feet, rollers breaking against his skin. He sensed there was some metaphor for life here. Life just kept hitting you, but if you stood strong and tall, you could take anything. Maybe there was always that one big wave that knocked you on your ass, but he hadn’t met it yet. Russo raised his fists and howled at the sea.

Swanson did a slow clap behind him. “Nothing more entertaining than seeing a buck naked runt barking at nothing. You should be in the USO.”

“Ha!” Russo hollered as he high-stepped out of the water. Considering everything this war was going to throw at him, Swanson was nothing. He didn’t even rate as a wave.

He dressed and filled Clay’s helmet so the bog could wash. Then he trudged back to Boomer. Clay had the little tanker stove going and was heating up their supper.

While they ate their corned beef hash, the commander said, “If you guys like history, I have a story for you.”

“The jury’s still out on whether we like it or not,” Swanson said.

“If it takes my mind off this dog food, I’m all ears,” Wade said.

“Does it have Italians in it?” said Russo, pure smartass.

The loader grinned. “Or girls?”

The commander growled, “Roll up your flaps and let me tell my story, all of you.” He reached into his pocket and opened a handkerchief to reveal a lump of lead. “This is the musket ball that nearly took my great-great-great granddad’s leg during the siege of Yorktown. And a German gave it to him.”

With wide eyes, Wade leaned to inspect the musket ball. “Amazing.”

“Bartholomew Austin was with George Washington through almost the whole shooting match. He ended up the rank of captain by Yorktown.”

“The last big land battle of the war,” the gunner said.

“That’s right. At Yorktown, the Americans and French worked together to squeeze Cornwallis. Late in the siege, the Americans dug a second line that allowed their guns to pound a key redoubt. All day, the guns fired at it, and that night, Bart charged with four hundred men under Alexander Hamilton. They took it with the bayonet. Just before the British surrendered, a Hessian mercenary plugged him in the leg.” The sergeant held up the piece of lead. “And this was the bullet.”

“Wow,” Clay said.

“Five days later, Cornwallis surrendered his eight thousand troops. They were the best in the world, but the Americans were better. The war ended soon after that, and America was born from it. That’s how I know we’re going to beat the Krauts and the Japs. Americans get the job done, no matter what it takes, even if we get slapped around a bit first.”

“You got that right,” Swanson said and scowled at Wade. “Why can’t you tell stories like that?”

The gunner reached for the musket ball. “Can I hold it?”

Austin pocketed it. “I can’t let anybody else touch it. Its luck is only for me, but seeing as we’re all in the same boat, so to speak, it’s your luck too.”

“I don’t believe in luck. I believe in probabilities.”

“I’ll tell you this. If I fall in battle, I want you boys to carry this musket ball into the next. And then I want one of you to bring it home and give it to my son.”

“Don’t say that,” Russo said. “If you say it, it’ll happen.”

“Just promise me. I’ll do everything I can to not let you down as Boomer’s commander. I want you to do this one thing for me.”

“We promise,” Russo said before the others ruined the moment.

He didn’t like it, but he appreciated the honor and tradition involved. They came from different worlds back home, even different Americas, but he and Austin had one big thing in common: the pressure to live up to a family name.

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE LONG SLOG

American armored columns groped east along the road between Algiers and Tunis, five hundred and sixty miles of rough terrain that steadily grew hillier until the road switchbacked through cork oak forests up into the Atlas Mountains.

The air temperature plummeted while sleet and rain made the ground muddier, a gooey red muck that stuck to everything and dried like glue. Mediterranean squalls turned the mountains lush with heather. That and the fog shrouding the ancient peaks reminded the tankers of Ireland.

By early December, they emerged from the cork forests and drove through fertile grassland valleys. Cactus hedges separated farms. During the day, the Berbers sniped at them from the rocks; at night, the robed harlequins came to sell rugs, beg for cigarettes, spy for the Germans, and steal everything in sight, all the while saying, baraka, baraka, which meant, blessings.

Otherwise, the gasoline cowboys had nothing to do but stare at monotonous scenery until they were all rock happy, or gape at the ambulances hauling wounded back to Algiers along with dire news and rumors that spread fear along the column.

Supplies dwindled; speculation blossomed. Hard fighting and heavy losses at the front. German elite paratroopers and panzer divisions waiting just ahead. Powerful antitank weapons such as 88s, MG42 machine guns, and a monstrous, invincible new tank the Germans called the Tiger. Axis artillery had blanketed the mountain passes with poison gas. A supply train had been captured and its crew crucified on the rocks as a warning.

As they neared Tunis, some soldiers shot off their toes to avoid combat.

“We ain’t even there yet, and they already got us licked,” PFC Swanson said. “By the time we get there, we’ll have scared ourselves to death.”

The real enemy, though, turned out to be mud.

The treads and wheels of scores of vehicles transformed the road into a quagmire, a thick, sticky red soup. It splashed everywhere and plastered the inside of the tank. The crew was smothered in it. It delayed the trucks bringing the beans and bullets, putting the tankers on a rationed diet and barely getting them enough gas and oil to roll another hard mile.

Even worse, at least in Swanson’s eyes, nobody had any cigarettes left, and he was reduced to smoking wild rosemary rolled in toilet paper.

Boomer’s engine howled as she fought the muck. She was bogged.

“You’re burning the clutch,” Swanson yelled. “I can smell it. We’re bellied.”

“Then get out and give us some traction, boombots,” the driver yelled back.

“Everybody out,” Austin ordered. “Get my tank moving.”

“If Tunis is so goddamn important, why didn’t we land there?” Swanson yelled at the top of his lungs. “Can anybody tell me that?”

Nobody answered him, not even Wade, who had an answer for everything. The outside air was cold but warmer than inside the tank, where it was freezing. Waving acrid exhaust from his face, Swanson slid off the sponson and splashed up to his knees in muck. They were in a tight little valley his people back home called a cove. Snow-capped mountains loomed all around. He spotted some wild sheep on a nearby slope and thought about lamb chops.

Austin mounted a yellow flag on his cupola to signal Boomer was out of action then stayed at his station to man the anti-aircraft machine gun.

“I’ll get the shovels.” Clay yanked his foot out of the mud and took an exaggerated step. His face crumpled at the edge of tears. “I just lost my boot.”

Swanson untied the shovels and thought about his options. Normally, the best thing to do would be to wrap chain around the track and tie a towing cable between it and the nearest tree, but no trees were in range. “Get one of the logs.”

Ahead, Buckshot was similarly ditched in the mud, its crew grousing as they dug themselves out. Too exhausted and focused on their work, nobody called out a greeting or even the usual grab-ass taunts.

With his arm plunged into the mud searching for his missing boot, Clay was no help. Swanson shoveled and scraped while Wade untied a log from the side of the tank. Austin had insisted they cut some of these and strap them to Boomer’s side in case they ran into this kind of situation. Using the log as an anchor, the tank would be able to pull itself out on its own power.

“Okay, now drag—”

In front of them, Buckshot gunned its engine and gained traction, spraying a rooster tail of mud that splattered across Boomer and her crew.

The loader clenched his eyes in silent rage. “Help me get it under the tracks.”

Wade did as he was told. “Okay.”

Swanson derived at least a small satisfaction in ordering the gunner around and seeing him get his hands dirty for a change. “I wonder if old Dido had to put up with this shit.”

Wade laughed. “Hannibal probably did when he crossed the Alps to invade Rome. We have tanks, he had elephants.”

The loader wanted to know more but bit his tongue. Once Wade got started, there was no stopping him. “How come you know so much about history, anyways?”

“I studied then taught it for a year at the University of Minnesota.”

“No shit?”

“No shit,” Wade confirmed.

“So you really are a professor. You wasn’t a factory foreman, like you said.”

“I’ve never been in a factory. I’m a college-educated city boy from a well-off family, everything you hate.”

The guy was coming clean. He just didn’t care anymore about appearances, which Swanson could respect.

He snorted. “I don’t hate you for that.” He hated him because he was snooty. “I take it back home your nickname ain’t Hawkeye, neither.”

“No. I’ve always been Charles. My wife’s the only one calls me Charlie.”

“I’ll call you Hawkeye,” Clay said, cleaning mud out of his recovered boot. “You’re a deadeye behind the gun.”

Wade ignored him. “Anything else you want to know, Swanson?”

“Yeah. Why you always talk and act so stuck up?”

“I talk the way I talk. It just sounds stuck up to you. Why do you care?”

Swanson shrugged. “Give it some gas, Mac.”

Boomer’s four-hundred-horsepower engine revved. The driver threw the transmission into granny gear, where the tank had maximum power. Boomer clawed up and over the log, which sank into the quagmire.

Austin said, “Good work—”

Buckshot screamed with strain as a track snapped and peeled off from the wheels. In his cupola, Cocker ducked as the track cracked in the air like a giant whip and tore off the radio antenna before slapping into the muck. The sergeant let loose a string of obscenities as his M4 slowly sank up to the turret.

Swanson couldn’t help but laugh. “That tank is good and screwed.”

“Roger, sir,” Austin said into the radio. “All right, boys, grab a shovel and pitch in to get her out. We’re stuck here for now.”

“Looks like we’re all screwed,” Wade pointed out.

Soaking wet and bitching, the platoon tramped over and started digging Buckshot out. Swanson said he still had a touch of dysentery and found some juniper shrubs to hide behind. There, he squatted with his roll of Army Form Blank, lit one of his pungent rosemary cigarettes, and planned to sit out most of the digging. The Army had taught him to never volunteer for work, while his upbringing had taught him to avoid it altogether. Work was for suckers.

Through a gap in the junipers, he watched the men scrape at the mud with their tools. Even the lieutenant chipped in. Wade really went at it, giving it everything he had, venting his frustrations with a pickaxe. Swanson suspected something more than the mud, cold, reduced rations, and anxiety over the Germans was eating ol’ Wisenheimer.

Thunder boomed in the east, echoing tinny and distant among the peaks and valleys. Only it wasn’t thunder; it was big guns shooting. The men gaped east like a startled herd and returned with renewed vigor to their shoveling. There was fighting ahead, and they were stuck here missing the party.

Look at them, Swanson thought. Everybody’s in a big hurry to get killed.

Holding his gut and wearing his best hangdog expression, he emerged from behind the bushes. Austin gave him the stink-eye but said nothing. The sergeant had a good read on men, and he could smell a shirker a mile away. Swanson grinned as if they shared a secret, grabbed a shovel, and made a big show of adding his muscle to the war effort.

Sergeant Cocker ran a cable between Buckshot’s rear and Boomer’s front plate. “You ready, Shorty?”

The driver gave a thumbs-up.

“Then clear out, everybody. Get back!”

Boomer crawled backward until the cable stretched taut between the big armored vehicles. Then she hauled Buckshot from the muck with a colossal sucking sound.

Panting and covered in mud, the tankers leaned on their shovels. Looking angry and exhausted, they rested as the overcast sky darkened by the moment.

“It’s just mud,” Lieutenant Whitley told them. “Mud ain’t gonna stop us.”

This rousing speech finished, he ordered Cocker to get the maintenance platoon to fix his tank. Then he told his platoon they’d RON in place. Swanson and his crewmates tramped off to Boomer and mounted up. Between the mud and fear of Berbers cutting their throats in the dark, nobody wanted to sleep outside. Even though it was tempting to sleep under the tank in the engine’s fading warmth, they had no interest in being smothered if it settled overnight.

At suppertime, the tankers lit their stove inside the turret, probably not the brightest thing to do in a cramped space surrounded by ammo and gasoline, but nobody cared anymore, not even their by-the-book sergeant. They left the commander’s hatch open to vent the smoke. With the eggs and Algerian wine they’d stowed long gone, dinner was cans of cheese and biscuits the men called dog bones, its unpleasant smell providing welcome relief from the worse stink of body odor.

Swanson accepted his hot food and pulled his spoon from his breast pocket. Army chow never bothered him. “Any word on what we’re doing here besides slowly turning into mud, Sarge?”

“Our orders are to drive east to support General Anderson,” Austin said. “What kind of support we’re talking about depends on when we get there.”

“Any word on what’s going on, though? All I keep hearing is how the Germans are using poison gas, the Arabs are eating our dead, and Axis planes dropped a hundred prisoners on Algiers.”

“I heard the Germans upgraded their guns to longer barrels,” Wade said. “With a stronger muzzle velocity, they can easily put a round through our armor.”

“I heard they have huge tanks that can’t be killed,” Clay chimed in.

“All that’s just latrine talk,” Austin said. “None of it’s true.”

“So enlighten us,” Swanson said. “What do you think is going on?”

The commander gave it some thought while he chewed. “We’re in the western dorsal. Anderson is facing off against Axis forces holding passes in the northern part of the eastern dorsal. South of us, the French are holding the rest of the eastern dorsal. So what happens next depends on the Germans.”

The Germans had chewed Anderson up and seized the initiative. They might hang tight onto what they had, expand their pocket to seize all the passes, or drive straight into Anderson’s scattered forces.

None of it sounded good to Swanson.

Wade spoke up. “We’ll either be thrown straight into the fight around Tunis or pushed south to get between the Axis army at Tunis and Rommel’s Afrika Corps.”

“How do you know?” Swanson said.

Wade shrugged. “It’s common sense. There’s no other option. If the weather’s bad, they may keep us as a reserve for a while first.”

“Great,” Swanson muttered. As opposed to stories about Axis planes dropping war prisoners on Algiers, the gunner’s theory sounded all too plausible.

“I guess we’ll know when we get there,” Austin said. “Which could take a while at the rate we’re going. Things could change a lot between now and then.”

Outside, trucks rolled into the area.

Clay opened his hatch to inspect the newcomers. “Supply train made it through!”

They scrambled out and joined the tankers crowded around the deuce-and-a-half trucks, a motley army of mud men clamoring for smokes, chow, and letters from home. The trucks had brought hundred-octane aviation gasoline in five-gallon cans and heavy oil for the M4s’ thirsty engines. There was a water barrel to refill their depleted supply.

Otherwise, the truckers had plenty of soap, razors, shaving cream, and hair cream to choose from. No food, PX rations, cigarettes, or mail, though, which were still stuck in the mud miles away.

The tankers growled in frustration.

“They ain’t doing without in Algiers, I can tell you that much,” Swanson spat. “Goddamn Army and its goddamn Army officers.”

Too tired to argue with him, nobody said anything. After topping up the tank on gasoline and oil, they returned to their stations and wrapped bedrolls around their shivering bodies. Clay stayed up in the cupola to take first watch.

Within seconds, they were all snoring.

Swanson awoke in the dark, quaking from the cold. “Who’s that on watch?”

“We’re all awake,” Russo said. “The cold woke us up.”

“I thought Africa was supposed to be fucking hot.”

“Can we light a fire outside, Sergeant?”

“No,” the commander said. “Light discipline.”

“Everybody else is doing it.”

They opened their hatches and looked around. The cold had woken the rest of the platoon up. The tankers had filled tire ruts in the ground with gasoline and lit them to make fires. Hot, beautiful, amazing fires.

“Bad idea.” Austin let out a resigned sigh. “All right, we might as well get warm. Clay, you stay here on the .50. I’ll come back and spot you as soon as I defrost. Let’s hope it’s too cold for Axis pilots to be flying around tonight.”

Snowfall dusted the ground, which had hardened to concrete. Overhead, the sky was clear and bright with stars. Swanson joined Buckshot’s crew gathered around a burning pit of gas. The bleary-eyed men shuffled their feet and spoke in grunts that produced clouds of vapor.

The loader rubbed his hands and lit another pungent rosemary cigarette, which he was starting to take a liking to. Beside him, the gunner shivered with his bedroll still wrapped around his shoulders. The man looked miserable. City boy, right. His type wasn’t used to this kind of hardship.

“You had a good job and a pretty wife,” Swanson said. “Why’d you even join the Army?”

The gunner eyed the fire. “What, we’re friends now?”

“Forget it. I’m sorry I asked.”

“Why’d you join? You don’t seem to like it much either.”

Swanson thought about the woman he’d loved, the man she’d loved, and how he’d cut him. “Because I was stupid. We all can’t be smart like you, Wisenheimer.”

“Look at me,” Wade said. “Do I look smart to you?”

“You look—”

The men froze and cocked their ears toward the sky.

A buzz throbbed in the cold night.

Swanson gazed down the road, clearly marked by firelight. “Um.”

The buzz grew louder to a high-pitched whine.

“Everybody, find cover,” Austin roared.

The whine became an anguished, demonic moan building until it seemed to fill the world, paralyzing Swanson where he stood.

“Move it, Swanson!”

He bolted into the dark and ran straight into rosemary bushes. He fell sprawling, every nerve tingling as death howled from the darkness.

The Axis plane opened fire with its machine guns, tracers flashing as the rounds thudded against the ground, ripped through bodies and trucks, and sparked and pinged off tanks. Nobody shot back.

Then the plane zoomed overhead, the terrifying whine dropping to a deep snarl. Men screamed for help in the aftermath.

“Bog,” Austin was shouting. “Fire the .50! Clay!”

The plane’s plaintive grumble signaled it was still up there somewhere, banking. Then the sound’s pitch changed.

Another whine, rapidly intensifying.

It was coming back.

Lying on his stomach, Swanson whimpered and clawed at the hard ground, trying to dig a shallow trench for cover. It wants me, he thought. It wasn’t a plane; it was a massive bird of prey, the angel of death himself up there, hunting. It’s looking for me, just me, and when it finds me, it’ll take me into the dark with it.

Austin’s silhouette dashed past the fire pit as he made for Boomer like some hero out of Wisenheimer’s stories. The tank commander raced up onto the rear deck and unlimbered the .50-cal AA machine gun.

David, Swanson thought. David and Goliath.

The whine became a metallic shriek as the plane dove into another run and opened up on the column. Austin yanked the charging bolt on the .50 and fired back, the gun pounding shells like a hammer striking sheet metal. The sparks of his tracers zipped into the black. Spent casings clattered on the deck.

The pilot didn’t seem to care, his machine guns a blinding strobe as he strafed the column. The bullets crackled around Boomer and kept going down the road in twin trails of flying dirt clods.

The ground trembled with a boom. In the distance, a fireball soared into the air, followed by another.

A growling retreat, and then the plane was gone, heading east.

Men called to each other, rushed to the wounded, gathered around the tanks in a daze. Swanson didn’t move, even after somebody yelled his name.

No, moving was dumb. Moving got you killed. The cold didn’t matter anymore. He was going to stay put from now on, the way he should have before he ever showed up at the recruiting office in West Virginia.

MAP: Tunisian front, mid-January 1943.

The thick black line represents the Allied front line, with British and American forces stalled out in the north, while a poorly equipped French corps lightly defended the southern front.

CHAPTER NINE

DUST EATERS

Corporal Wade peered through his scope at a world of dust. He imagined Stukas in the roiling clouds. Then he saw his wife’s face. He wasn’t sure which was worse.

Nothing lasts forever. After weeks of slogging through central Tunisia, everything changed. New orders came through, and the sun emerged to bake the mud into concrete that the tanks in turn chewed into waves of brown, airborne filth.

The dust worked its way into Boomer and coated everything. The air filter choked on it. It also nicely marked the column’s position for roving Axis planes and clouded his view. Axis planes that took off from dry, paved airstrips near Tunis, while Allied planes remained stuck on rain-drenched airfields.

A Stuka could be diving toward him right now, and he wouldn’t know it until he heard its siren scream.

Still, it was better than digging the tank out of the mud.

The orders were to move south toward a town called Gafsa.

“You know any good history about Gafsa, Corporal?” Clay said.

“The name rings a bell,” Wade said.

Swanson snorted behind him. “Nice going, Eight Ball.”

“I’m so bored I’d even listen to you guys argue,” the bog said.

“There’s actually not much to yap about,” Wade said. “But Gafsa is supposed to be the last place where Latin was spoken in North Africa after Rome fell.”

“Nobody cares,” the loader said.

“Private Swanson doesn’t get bored,” Wade told the crew. “His whole life has been dedicated to the active pursuit of doing nothing.”

Swanson chortled. “You actually got that right, Wisenheimer. Live and learn.”

During the grueling trek over the mountains, Wade had realized something important. Joining the Army had been an irrational response to his pretty wife’s infidelity. After Oran’s capture, the act felt completed. Thinking about what she’d done didn’t fill him with anger and longing anymore.

The Army didn’t care. His story wasn’t over. He wasn’t going home. During the drive into Tunisia, for the first time, he fully understood just how screwed he was. Whatever he’d signed up for, it would go on and on, possibly for years. He was stuck for the duration, endless drudgery and smelling Swanson’s foul farts.

After the Messerschmitt strafed the column that one night, the stakes also felt different. The plane’s roar too big, too loud, like a force of nature, like a hurricane bearing down to sweep him out to sea. It had torn a tanker in A Company in half. Wade had started to understand he hadn’t joined the Army. He’d joined a war he might not survive.

Every time he’d dug the tank out, it was like digging his own grave.

As depressing as it all was, after a while, it also freed him. He realized he had nothing to prove to these men, no further need to make up a story to fit in. He just didn’t care anymore. Yup, I prefer Charles to Charlie. Yup, I went to college, and then I taught at one until I did something really stupid. Yup, I’m going to yap about history because I LOVE it.

And screw you, Swanson.

“Keep an eye on our loader, Sergeant,” Wade said. “At any minute, he’s going to switch sides and become a Berber. In fact, I think he’s been one all along.”

“Roger,” the tank commander said.

The crew laughed. By now, they all looked down on the nomads who smelled horrible, appeared sixty by the time they were thirty, scavenged the dead, and otherwise showed up out of nowhere to beg, steal, or try to sell junk.

“Them A-rabs don’t care who rolls through,” the loader said. “They just go on with their lives while we kill each other off. You tell me who’s smart.”

The tank quaked. Swanson’s big helmeted head thunked against his hatch. The man cursed.

“We blew a bogie wheel,” Russo blared over the interphone.

The wheel’s rubber padding had heated up, detached from the rim, and flew off into the dust. If the rough wheel rode on the track too long, the track itself could be damaged. It wasn’t a difficult fix, and Boomer carried spare parts like this. Plenty of spare parts, all manufactured to high design tolerances, was one of the things the U.S. Army was good at.

“We’re stopping at Kasserine,” Austin said. “We can hold until then.”

The men groaned. The bogie wheels were part of the tank’s suspension system. A rough wheel meant a very rough ride. Wade’s helmet banged against the ceiling.

“How far?” Swanson said.

“It’s at the end of this wadi.”

“That would be helpful if I knew what a wadi was, Sarge.”

Wade said, “It’s a valley that’s normally dry except—”

“Can anybody except Wisenheimer tell me what a wadi is?”

Too preoccupied with riding out the jolts, nobody answered.

“Like a peanut in a can,” Swanson growled as his head thunked again. He opened his hatch. “Screw it. I’d rather eat dust.”

That left Wade the only crewman with his head still in the tank. By the time the battalion rolled into Kasserine, he was nursing a throbbing headache. Russo changed the bogie wheel, Swanson and Clay raised the engine deck to add coolant to the radiator and clean the air filter, and Austin topped up the heavy oil and watered the battery. Wade popped a couple of aspirin and washed them down with swallows from his canteen. He poured more water onto a rag to clean the scopes.

Their work done, the crew ate their chow—franks and beans, which the men called Army chicken—in a hurry, eyes glued to the eastern horizon where a plane would come from. The Messerschmitt attack had stripped away a lot of their cockiness and replaced it with the heebie-jeebies.

Austin showed them a map. “This is us.” His finger moved. “This is Gafsa.”

“Good place for us,” Wade said.

The tank commander nodded. “It’s all about the roads.”

Gafsa was a crossroads town providing the ability to mobilize either to support the front line or strike east toward Sfax or Gabés. The capture of either would cut the German army in two, separating General von Arnim’s forces in northern Tunisia from Field Marshal Rommel’s Afrika Corps holding the Mareth Line.

“And that’s how we’re going to win,” Austin said.

Wade said, “The Germans aren’t going to let that happen.”

“According to the grapevine, the brass believes the Krauts are going to give the French a good drubbing up north.”

“Well, that’s how General Fredendall thinks.”

The commander narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Fredendall learned everything he knows in the last big war. If he thinks Rommel earned his nickname the Desert Fox by trading jabs, he’s got a severe lesson coming. When it comes to mobile warfare, Rommel’s king.”

“Didn’t I tell you he’s a pain in the ass, Sarge?” Swanson said.

Austin raised his hand to silence him. “What’s the lesson, exactly?”

“That the Germans have air superiority and shorter supply lines. They have the initiative, and when they punch, they do it fast and decisive. They’ll attack through the southern passes to secure their communications. It’s what I’d do.”

Now the commander smiled. “With what? We outnumber them.”

Wade shook his head. “You don’t know Rommel. He’ll leave his infantry to hold Montgomery and bring up every tank he has from Libya.”

“I say let him,” Clay said. “Let him come right at us.”

“Give it a rest, Eugene,” Russo said.

“No, he’s right,” said Austin. “Even better for us. We’ll have the whole 1st Armored Division at Gafsa. If the Fox wants to do our work for us, so be it.”

“You scared of Rommel, General Wade?” Swanson said.

“I respect him,” Wade said. “There’s a big difference between fear and respect, even if you don’t seem to understand it.”

The loader scowled. He knew he’d been insulted but wasn’t sure how.

“I understand plenty,” he muttered.

“I respect Boomer,” Austin told his crew. “She’s a good tank and more than a match for whatever the Germans can throw at us. If Rommel wants to take on Old Ironsides, I’m looking forward to it.”

Wade hoped the commander was right.

They drove into Gafsa the next day and found a motley camp of French and American infantry and tanks sprawled around the town. They were close to the Sahara now, a land of wadis and brown mountains receding into a purple haze. The desert wind blew dust devils across the rough landscape.

They drove to their designated area in the tank park. Combat scars streaked some of the tanks there. They were light tanks, and their crews told one hell of a story. They’d been fighting in the north with Anderson, pushing ahead of the main body to raise hell. After surviving a Stuka attack, they’d blazed through a town, leaving the burning wrecks of armored cars and trucks in their wake, and took cover in an olive grove. When they emerged along a ridge, they looked down onto the plain to find a Luftwaffe airfield.

Being Americans, they charged right in whooping. The tanks rolled down the hill straight onto the airstrip, lighting up planes and mowing down the fleeing airmen. Ammo cooked off in the burning planes, popping tracers everywhere, while the fuel stores in the hangars belched massive fireballs.

“It wasn’t until later we ran into Kraut tanks,” said a bog with a big wad of chewing tobacco stuffed in his cheek. “They were Specials, Mark IVs with a long-ass barrel. They were knocking us out at three thousand yards, while all we had was our pop guns. We couldn’t hurt a fly past a thousand yards. We got our asses kicked. If the Brits hadn’t showed up on their flank, they’d have eaten us alive.”

“How many planes did you blow up?” Clay wanted to know.

“Maybe fifty or a hundred, I don’t know. Closer to a hundred, I guess.”

Which means thirty or forty, Wade thought.

“Wow.” Clay’s eyes shined with a crazy light. The kid wanted every gory detail.

Austin pressed for more about the German tanks, information he could use. Russo puffed out his chest and told a dramatically embellished story about how his M4 had knocked the tracks off a French tank with a single shot. The tanker’s tale had exorcised the heebie-jeebies. They were cocky again and hungry for glory.

Wade glanced at Swanson, who walked away toward Boomer. Whatever the light tank crew had experienced, the loader wanted nothing to do with it.

Looks like we have at least that in common, he thought.

Wade followed and found the man lying on the engine deck smoking a cigarette. When the supply trains had started running again, Swanson had scored a carton of Chesterfields and was finally able to give up his lousy homemade cigarettes.

“There’s a fair chance we’re going to die out there,” he said.

The loader cocked an eye at him. “Are you being doom and gloom again, or are we still being honest? Either way, you’re bad luck.”

“I don’t believe in luck. I believe in probabilities. If we’re going to survive, we need every edge. And that means we can’t have rounds jamming in the breech.”

“That wasn’t my fault,” Swanson growled. “You focus on shooting straight.”

“You didn’t shove the round in all the way,” Wade told him. “You were afraid of catching your fingers in the breechblock. That’s why it jammed.”

The loader sat up and glared at him. “You’d better get out of my ass.”

“Or what?” There was a fair chance Wade was going to die before he escaped Africa. Swanson had nothing to threaten him with.

The loader glanced over to where Austin was talking to a light tank commander. “If you tell anybody, I’ll make you sorry you did.”

“Do your job right, Swanson. I intend to survive this.”

He walked away, ignoring the loader’s sputtered replies.

Over the next two weeks, the tankers enjoyed washing in the hot-spring Roman baths. Wade toured the town’s sixteenth-century citadel. Swanson and Russo frequented a bordello. At night, the sand contracted in the high desert cold, producing a strange crackling hum.

Meanwhile, the brass peeled off armored units and sent them away to support various operations. By the end, most of the division was broken up and distributed.

“Because that’s how General Fredendall thinks,” Wade said during routine maintenance on Boomer.

He handed Swanson a wrench. The loader and Austin leaned into the open engine bay to tighten the mounting bolts on the power unit.

“Lord,” Swanson said. “You really are a government-issue pain in the ass.”

Austin didn’t like it. “I can’t believe old Pinky is putting up with this.” General Orlando “Pinky” Ward, 1st Armored’s commander, led a division that was being carved up piecemeal. “The guy fought with Blackjack Pershing in Mexico. He earned a Silver Star in France at the Battle of the Marne.”

Wade didn’t think Ward was much better than Fredendall. Much of the experience the generals had gained in the last war didn’t help in this war, where mobility was everything. The Germans had embraced new doctrines. On the American side, maybe General Patton got it, but few others in the brass did.

Russo claimed that once the Italians knew how good their cousins had it in America, they’d all surrender. A tanker in Cat Company told him to put his money where his mouth was. So Russo made a bet where he’d get five dollars for every man who surrendered and would pay only a total of five dollars if nobody did. After they shook hands on it, he wrote a message and paid some Tunisian boys a few francs to deliver it to Italian forces holding Sened Station.

Wade considered it akin to writing to Santa, but after two days, the boys returned with a letter. An entire squad was packing its bags and intending to defect.

“They’re coming tomorrow,” a grinning Russo told Wade over chow.

“Don’t say anything about it to Swanson. You know, about how easily these Italians are surrendering.”

“He’s a boombots,” the driver declared. “Me? I’ll be in Life Magazine.”

The tankers excelled at making crazy boasts, but Wade took the bait. “How do you figure that?”

“I paid a tanker in Alligator Company a dollar to take a picture of me posing with the Italians once they show up. I also sent out more letters. If I can get a whole platoon to come over, they’ll give me a medal.”

“You really think?”

“How many guys capture a whole platoon, bada bing, just by writing a letter? I’m gonna be famous, man. They’ll send me home to sell war bonds.”

“Well, okay then,” Wade said. “You’ve obviously thought it all through.”

“Oh, yeah. It’s all planned out.”

He couldn’t help but laugh. “Drive on, Shorty.”

Wade didn’t know what was going to happen, though with the probabilities being what they were, it was easy to imagine the worst. The driver faced the same odds, and being no dummy, he knew how this all might end for him. Russo simply refused to let it get him down. He was going to take each moment as it came and get whatever enjoyment he could from it.

The big things still terrified Wade, but he thought the little things might get him through with his sanity intact. And not just his books, but the moments of comedy and raw humanity his crewmates offered.

Austin stomped over to the tank. “We’ve got orders. Mount up!”

Russo’s mouth dropped open. “Ma che quest, goombah?”

The tank commander glared. “I told you I don’t speak Axis.”

“We’re leaving? Right now?”

“Yeah, we’re leaving, and yeah, we’re doing it now. You want a printed invitation? Get in gear. We’re supporting the attack on Sened Station.”

“We’re attacking Sened Station?”

Austin didn’t answer as he mounted the sponson.

Wade shrugged. “Bad luck, Shorty. Your plan had a weird logic to it. You might have actually pulled it off.”

“La vesa gazi,” the driver muttered.

Wade pulled on his helmet. “What’s that mean?”

“Whatever you want it to mean. It’s sort of an all-purpose cuss.”

“Move it!” the commander yelled.

Wade couldn’t help but laugh again. It quickly faded as he settled into his station behind Boomer’s big 75.

The little things were fleeting, while the big things seemed eternal. The war was always waiting, and it always collected.

MAP: Map of Southern Tunisia, showing towns of importance.

CHAPTER TEN

CHASING THE TAIL

PFC Clay was glad to be back on the move, even if it meant eating dust again. With Boomer’s ammo racks full and her tuned-up aviation engine purring like a kitten, she rolled in formation with the rest of the battalion.

Sened Station was fifteen miles east of Gafsa. It was a group of flat-roofed buildings clustered around a Tunisian railroad whistle stop, and now it served as an outpost for Italian troops. The American infantry and tanks were on a collision course with them.

Sened wasn’t the main objective, however. The real target was Maknassy, about ten miles farther up the road. By capturing it, the Allies would hold the pass and the high ground overlooking the plains leading to Sfax.

The infantry would do most of the work to clear the buildings, and the tanks would be there in support. The coming battle promised a chance for Clay to be useful with the bow gun. He was still grinding his teeth over freezing up at the .50 while the Messerschmitt rained death from the night sky. This time, he’d do his job and, God willing, make a difference.

The radio blatted. “Bears 3 Actual to Bears 3, we are breaking off the main body to carry out a fragmentary order. Get ready to clock six, right.”

The platoon was turning around and heading back toward Gafsa. One by one, the tank commanders acknowledged the order.

Austin: “Bears 3 Actual, Bears 3-5. You mind filling us in?”

“The Krauts are pushing hard through Faïd Pass,” the lieutenant said. “Our boys are under the hammer up there. Let’s get it done.”

“Wilco,” Austin responded. “Driver, clock six, right on the LT’s order.”

“Now,” Whitley said.

The tank clanked into a wide, ponderous turn through a cactus patch. Clay shielded his face as the air swirled with flying needles until Boomer found the road again. Whitley thanked them all for a maneuver well done.

He added, “We’re going to get on another road heading northeast toward Sidi bou Zid and catch the Kraut armor in the flank. Bears 3 Actual, out.”

Clay grinned. It sounded like a juicy op. “Finally, we’re in it.”

Next to him, Russo shook his head. “You want to be a big hero, is that it, Eight Ball? Go home with some medals on your chest?”

Clay pictured it. A huge parade down Mapleton’s Main Street, the whole town turned out to see him. His brother alongside, and his mom and dad, all walking together to Grant Park’s gazebo. There, the mayor would unveil a statue of him defying Hitler in his tanker overalls, and the crowd would cheer.

“Yes,” he said.

“If we win the war and you’re around to see it, trust me, you’ll be a hero.”

“I guess.”

While a triumphant homecoming made a great fantasy that rolled like a movie through his head, it wasn’t enough to drive him. He wanted to prove to himself what kind of man he was, and he would never know until he faced the ultimate test, a test he’d failed on the shores of Mud Lake.

Since the Messerschmitt attack, he had fantasized about only one thing. Firing the .50 at the screaming plane and bringing the bastard down in a fireball.

Clay added, “Don’t you want to do something special in the war?”

“I’m serving my country. My family’s already proud. The best thing I can do now is get home to them alive.”

“It’s different for me. I want me being here to mean something.”

“Whatever you’re looking for, you’ll find it,” the driver said. “Don’t be in such a hurry to get to the war. It will come to you.”

“But when it does—”

“I like how that came out. Real words of wisdom. You should write it down.”

“Hey, Cherry,” the loader chimed in. “What Mac is trying to say is, when you get super gung-ho, it makes the rest of us nervous. So take it easy.”

Clay shook his head. He didn’t get these guys. The Army had taught him to be aggressive. The only good German was a dead German. Go into combat with everything you had and never give up. Kill them all, every last one.

Some of his crewmates acted more like tourists than warriors. They seemed far more aggressive in how they talked about each other than the Germans. As for him, he’d fought to get transferred here from an artillery unit. He had initiative.

“We’re here to kill Germans,” Austin said, appearing to agree with his bog, but then added, “Like professionals.”

Clay understood now. He was supposed to possess an enthusiastic bloodlust but be cool about it. As if heroism, self-sacrifice, and killing were everyday things.

Nah, to hell with it. He had a feeling these guys were always going to see him as New Guy and ride his ass for it. He might as well be himself.

When he finally got his chance to make a difference, they’d see what he was really made of. He wouldn’t be New Guy anymore.

Through the veil of roiling dust cloud churned up by the tanks, Clay spotted black columns of smoke in the south. Black dots of planes dropped out of the sky on vertical bombing runs.

“Sergeant, I see planes south of us. Somebody’s getting clobbered.”

“Wait one,” the commander said. “Yeah, I see it too. That’s the other combat command heading to Maknassy. Looks like they ran into some Stukas.”

More like the Stukas ran into them, Clay thought with a shudder.

“Guess getting detached worked out for us,” Russo said. “A little good luck goes a long way.”

The tanks pushed forward until the landscape turned into semi-arid farmland and scrub-covered hills leading to mountains patched with cypress. The battalion stopped for chow and maintenance. Then it drove on until the flat-roofed houses and palm trees of a small town came into view.

“We’re close now, boys,” the tank commander said. “That’s Sidi bou Zid.”

“Bears 3 Actual to Bears 3,” the radio buzzed. “New orders.”

The men groaned.

“You’re shitting me,” Sergeant Cocker muttered.

“Yup, you guessed it,” the lieutenant said. “We’re going back.”

“What’s the situation, Bears 3 Actual?” Austin said.

“We took Sened with heavy losses, and now everybody’s pushing hard to take a crack at Maknassy.”

“What about the German attack at Faïd Pass?”

“Local forces have the situation well in hand. We’re not needed there.”

“Roger, Bears 3 Actual,” Austin said then switched to interphone. “Hey, Corporal. It looks like the Germans’ big attack failed.”

“Then it wasn’t the big attack,” the gunner answered.

“See what I mean, Sarge?” Swanson chimed in. “You can’t win with him.”

“Makes you wonder,” said Austin.

Wonder what? Clay thought. Wonder if he’s right?

Because Wade usually was. Clay had no problem with the man. He was an odd duck and a bit of a recluse, but he was friendly enough, especially when somebody pushed the right button and all the history talk poured out. He’d taught Clay to wash his uniform in gasoline to kill the desert lice. Mostly, Clay liked him because he know how to lay the gun under pressure. It was good to be rolling with a guy like that into combat, where seconds counted.

Near the end of the day, the column reached within thirteen miles of Maknassy. No sign of the Axis, though Clay felt the battalion and its attached infantry were being watched. When the radio blatted again, he jumped in his seat.

“Bears 3 Actual to Bears 3,” Whitley said. “New orders.”

“Come on!” Swanson fumed in the turret.

“The Krauts mauled our guys at Faïd and took the pass,” said the lieutenant. “Looks like we’re needed there more than we are here.”

He walked through instructions for turning around. The tank commanders acknowledged. Nobody in Boomer said anything for a while.

“That’s the big attack,” Wade said.

“We’ll plug whatever hole we find up there,” Austin said, “while the other combat command takes Maknassy. We’re still in good shape.”

“Our guys could barely take Sened,” the gunner said. “And that was supposed to be a cakewalk. We’ll see how far they get without our battalion.”

Lieutenant Whitley came through on the radio. “Thanks for the expert military analysis, Boomer. By the way, you’re still transmitting on the radio.”

“Sorry, LT,” Austin said and switched to the interphone. “Corporal, if you have anything to say, keep the topic limited to gunnery.”

“Then you won’t want to hear me tell you how bad a situation we’re in if the Germans hang onto Faïd.”

Lying in a mountainous bottleneck, Faïd was easily defendable high ground. From there, Axis forces could strike out against Allied troops scattered on the plain.

“There goes our morale officer again,” Russo muttered and sighed. “Jeez. All this back and forth chasing our tail is exhausting.”

Clay said, “If you’re tired, I can take over driving.”

“Not a chance, kid.”

“Then bitch to somebody else about being tired.”

The driver cast him a sidelong look through dusty goggles. “Stanna mabaych.”

Clay didn’t know what that meant, but it sounded appreciative. Maybe insulting his crewmates to their face was the key to respect around here. They certainly did it enough to each other. Though he had his doubts, maybe they all secretly liked each other. He hadn’t been raised like that. Back home, you raked your closest friends over the coals, but mouthing off to anybody else would earn you a punch. Maybe people did things differently outside of Mapleton.

“If they tell us to turn around again, I say we go back to Gafsa,” Swanson said.

“We’ll do our duty and follow our orders,” the commander said.

“Which orders? The generals don’t know what they’re doing.”

“Have to agree with Mad Dog on that one,” Wade chimed in.

Swanson guffawed. “Even Wisenheimer agrees. We’d be better off voting.”

“This isn’t a democracy,” Austin grated. “If you don’t like it, find yourself another tank.”

“How about the maintenance section?” the loader said.

“Mad Dog, at the end of this operation, I’ll put you anywhere you want to go just to see the backside of you.”

“I’ll hold you to that, Sarge.”

“I’ll take his spot now,” Clay said. Commanders could switch roles in their tanks for disciplinary reasons.

“Shut it, Eight Ball,” Swanson snarled.

“If you don’t want to do your part, let me do it. I’ll load.”

“Sounds good to me,” Wade said. “Let Shorty smell his farts for a change.”

“No way!” Russo protested.

“We can smell them down here too,” Clay said.

“You guys are pissing me off,” Swanson warned.

“I actually want to be here, Mad Dog. You can be the bog, and then we can call you New Guy.”

Russo shook his head. “I don’t want him sitting next to me.”

“Then let me drive sometimes,” Clay said.

“Okay, I’ll let you drive, soon! I give up!”

“Nobody’s moving me anywhere,” Swanson growled. “I ain’t sitting down there with the Macaroni. I barely fit up here in the turret, and I ain’t using the belly hatch if we have to bail.”

“All right, everybody, shut it,” Austin said. “We can talk about where we’d all like Private Swanson to go later. Right now, we’re in injun country.”

By the time they returned to Sidi bou Zid, the battle for Faïd was over.

“New orders,” Whitley said over the radio. “We’re, uh, stopping here to wait for new orders. As for what those orders will be, all y’all’s guess is as good as mine.”

The tanks rolled off the road and plowed through acacias until coiling near an olive grove southeast of the town. With one eye fixed on the eastern sky, the men watered the battery, tightened the track, and checked the fluids before getting their chow.

Fearful of air attack, they maintained light discipline and slept under their tanks. Clay took the first two-hour watch. An Axis plane winked its lights overhead, but knowing he was being baited to shoot and give away his position, he held his fire. He watched the plane cross the sky. A part of him hoped it would spot his tank under its camouflage netting, while the rational part of him didn’t.

Something big is going to happen soon, he thought.

The next morning, however, no new orders came.

Nor for the next two weeks as the front stabilized. To Clay’s disappointment, nothing happened at all during that time.

Until Valentine’s Day.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

THE STORM

Shivering in pitch black night, Tank Sergeant Austin awoke to howling wind and pounding thunder. Rain crackled along Boomer’s metal skin.

What a downpour, he thought. We’re in for a flash flood.

But it wasn’t rain. He nudged the other men awake. “Sandstorm!”

He could barely hear himself over the static buzz.

A colossal wind blew across the mountains from the Sahara, choking the air with stinging sand. Even nestled as he was under the tank’s big belly, the tiny grains pricked his face. He was already half buried in it.

Austin found his helmet and pulled it on along with his goggles. He spat and raised his bandana over his mouth and nose.

Again, that strange rumble sounded. Only it wasn’t thunder. Somebody out there in the sandstorm was shooting a whole lot of big guns.

Using his helmet, Swanson tapped on Boomer’s belly escape hatch. At least he thought it was Swanson; he couldn’t see a damned thing. He hoped Wade, who was on watch, heard it. They were about to be buried alive here.

The whole thing was so surreal he wondered if he was still asleep, dreaming the whole thing up. A psychiatrist would tell me the sand represents the pressure of command, or some such nonsense, he thought. My mind’s way of telling me I’m carrying too much on my shoulders. As if he didn’t know that already.

The hatch swung open. He felt along the cover to gauge its angle. Not enough room for them all to crawl up and inside, especially the loader with his gorilla build. Austin and Swanson scrabbled at the dirt until they’d dug a deep-enough depression.

Swanson squirmed up through the hatch, his boot clopping the side of his sergeant’s head. Austin tapped Russo’s shoulder to send him up next. Then he shimmied inside and pulled the hatch shut behind him.

The M4’s three interior dome lights cast an eerie glow. Shadows flickered across metal as Clay moved up into the turret to give Austin room. Wade had closed the commander’s hatch to keep out the sand, but it had still managed to dust everything. Outside, the wind and sand scoured the tank’s armor like a giant Brillo pad. Inside, the still air was dim and freezing.

After Austin traded places with Clay in the turret, Wade grabbed his arm. “Did you hear the shooting, Sergeant?”

He nodded.

“Somebody letting off a few rounds?”

Austin shook his head. Too many guns were shooting with random intensity. It sounded like combat. Some vehicles out on patrol had gotten caught by the storm and stumbled into each other, it had to be.

Though it had sounded like far more vehicles than would be out on patrol, and the firing was sustained. Echoes, maybe?

What a damned strange night.

The men settled at their stations and plugged into the com system. Austin tried the radio, hoping the wind hadn’t sent his aerial to Oz.

The other tanks in the platoon checked in. He did the same and clamped his gloved hands over his earphones to hear better.

“Nobody knows what’s happening,” Whitley told his platoon.

Austin switched the radio to INT. “Hang tight, men. Catch some more shuteye if you can. When this storm lets up, we’ll have a lot of work to do.”

Loose sand could belly a tank as good as mud. They’d have to dig themselves out, clean and test their weapons, and inspect the engine.

“First, it was mud, now it’s sand,” Swanson said. “The whole country’s trying to kill us.”

The gunner nestled into his seat and closed his eyes. “Not us. Just you.”

“Yeah? I wonder who’d like to—?”

Austin switched back to RADIO. The howling wind swallowed the remainder of Swanson’s witty rejoinder. If they wanted to bitch at each other, they could pencil messages and pass them around.

The white noise lulled him back to sleep and dreams of home; he was bobbing Rex on his knee, and then—

“We’re under attack,” the radio said.

Dawn’s light reached through the scopes into the tank, bathing the interior a dim orange. The sandstorm was over. Austin kicked Wade in the back, startling the man awake. The gunner would wake up the rest of the crew.

Then he focused on the radio. Attack? Again, he had a strange feeling he was dreaming all this.

“The Krauts came out of the pass in the storm,” Whitley said. “Apparently, the 168th is in some serious trouble. We haven’t gotten orders yet, but the colonel wants us combat ready. Get your tanks ready to move.”

“Roger,” Austin said then addressed his crew. “Let’s get to work.”

He heaved the hatch open, and sand trickled into the turret like an hourglass. He hauled out his stiff body and inspected the view. Everywhere, tanks were half buried in drifts, camouflage netting blown away or buried along with a junkyard’s worth of gear.

One by one, blinking in the morning sunlight, his crew emerged. Russo stretched and rubbed his arms for warmth, producing a cloud of dust. In the east, the guns were still firing, a steady rumble that vibrated through the air and ground.

What a mess. Axis tanks were rumbling out of the passes, and here was Tank Sergeant Austin, without orders, cleaning up from a sandstorm.

“Get digging,” he said. “We need to be able to move fast if we’re called.”

“Cripes,” Clay said at the front of the tank. “Sergeant, check this out!”

The bog pointed at Boomer’s front plate. The storm had scoured swathes of paint off the turret and glacis, exposing gleaming, polished metal.

“We’ll give her a new coat later,” Austin said. “Let’s get to work.”

He and Clay grabbed shovels and dug while Swanson and Russo leaned into the engine bay and Wade cleaned the weapons.

His labors made him sweat, moisture that attracted every bit of sand still in the air along with black flies. After two weeks of being in the field, all he wanted was a hot shower instead of daily whore’s baths from the same helmet he shaved with. He missed the hot-spring Roman baths at Gafsa.

The lieutenant waved at him from his Betty, which once again flew the Texas flag from its aerial. The other sergeants had convened there. Austin dropped his shovel and made his way to them.

Whitley held his map attached to a clipboard. “It’s worse than we thought. The Krauts punched their way through our line, and now two battalions of the 168th Infantry are under siege on the hills overlooking the pass.”

Cocker bent to inspect the map. His eyes widened. “You’re shitting me.”

“That’s not even the worst part. The colonel says Kraut armor is rolling up out of Maknassy and coming straight at us from the south. Word is they’re the 21st Panzer, the best desert fighters on the whole goddamn planet. Lucky for us, they won’t get here for a while, so we can take our problems one at a time.”

Dunlap flicked his cigarette into the sand. “What do you want us to do, sir?”

“The colonel wants us on the move ASAP,” the lieutenant told them. “We’re going north to Lessouda and relieve the 168th and buy enough time that whoever is able to pull out can do it. Any questions?”

Nobody had any.

“Then get to it,” Whitley said. “This is it, gentlemen. Today, we’re going up against Kraut armor for the first time. Let’s do it right and kick Jerry in the balls.”

“Yes, sir,” Austin said.

The pow wow broke up. Cocker invited him over to Buckshot, where they had coffee brewing. Austin looked back at Boomer. His crew was doing fine getting the tank ready, working together like a well-oiled machine.

If I could just keep them working on the tank around the clock, they’d get along just fine, he thought.

At Buckshot, Cocker gave him a steaming mug. “What do you think, John?”

He sipped the hot coffee and sighed with satisfaction. “I’m starting to think the brass doesn’t know what it’s doing.”

“My sentiment, exactly.”

At the same time, Austin was happy Boomer would see some action. She was one of the most lethal machines ever built by man, and today she’d get her test. Her crew had trained a long time and come a long way to fight.

“They’re going to order us up there, and we have no idea what we’re going up against,” Cocker complained. “It could be a whole division.”

“No use wondering. We’ll follow our orders, and whatever we run into, we’ll make them sorry.” He chuckled. “You got to admire their balls, though. Launching an offensive in a sandstorm.”

“Yeah,” Cocker said, paling. “Well, good luck today.”

Austin gave him the mug back. “You too, Barney. Thanks for the cup of joe.”

After they shook hands, he headed toward Boomer, excited and scared and oddly happy at the same time. Just before he reached the tank, his legs gave out and he sank to his knees. He yelped in surprise at his body’s betrayal.

Burning with shame, he looked around, but his crew either hadn’t noticed or were pretending they hadn’t.

Deep breath, he thought. You can do this. These men are relying on you.

Your dad is watching.

He thrust his hand into his pocket and gripped the musket ball. His great granddad had gotten shot in the leg and didn’t go chicken; he wouldn’t either. He reminded himself he had Austin blood. He hauled himself to his feet and strode up to his tank. After each man walked him through a quick inspection of the systems he’d worked on, he dismissed him to get his chow and coffee.

Then the order came through to mount up.

Russo hand-cranked the engine and ran forward to climb into his seat and plug in. Austin said, “Driver, start the engine.”

The big engine barked but refused to turn over.

“It’s just cold.” Russo gave it more choke and started again. This time, the engine sputtered and then turned over with a snarl. “We’re good!”

“Let’s go kick some Kraut ass,” Austin said. “Driver, follow Buckshot.”

“You got it, Boss.”

The battalion and its attached armored infantry and artillery units surged north toward Lessouda, straight into injun country. The fury of battle sounded from all directions now. Pillars of black smoke leaned into the blue sky. Ahead, Betty’s Texas flag flapped and rolled in the wind.

“Hi-yo, Silver!” one of the tank commanders yelled. A flurry of whoops followed. After weeks of runaround, the tankers were itching for a brawl.

The radio burst with commanders calling out plane contacts. Austin saw them too, a wave of black dots in the sky that was approaching fast.

“Button up,” he told his crew. “Stukas!”

The squadron of gull-winged Luftwaffe dive-bombers arrived from the mountains in seconds. The leader waggled his wings before dropping into a vertical dive. Austin climbed out of the cupola, crouched behind the .50-caliber machine gun, and yanked its charging handle. Tracers were already reaching up for the Axis plane as it made its screaming banshee descent.

The other bombers also plunged out of the sky, sirens wailing as they dove for their targets like giant birds of prey. Graceful and terrifying.

The tanks scattered. Boomer lurched off the road and made for an olive grove. Austin fired a burst, corrected, and fired again. The planes were too fast.

Bombs whistled through the air as the Stukas pulled out of their fall, the machines’ engines howling to fight gravity. Austin dove into his cupola as deadly missiles exploded along the formation and tons of earth erupted from the road.

The very ground beneath him shook from the impacts. Shrapnel chunks the size of baseballs clattered and banged off Boomer’s armor. Bright green light flared through the scopes as massive fireballs sucked air from the crew’s lungs and left them gasping.

“What the hell was that?” Swanson roared. “Fuck!”

“We’re okay!” Austin said. “Everybody, shut up. Driver, stop.”

He emerged from the cupola to take in a scene of devastation covered in a massive pall of dust. A dozen tanks burned around the cratered road. The wrecks shuddered with internal explosions as ammo cooked off and spat tracers in random directions. Some of the trucks had been blown clear across a neighboring field, taking their infantry with them. The olive grove had been shorn to stumps surrounded by piles of smoking toothpicks.

Austin raised trembling hands to remove his goggles, as if this would help him understand the destruction he was seeing. “My God.”

Fifty yards away, men spilled from a burning tank with its gun barrel chewed off. One of them was on fire and flailing on the ground.

His lips were moving. He was mumbling the Lord’s Prayer, stuck on a groove near the end of it. Deliver us from evil, he kept saying. Deliver us from evil.

Austin shook his head to clear it. He grabbed the radio and checked in with the lieutenant, who’d survived the attack along with his entire platoon.

“Bears 3 Actual to all Bears 3.” Whitley’s voice quivered. “We’re proceeding to objective—wait, one.”

“What do we do?” Russo said.

“We’re sitting ducks here!” Swanson fumed.

“LT said to wait, so we wait,” Austin said, hoping his voice sounded steadier than he felt. His crew was watching him to see how they should react. They needed to see him stay strong. “The Germans hit us hard, but we still have a job to do.”

“New order,” the radio buzzed. “The 21st Panzer is a lot closer than we were told. They’ll be on our tail in no time. And the 10th Panzer is coming down from other side of Lessouda Hill.”

The new order was to run before they were trapped.

CHAPTER TWELVE

THE PINCER

PFC Russo dropped the clutch and stomped the gas, pushing full engine power to the treads. He worked the sticks to zig-zag the tank across the plain, his brain on autopilot, still in shock from the pounding that had wiped out twenty percent of the battalion in minutes.

At some point, he’d raised the hatch so he could see better and, therefore, drive faster, a steady fifteen miles an hour. He didn’t remember doing that, but he was grateful for it. If the tank was hit, he could bail that much more quickly.

The platoon zig-zagged west through an onion field while, everywhere he looked, panzers blazed in hot pursuit. Hundreds of vehicles swarmed the plain. They raised wakes of sand and dust as they rolled in a well-orchestrated pincer movement.

All Russo knew was he didn’t want those deadly machines anywhere near him. Otherwise, his training did the driving.

Nearby, Sidi bou Zid was ablaze. Panicking supply officers were detonating the fuel dumps while Luftwaffe planes fell screaming on the town to drop their payloads, intent on razing it to the ground. Russo felt the heat from here. The sky dimmed as waves of oily black smoke drifted in front of the rising sun.

Beyond, American vehicles and infantry choked the roads, a helter-skelter rush west to escape the Axis juggernaut. An amazing thing, seeing thousands of troops in flight. A company of light tanks, half their vehicles already a flaming ruin, stopped on the plain, their crews bailing with their hands in the air to surrender. On the road, a traffic jam of halftracks flew apart in a rapid series of flashes and thunderous detonations.

Oh, God, a body was cartwheeling over the explosion—

“Driver, march on that orchard on our ten,” Austin said.

“Stugats,” Russo said. How could the sergeant be so calm? He was talking like this was a parade, not a do-or-die race, and what was this about an orchard? They couldn’t be stopping! “Stugats, stugats, stugats!”

Nobody knew what they were doing, the brass calling the shots was too far in the rear, American planes were nowhere in sight, and they couldn’t even get the reports right about the 21st Panzer’s location.

He’d done his part. He’d driven the tank where they wanted and exactly how they wanted. Why wasn’t anybody else doing theirs?

He considered he might die for it.

Austin growled, “Keep it together, or I’ll put Clay in your seat. The command was to march on that orchard ahead of us.”

Russo glanced at the bog, who gaped back at him with wild eyes. Where’s your nagging to drive now, goombah?

Before his nano died, the old man had often called him that. What do you say, goombah? Calling him “man.” What did you do with your toy, goombah? Finish your manigott, goombah!

Thinking about his grandpa steeled his nerves. If he was going to die today, he wouldn’t be a coward. He wouldn’t let these men see him lose it. They’d tell mama and papa he died with honor, fighting for their adopted homeland.

I’m the Sicilian Superman, he reminded himself. These guys wanted him to prove himself to them. After today, they’ll be trying to prove themselves to me.

Then he burst out laughing, startling Clay, who probably thought he was losing it. He wasn’t losing it. It was just funny he’d actually thought he might die.

He wasn’t going to die today. It just couldn’t happen to him. No, he was going to survive, marry that Sicilian girl of his dreams, and go home a hero who’d earned his family a special place in America. One day, decades from now, he’d die a happy old man. Until then, he cursed death.

Mannaggia la mort!

“Driving for the orchard, Boss,” he acknowledged.

“We’re all going to form up and make our stand there,” the tank commander told the crew. “We’re going to stop the Germans.”

Russo clamped his lips shut to keep himself from laughing again. From the number of German tanks he’d spotted before their flight, nobody was going to stop them, not today. The remnants of 1st Battalion was heavily outnumbered and was going to take another beating.

Not Boomer, though. Again, that feeling of invincibility took hold. He wasn’t even going to get a scratch. He was insulated from all this, able to observe it with detachment. This was all a movie for his benefit.

If they didn’t stop the Germans, at least it would buy time for the rest of the American forces to escape. He liked that idea a lot more than just trying to take as many Germans with him as possible. That was something worth fighting for.

Russo checked the instrument panel and took in the tachometer and the oil and water gauges. Oil temperature was one-sixty, about right; water temperature was one-seventy, within acceptable range. Oil pressure was fifty-five pounds per square inch, fine for the current engine RPM. Boomer was running in good health.

The plain surrounding Sidi bou Zid was a patchwork quilt of farmland radiating toward desert. Even now, with the thunder of gunfire everywhere and battle rapidly approaching, the Berbers pushed their plows with the help of oxen. Boomer rolled into a plantation of scraggly almond trees, crushing part of some poor slob’s crop. Branches and almonds and a riot of petals scattered in her wake.

After the tank crossed an irrigation ditch, the commander said, “This is the place. Driver, clock six, right, and stop in the ditch.”

“Roger.” Russo pulled the right stick to turn the tank around in a wide arc. He downshifted and edged the tank into a shallow gully until ordered to stop. Boomer was now hull down, meaning only the turret was visible to the enemy.

Austin raised his binoculars. “Button up.”

Russo lowered his seat and closed the hatch. The tank was hull down, but he was able to raise his periscope to gain a front-row seat to Custer’s Last Stand. The German tanks came on out of the rising sun, churning sand, easy to mark as targets by their pronounced shadows.

He saw Mark IIIs and IVs, some the Special type with the oddly long barrel, along with a platoon of big tanks he’d never seen before, giants that looked unstoppable. In the flat landscape, they appeared closer than they were. He kept his hand on the gearshift, ready to reverse when Austin gave the order.

Boomer was in a solid defensive line of some forty tanks reinforced by a platoon of tank destroyers and artillery tubes and infantry. Russo thought maybe this could work. Maybe they’d take out enough enemy tanks that the Germans would hesitate or even withdraw.

The defenders were Americans, the toughest, most stubborn race of jerks on the planet, and their M4s were good tanks ready to take on whatever the Germans threw at them. Russo considered the Germans might have more tanks in the field and air superiority to boot, but he had faith in his crewmates and Boomer’s firepower. These guys were a bunch of buttagots, but they could fight.

“Let’s do this,” he growled.

“Loader, give me shot,” the tank commander said.

Swanson slammed a round into the breech. “You’re up.”

“We’ll start shooting at two thousand yards.”

“Roger,” said Wade.

“Corporal, what was that inscription you translated that I liked? The one we saw on that pillar in the ruins we visited on the road from Oran?”

“‘The dead salute the gods,’” the gunner said.

“Right,” the tank commander said. “Today, we’re going to win, boys, or tonight, we’ll be saluting the angels.”

MAP: Opening attacks in the Battle of Kasserine Pass.

At dawn on February 14, 1943, the German 10th Panzer Division (north) and the 21st Panzer Division (south) punched through Allied defenses and encircled Sidi bou Zid and the 168th Infantry on several hills.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

HELL BREAKS

With his binoculars, Tank Sergeant Austin swept the diorama of chaos and smoke. German armor rolled toward him, commanders in black uniforms standing tall in their cupolas and ready to direct the fire of their big guns.

Some of the tanks were big, boxy monsters he’d never seen before. He thought these must be the rumored Tigers and shuddered at the thought of going up against one of them. They made big targets, but otherwise all he had to go on was hearsay about their guns being 88s, about their armor being virtually impenetrable to shot.

Whatever these tanks were, Austin would just have to figure out how to kill them or go home, and going home wasn’t an option.

He glanced at Sergeant Cocker in Buckshot’s cupola on his left, Sergeant Dunlap in Boxer’s on his right. They were muttering into their microphones, working out targets with their gunners. Dunlap leaned over the side of his turret and vomited then returned to giving orders over his interphone.

Austin raised his binoculars again. The Germans rolled ever closer. At two thousand yards, he could start firing.

“Gunner, target will be—”

German tanks lurched to a halt and opened up at three thousand yards.

Smoke puffed from barrels as the big guns boomed. White shot blurred toward the American M4s, chased by waves of dust rolling up from the ground.

A round plowed a smoking trench between him and Buckshot. Cocker goggled at it and gaped at Austin. A hill bulged out of the ground in front of Boxer, raining clumps of dirt.

Then the German gunners found the range and zeroed in.

Boxer rocked as a shell punched its turret and hurled Dunlap away in flaming rags. The explosion set off the ammo in the racks. A moment later, fire billowed from every hatch before the turret belched into the air and thudded on the ground.

Nobody got out.

Austin stared at the burning wreck in horror.

“Bears 3 Actual to all Bears 3,” Whitley said over the radio. “Move out! Get into range and kill some fucking Krauts!”

“Driver, move out,” Austin ordered. Whatever he was feeling about all this, he’d feel it later. His voice gained strength. “Balls to the wall!”

Russo barked his strange laugh again. “Roger!”

Boomer snarled as she mounted the berm and rolled into action. Bull was hit before it could get out of the ditch. The tank jerked as its track broke and whiplashed behind it. Sergeant Blackburn rolled out of the cupola, his right leg ending in a smoking stump.

The only emotion Austin felt now was rage that ignited in his chest. He peered through his binoculars. “Gunner, target is the Mark III on our eleven, passing that burning jeep, range twenty-five hundred yards.”

“Wilco,” said Wade.

“We’ll light him up as soon as we get within two thousand. Get us there quick. We’re going to kill them all. Understood?”

“Understood.”

“Drive on. Let’s go kill some Germans.”

The M4 tanks charged out of the orchard line abreast and lunged forward to clash with the German armor.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

PANDEMONIUM

Corporal Wade leaned into his periscope’s eyepiece to take in the Mark III bearing down on them.

I told you so, he wanted to scream. I told you so!

“Driver, stop!” Austin barked. “Gunner, tank, shot, one-nine hundred!”

Range, two thousand yards, from which the commander had deducted a hundred because the target was moving toward them.

Wade focused his scope reticle’s vertical center on the German tank. The idea was to lay the gun so that, if the round passed straight through the target, it would hit the ground on the other side. Basic gunnery, this time for real.

He swelled with a sudden sense of power. Manning the 75 was like holding Thor’s hammer. The thought chilled him; nobody should have that kind of power, nobody should ever use it. He was about to kill, an idea that went against his entire upbringing and identity.

Dirt geysered in front of him, obscuring his view. A ricochet splintered off a nearby tank and splashed Boomer’s hull.

To hell with his social conditioning. It was kill or be killed now. Emboldened by a wave of fury, he yielded his mind to his training.

Austin: “Fire!”

Wade stomped the foot pedal. “On the way!”

The white shot zipped toward the target and burst short and to the left of the Mark III, which didn’t even flinch. The German commander raised his glasses to study Boomer. A pair of Messerschmitts screamed overhead. Swanson rammed another round into the breech. The turret filled with the acrid tang of burnt gunpowder.

Austin: “Right five, up eight, fire!”

Wade cranked the hand wheel eight times and traversed. “On the way!”

Another blast of dirt, this time behind the target. Boomer had its prey bracketed now. The Mark III’s turret began to traverse to return fire.

“Down four, fire!”

Another four cranks. “On the way!”

The tracer blurred over the ground and smashed against the Mark III’s sloped armor. The shell shattered in a fireworks display of bright streaming sparks.

“Fire!”

Wade stomped the foot pedal. “On the way!”

The AP round penetrated the Mark III’s turret. The tank trembled with the detonation, its turret at an angle, smoke pouring out as it caught fire. Two tankers in black uniforms emerged from the hatches.

“That’s a hit!”

The tankers howled in triumph.

“Scratch his back!” Russo screamed. “Eugene!”

“Okay!” The .30-cal chattered. Tracers zeroed the bow gun’s fire at the fleeing Germans. One of them spun like a top and tumbled to the dirt.

Boomer’s hull shuddered and rang like a gong. Wade’s elation cut off as his heart leaped into his throat. “We’re hit!”

“It bounced off, we’re good!” Austin said. “Gunner, traverse right!”

Buckshot crossed in front of Boomer, streaming dirt that was still clumped all over it from a near miss, its gun firing at a target at close range. An enemy shell struck it in the lower glacis plate, which Sergeant Cocker’s boys had up-armored with sandbags. The bags burst in a sand cloud, followed by a heart-stopping explosion that sent the turret tumbling into the air.

“The command was, ‘Traverse right’! Gunner!”

“Wilco!” Wade moved the turret.

The battle had devolved into a chaotic skirmish of tanks roaming through coiling black smoke to trade punches across orchards and fields.

Lumbering at a forty-five-degree angle to Boomer’s path, the Tiger that had destroyed Buckshot came into view.

“Gunner, Tiger, shot, five hundred, lead three mils! Fire!”

Wade stomped. “On the way!”

The shot sparked off the heavy tank’s armor and buried in the dirt.

Then the Tiger roared back.

Wade’s scope filled with a terrifying blur, which disappeared to reveal a chain of dust devils trailing back to the German tank.

Missed!

“Fire!”

“On the way!”

The next round bounced off as well. Christ, it wasn’t fair! It was like shooting the tank with spitballs.

“Give him HE,” Austin yelled. If the commander couldn’t penetrate the Tiger’s armor, he’d bludgeon it into submission.

Texas flag streaming, Betty rumbled toward the Tiger’s flank and rammed it with a crash. Lieutenant Whitley popped up in the cupola and emptied a Thompson into the stunned German commander. The rest of the German crew bailed. Clay lit them up with the bow gun.

“Driver, reverse!” Austin said. “Get us out of here!”

A shell tore off the lieutenant’s head. The next punched into Betty’s engine bay and set the tank ablaze. The crewmen jumped out of the hatches to be mowed down in a stream of green tracers.

Another round struck Boomer’s metal hide with a thunderous clap, and the tank shuddered. Wade jerked at the shock, his jaw clamping shut with enough force to chip a tooth.

“Gunner, traverse left! Mark IV, shot, five hundred, lead five mils!”

He aligned the reticle on the enemy tank, which had stopped to shoot and was now crawling perpendicular to Boomer’s path. It was one of the Specials, carrying a high-velocity, long-barrel gun.

He tracked a bit to get a feel then swung out ahead. Boomer was still reversing, but he trusted the gyrostabilizer to make his aim true. “Ready!”

“Fire!”

“On the way!”

He missed. The Mark IV fired back, and the shell tore through the air, missing Boomer by inches.

“Right a hair, repeat range, fire!”

“On the way!”

The next shell struck the Mark IV’s weaker side armor and created a flaring hole. The tank stopped and caught fire.

“Driver, stop,” Austin ordered.

Wade switched to wide view on his scope. Black smoke from burning tanks obscured most of the scarred landscape. Somebody had fired a smoke mortar, which added a drifting white fog over part of the battlefield. He knew the Germans were all around him, though he had no targets in sight. The platoon had been destroyed. For all Wade knew, his was the last tank in the entire battalion.

Now was the perfect time to get out of here while they could.

“Driver, move out,” the tank commander said. “Gunner, let’s find a target.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

EVERYTHING THEY HAD

Another hot shell casing ejected from the breech. The turret basket was almost full of them, producing a rich ammonia reek that burned PFC Swanson’s nostrils.

He gripped the breech lever, released the latch, and pushed it to the rear and right. “Ammo, Eight Ball!”

Boomer’s steady rate of fire had long ago depleted the ready rack.

Clay passed up another black shot. “Last of the AP!”

Swanson grabbed the round, gave it a quick wipe with a rag, and shoved it into the smoking breach. The breech lock closed automatically, the firing pin cocked. To hell with worrying about his fingers. Right now, he was far more worried about the rest of him making it through this fight in one piece.

He patted Wade’s shoulder. “Up!”

“Right a hair,” Austin said. “Steady! Fire!”

“On the way!”

“Hit! He’s damaged and pulling back.”

Too tired and scared shitless, nobody cheered. The hull vibrated as Clay let rip with the bow gun. A round shrieked past the tank.

“We’re out of AP, Sarge! We’re down to twenty percent load—”

Another round struck Boomer with a crashing sound, and the tank rocked at the impact, hurling Swanson against the wall. His helmeted head crashed against metal. Seeing stars, he howled a curse.

Boomer was limping now. The shell had popped off a bogie wheel.

Clay handed up another round. “HE!”

Swanson pushed aside the hot empty casings and slammed the fresh round into the breech. “You’re up! How do you like your big attack now, Wisenheimer?”

“Not now, Mad Dog!”

“We’re gonna be salutin’ the angels! Salutin’ the angels!”

Austin kicked him hard between the shoulder blades.

“All right, all right!” Another kick. “Quit it!”

Austin ordered, “Mark III, traverse right, steady! On three hundred, fire!”

Wade: “On the way!”

“Fire again!”

“Eight Ball, another round!” Swanson yelled. “Hey, Clay!”

The bow gun stopped firing. “Just a sec—”

A heart-stopping bang. Boomer shuddered and bucked to a halt, her engine dead. Swanson yelped and shrank back as the glowing German AP shell snapped and banged crazily around the turret. Austin dropped down to gape at it.

If it detonated, it’d tear them all to shreds.

They all stared stupidly as the shell settled on its tip spinning on the deck with a whirring dentist drill sound, spewing acrid smoke. Its orange glow strobed on their faces.

Swanson pulled air into his lungs and screamed, “BAIL!”

The men snapped out of their stupor and scrambled for the exits. Swanson heaved through the loader’s hatch and rolled off the tank, slamming the ground. Austin and Wade spilled out after him. Russo joined them a moment later. The bog’s hatch blocked by Boomer’s main gun on the traversed turret, Clay crawled out the emergency hatch under the tank’s belly.

Swanson grabbed Clay’s uniform by the shoulder and hauled the man to his feet. “Run, stupid!”

The tankers bolted through the stumped ruins of another orchard.

Boomer exploded.

Shrapnel zinged past Swanson’s ear and skipped across the dirt as the hot blast wave hurled him through the air. He tumbled and lay gasping in the field.

“Stay down,” Austin said from where he lay. “Don’t move a muscle. Play dead.”

The air filled with the clank of tank tracks. Lying on his side on the cold ground, Swanson opened one eye to watch a metal monster rumble past. It was the biggest tank he’d ever seen, with an extraordinarily long, thick barrel. Its khaki turret bore the straight-armed cross emblem of the Germany Army. The hawk-faced commander was yelling at his crew in German.

So that’s a Tiger, he thought. They’re actually real. How did we survive so long in battle against machines like this?

It was amazing they’d knocked out two tanks and damaged a third before Boomer died from her wounds. Hell, it was a miracle they were even still alive. Those angels Austin had talked about were looking out for Boomer’s crew. Swanson no longer thought the idea of saluting them was dumb. Whoever was looking out for him, they’d earned his respect.

A Mark III rolled after the Tiger, followed by two trucks loaded with German infantry in peaked caps and khaki uniforms.

Swanson didn’t care about them. He looked back to watch Boomer burn. Smoke poured from her hatches. MG ammo crackled and popped as it cooked off. He thought he didn’t care about the tank, not really. He’d been hoping to leave her to join a maintenance platoon.

Seeing her die, though, was like watching his house burn down with his sweetheart in it, because Boomer, he now understood, had been both to him.

After the Germans passed, he ventured to talk. “What now, Sarge?”

The commander grimaced as he rose to his knees and scanned their surroundings. “We fought all the way to Lessouda Hill.”

Swanson spotted a red stain on his back. “Hey, are you hit?”

Austin ignored him. “We’d be better off on the hill than trying to make it back to our lines after nightfall. The 168th is still up there.”

The crew gathered around the commander. Russo investigated the jagged tear down his left side. He shot the other men a grave look, poured sulfa on the wound, and taped a bandage over it.

“We’ll have to carry him,” the driver said.

Swanson said, “I reckon I’ll do it.”

Austin shook his head. “I can pull my weight.”

“Don’t be stupid.” He heaved the tank commander onto his back and rose to his feet.

Austin gasped with pain.

“Sorry, Sarge.”

“You’re doing fine.” The man’s head slumped against Swanson’s shoulder.

The survivors gazed up the steep slope of the tall hill. Somewhere up there, an entire battalion was dug in and promised safety, but it was going to be a long climb.

“Anybody armed?” Wade said.

Clay held out two grenades. “I grabbed these on the way out.”

“I’d rather have a Thompson, but good thinking.”

The bog barked a laugh. “I wasn’t thinking at all. If I was thinking, I’d have grabbed some water.”

“Keep those grenades in your pockets, Cherry,” Swanson growled. “I don’t want you blowing my balls off trying to be a hero.”

Clay puffed out his chest. “We don’t surrender.”

Wade said, “Yeah, we do.”

For once, the man was showing some common sense. They were exhausted, leaderless, and had no food, water, or weapons. Right now, surrendering sounded like a sensible option.

Instead, they gambled on the 168th finding them before the Germans did.

The tankers mounted the slope, tramping over rocks and through scrub and prickly pear. Austin grew heavier with each step. Swanson’s arms and legs burned. He grit his teeth and pushed through it.

“You’d better not die on me, Sarge,” he said. “You promised me you’d get me into a maintenance platoon.”

“My boy is nuts for trains,” the sergeant said in a weak voice.

“Hang in there,” Russo said.

They marched until Wade stopped and looked around. “We’ll rest here for a bit.”

“We have to keep moving,” Swanson said. “And who the hell put you in charge?”

“He’s a corporal,” Clay said.

“The guy in charge has shrapnel in his back and needs help.”

“We’ll rest here five minutes,” Wade said. “Then I’ll carry him next.”

Swanson was spent, going on sheer stubbornness alone. “I’m gonna set you down now, Sarge.”

The men helped Austin onto the ground, where he could put his back against a boulder. The sergeant cried out in pain. His face was pale and dripping with sweat, and his breathing was labored as if he’d climbed along with his men.

“Need a drink,” he said.

“Wish I could give you one,” Swanson told him.

“In my pocket.”

Swanson pulled out a silver flask and opened it. “Liquor!”

He helped Austin take a few pulls of the medicinal brandy. The commander sighed. Swanson had a snort himself and passed it to Russo, who drank and passed it to Clay, who passed it to Wade.

Wade gazed across the battlefield. “That’s quite a view.”

Sidi bou Zid and Lessouda were in ruins, the land between them scarred and marked by the burning wrecks of tanks and other vehicles. Many vehicles stood intact, abandoned by their crews in the blind rush to safety. German grenadiers herded hundreds of dazed prisoners in straggling eastward columns. Panzers shimmied over slit trenches to crush the last Americans who defied the juggernaut.

1st Battalion had been virtually wiped out.

The men watched the German double envelopment complete as tanks of two armored divisions met east of Lessouda. Despite pockets of shooting, the battle was over. More German trucks arrived and offloaded infantry to mop up, keep the 168th pinned on the hills, and probe west.

“You got to hand it to Jerry,” Russo said. “He knows his business.”

No matter how you sliced it, the Germans had scored a stunning victory.

“What’s it look like down there?” Austin whispered.

“It’s bad,” Swanson told him. “You can see the whole pooch we screwed.”

“You have nothing to be ashamed of. That battle… That was really something.” The commander shook with a wet cough, which turned his lips red with blood. “You’re a good man, Swanson. All of you are. An annoying bunch of babies, but good. You can do this. You can live. You can win.”

“You’re a lousy judge of character, Sarge.”

Shots rang out and pinged among the rocks.

Swanson threw himself to the ground. “Kamerad!” It was the one German word every man in the U.S. Army knew. Let’s be friends, I surrender! For good measure, he added, “Nicht shiessen!” Don’t shoot!

“They aren’t Germans,” Wade said from his hiding place. “That was a Garand doing the shooting.” An American rifle.

“Hey, down there!” a voice called from the rocky heights. “If you’re gonna kamerad, show yourself with your hands up!”

“We’re Americans!” Wade yelled back. “Don’t shoot!”

They stood with their hands raised in the air as a squad of GIs approached with their Garands tucked into their shoulders.

“Americans?” Swanson saw red. “Watch where you’re fucking shooting! I didn’t survive all that just to get shot by my own guys!”

“Yup, they’re ours,” a sergeant said. The men lowered their weapons. “I’m Hank Garrett. We thought you were Kraut tankers. You 1st Armored?”

Wade lowered his hands. “Yes.”

“We saw the whole thing. That was a hell of a fight down there.”

“It was.” There was nothing else to say.

“Well, if you’re gonna come with us, we’re moving out.” The sergeant set his mouth in a grim line. “Sorry about your man.”

Swanson wheeled with a curse.

Sergeant Austin had slid onto his side, leaving a bloody smear on the rock. Curled up with a peaceful expression on his face.

The tank commander was saluting the angels.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

IN THE BAG

Barely conscious of the physical world, PFC Clay turned his gaze inward as he trudged with the other survivors up the endless hill.

The fighting had been savage and horrific, and it had ended with Sergeant Austin dying and himself almost burning to death.

He wanted to think about these things. Even more, he wanted to feel something, anything. The terror of combat, the miracle of survival, the tragedy of the commander’s death, all of it deserved indulgence and understanding. One could study these mysteries for a lifetime.

Instead, the bog just felt hollowed out, drained, and wrung dry. Instead of thinking, Clay’s brain feverishly replayed the battle over and over.

The first tank they’d hit, he sighted on three escaping tankers and sent a stream of hot metal ripping through one of them. He next mowed down all the Tiger tank’s crew. The third tank had quickly caught fire. They’d all burned up, and he didn’t have to shoot any of them.

At the time, he’d experienced an exultation unlike anything he’d ever felt before. They had wanted to kill him, but he’d killed them first.

Then the shame had crept in. He’d signed up for service in the armor to test himself and understand heroism, and so far, all he’d done was machine-gun unarmed men in the back, men who were tankers just like him.

Clay came close to grasping some grand truth about men and war, but his mind gave in to exhaustion.

Marching beside him, Russo’s smoke-blackened face was streaked with tears. “I’m sorry I didn’t let you drive the tank, Eugene.”

“It’s okay, man.”

“I just wanted to say that.”

“Thanks.”

“What happened to the boss, it makes you think about what matters and what doesn’t. You face the idea of dying, and a whole lot of stuff just seems stupid.”

“Yeah.” Clay couldn’t think about it. His brain was done with trying to process the war.

“You’re here, and then that’s it, you aren’t. And the universe doesn’t care. You die, and it doesn’t mean a damned thing.” The driver opened his gloved hand to reveal a squashed lump of lead. “I’m gonna make it mean something.”

“You’re gonna bring it home to his kid like he asked?”

“I’m gonna help that boy know who his papa was,” Russo said. “What do you think?”

“I think it’s something that’s probably worth fighting for.” In fact, out of all the swirling thoughts in his head, this one made the most sense.

“I found the last letter he wrote to his family in the same pocket.” Russo scrutinized the musket ball another moment. Then he placed it back in its handkerchief and pocketed it. “Some good luck charm it turned out to be.”

“We’re still here, and Sarge ain’t, that’s all you need to know,” Swanson said. “‘What does it all mean?’ Listen to you mincing Nancies.”

“We were having a private talk,” the driver said.

“No such thing with you, Mac. Even the Germans are enjoying your insights.”

“Shut up, you hillbilly fuck,” Clay said. He couldn’t even process the battle’s horror without the loader stepping on it and ruining it. Right now, he was thinking the Germans killed the wrong guy. There was no justice to it.

“Looks like combat put some hair on your chest, Cherry.”

“You guys sure you’re on the same side?” Sergeant Garrett wondered.

“The battle’s over, men,” Wade said.

A pair of planes buzzed overhead.

“It’s okay, they’re ours,” Garrett said. “And about goddamn time.”

The patrol returned to the American lines, a series of trenches and rocky redoubts crowning the crest of the hill. About four hundred men along with a few vehicles and artillery tubes held the line. They’d been ordered to hold until relieved. They’d delayed the enemy’s advance into Lessouda with concentrated fire, and the Germans had responded with artillery and tanks.

“They’ll attack once they regroup,” the sergeant said. “Or starve us out. Either way, if we don’t get relief, the Krauts will have us in the bag.”

Under an overcast sky, the tankers settled into the same trench as Garrett’s squad. The doughs didn’t appear happy about sharing their water and K rations. Swanson tried to bum a smoke but had no luck. Clay sat on the cold ground and watched the German salvage crews work down on the battlefield.

Garrett scuttled to a nearby foxhole to report to his lieutenant. The man didn’t have Austin’s movie star looks—far from it with his wide, homely face—but he had the same confidence. He knew what he was doing. With the sergeant and his doughs keeping watch, Clay could finally relax.

“We watched the whole fight from up here,” a tall, skinny kid said. “Man, the way you charged in, it was really something.”

Clay took a long pull on an offered canteen and passed it to Russo. “Yeah, it was.”

“Made me sick to my stomach,” a burly corporal said. “You guys were outnumbered, outgunned, and had almost no air support. The Krauts tore you to pieces.”

“They got in some good punches,” the kid protested.

“Thank God I’m infantry is all I got to say about it.”

Clay remembered how the Stukas had chewed up the armored doughs earlier in the day. “The best place to be is in a tank behind armor.”

In fact, he felt naked and defenseless right now without it.

“Yeah, I’m sure they told you that,” the corporal grinned. “You’ll never get me near one of those Purple Heart boxes. Me, I can dig a hole anytime. It’s all about cover and concealment. You guys drive around with your asses hanging out. Plus I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing them tanker boots with the buckles.”

Sergeant Garrett returned from talking to his CO. “Jack, these guys just survived a total wipeout and lost their sergeant. So how about shutting up?”

“Didn’t mean nothing by it,” the corporal grumbled.

“We’re all in the same sinking boat now, anyway. You got any smokes?”

The man produced a half-full pack. “Yeah.”

Garrett took it and tossed it to Swanson. “Here, pal. You earned it.”

The corporal started. “Hey!”

“Much obliged,” the loader said as he lit up.

“I’ll take one of those,” Russo said.

Swanson held out the pack. “Didn’t know you smoked, Mac.”

The driver accepted a light and puffed. “I don’t.”

“The lieutenant wants to talk to one of you guys about the action,” Garrett said. “He’s hoping for intel, anything that’ll help us out.”

Swanson stabbed his finger at Wade. “He’s in charge.”

The gunner stood and dusted his trousers. “It’s worth getting up just to hear you say that, Private.”

“See you later, Hawkeye,” Clay said, thinking Wade had earned the name today.

As always, the bickering annoyed him, but it also was strangely comforting. Boomer was destroyed, but the familiar routine of the crew getting on each other’s last nerve felt like home. Clay closed his eyes but saw German tankers drop under his tracers. His eyes snapped open. He reminded himself he was safe for now, surrounded by a battalion of riflemen. He closed his eyes again and saw Boomer burst into flame. He even heard the blast.

“INCOMING!”

His eyes flashed open to glimpse dirt and rocks cascading into the air before the infantrymen dove across the trench in a squirming dog pile. The burly corporal knocked him breathless. Clay flinched at the mortar blasts and clawed for cover. Rounds whistled and tore gaping holes out of the hill.

As if surrounded by cold, trembling earth in a grave, Clay listened to the devastating explosions and promptly fell into a deep sleep.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

RELIEF

PFC Russo stood to take in the view of the American counterattack.

“You want to get yourself killed?” Garrett growled. “Get down.”

“Nothing’s going to happen to me.”

“Yeah? What’s your secret to being bulletproof?”

Yesterday, Russo had survived the battle with his sanity intact through sheer denial of his mortality, only to see that denial confirmed. He’d battled Tigers at point blank range and escaped a burning tank, all without suffering even a scratch.

No, he wasn’t going to die from a sniper’s bullet.

“I’m the Sicilian Superman,” he said.

“Great, an Italian.” The sergeant gave Swanson the stink-eye. “If you tell me your last name’s really Schulz, I’m throwing you shitheads off my hill.”

“Don’t mind Mac,” the loader said. “As long as you can overlook how loud and excitable a little pipsqueak he is, he’s actually all right.”

“Thanks, Mad Dog,” Russo said. “If only your many faults could be overlooked, I’d say the same for you.”

“You really can’t miss them,” Wade agreed.

Swanson laughed, which was an accomplishment. Usually, the loader liked to dole it out but considered anything coming back a cut that drew blood. If the big man could take it as well as he dished it, they were getting somewhere.

“Here they come,” said Garrett. “Neat as a parade.”

The hill offered bleacher seats to the game. Flanked by tank destroyers and mobile artillery, a battalion of M4 and light tanks rolled in perfect parallel columns across a furrowed field. Armored infantry in halftracks and trucks brought up the rear. The formation’s front rank ran into an irrigation ditch and shifted to cross it over a series of gullies. From up here, they looked like children’s toys.

Over the growl of the vehicles, music reached the Americans dug in along Lessouda Hill. A radio truck in the formation was booming, “The Stars and Stripes Forever.” Patriotic and powerful, it seemed to propel the armored formation.

The sergeant chuckled. “They sure got spunk. We’ll be out of here in no time.”

It was all beautiful to watch, but something was wrong.

“This isn’t going to work,” Wade said.

Russo saw it too. The Army was only fielding a single armored battalion, which, no matter how impressive it looked, wasn’t enough.

“Go back,” he hissed. “You morons.”

A flare shot high over the ruins of Sidi bou Zid.

German artillery opened fire from multiple locations, the rounds splashing among the American vehicles, which dodged and scattered. American howitzers blasted back. Tigers rumbled forward to go head to head against the M4 Shermans.

Then, on the Americans’ right flank, a company-strength force of Mark IVs rolled out of concealed positions. A company of M4s broke off to engage. Moments later, another force of Mark IVs showed up on the other flank.

The Americans were outnumbered, outgunned, and rolling straight into a trap. The tankers on the hill could only watch in a helpless rage as the pincer closed.

The killing began.

Hills of dirt bulged around the M4 tanks, which blazed away at any target in range. Blurred white shots and red, green, and white tracers streamed at all angles across the landscape. Rounds bounced off glacis plates with brilliant blue flashes. An M4 burst into flame, followed by another. Engaged on three sides, the tanks flew apart as the Germans closed the vise, pausing only to pump another shell into another American vehicle. An M4 belched pieces of metal and bodies across the burning field. A turret blew into the air. Machine gun fire mowed down the escaping tankers as they ran for safety. Clusters of armored vehicles bravely charged to improve their position, only to be brutally smashed by the German guns.

And at every pause in the thunderclaps, “The Stars and Stripes Forever” blared across the battlefield, now seeming to mock the dying battalion.

“Jesus Christ,” Garrett said.

Messerschmitts howled low between the hills to strafe the doughs bringing up the rear. The armored infantry scattered into the fields chased by cannon fire that chewed up their vehicles in mushrooming fireballs.

The patriotic music died in fireworks.

The last Shermans reversed and contracted into a semicircle for a last stand. Stubborn to the last, but it was futile against overwhelming German firepower. One by one, the thirty-ton war machines sprouted smoke and fire until the only Americans remaining on the field were the dead and dying.

The battle was over. On Lessouda Hill, tankers and doughs stared at the destruction in a stunned silence. An entire armored battalion had been wiped out in less than an hour. More than a hundred vehicles burned on the ravaged plain, marked by black smoke plumes that reached into the blue sky. Following ancient camel trails, Berber nomads emerged from the hills to scavenge the dead.

“Well, that’s it.” Swanson started walking down the hill.

“Amos,” Russo said.

“What, Tony?”

“Don’t do it, man. There’s still a chance.”

The loader spat in the ground. “I ain’t surrendering, boom-bots.” Saying boombots wrong, but Russo found it amusing anyway. “Relief ain’t coming. I’m gonna go get the commander before the varmints can get at him.”

Russo watched him thread the rocky hill then said, “Wait up, goombah.”

As he caught up to the loader, footsteps pounded the dirt behind him. He turned to see Wade and Clay hustling to catch up.

“Stay low,” Wade hissed. “This is injun territory now.”

Together, the tankers retraced the route they’d taken up the hill and found Sergeant Austin lying as they’d left him, with his eyes closed and his hands clasped over his chest.

The loader heaved the man over his shoulder like a sack of meat. “Let’s go.”

At the top of the hill, they bummed spades from the doughs and dug. Russo paused to finger the musket ball in his pocket. He thought maybe he should return it so Austin could be buried with the family heirloom.

No, he was going to make it back to the real world. He was going to deliver it. And until he did, Tank Sergeant John Austin would watch out for him.

Wade had already taken his dog tags. The tankers lowered their commander into the hole they’d dug. The corporal produced the flask, and they all had a long pull to toast the man before they covered him in dirt and rocks. Clay found a slab of dry wood on which he carved, JOHN AUSTIN. Russo laid the man’s helmet over it.

It was time to say a few words, but nobody knew what to say. Even after spending all that time in the tank together, they still didn’t know each other well, the sergeant perhaps least of all. The people who knew Austin best were back home praying for his safe return, a heartbreaking thought.

Wade took off his helmet and said the perfect words, the only words. “You were a good man and a true tanker, John Austin. Rest in peace.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

THE LONG MARCH

Standing at Austin’s grave, PFC Swanson smoked his last cigarette down to the nub and tossed it into the sand, gazing west into a red sunset made lurid by heavy particulates in the air. The plain below had already darkened except for patches of smouldering crops and vehicles that glowed like foxfire.

Right now, he faced a choice. Survive a journey across that plain against all odds, or face the brutal German stalag for the duration.

The brass just didn’t have the brains or available forces to relieve the besieged defenders still holding onto the hills around Sidi bou Zid. Now that the Germans had crushed the inevitable American response, they were free to tighten the noose. Bombard the 168th into submission, or simply starve them out. As for the survivors of Tank #34, they were on their own.

Odd, but it was only now, facing this no-win choice, that he stopped feeling sorry for himself for all his woes. For once, he didn’t stew about how dumb he’d been for cutting a man over a woman and joining the Army to escape a feud. He was here, and things were what they were, and he had to make the best of it.

He was going to make it home, and he’d drag his crewmates with him. Without Boomer around them, and with the Sarge dead, he’d found himself feeling strangely protective of them. The corporal might be in charge, but Swanson was going to get them all through. They were morons, but they were tankers like him.

You’re a good man, Austin had said before he died.

He’d seen something in Swanson he didn’t see in himself.

You can do this. You can live. You can win.

The commander had gotten him wrong. He wasn’t a good man, at least not by Austin’s genteel standards. But he’d liked hearing it from the sergeant. It made him want to be the man Austin thought he was.

He thought: We’ll do right by you, Sarge. I can’t promise we’ll win against these crazy Krauts, but we’re gonna survive this.

“Mad Dog,” Wade called. “Over here.”

Swanson gazed up at the darkening sky, which began to blaze with millions of stars misted by gray clouds. The air temperature was dropping. “Yup, I’m coming.” He added, “See ya around, Sarge.”

He passed platoons of doughs wearing packs on their backs and carrying rifles with bayonets affixed. They hadn’t even started out yet, and they were already making an awful racket with all their gear.

He found the tankers gathered around Sergeant Garrett, who said, “We’ll be walking out of here in two columns, thirty yards apart. You guys will be behind my squad, but you’ll be on your own. I have my own guys to look after and can’t babysit you tread heads. Don’t lose the man in front of you. Don’t leave the column. If you have to piss, you hold it. And don’t make any noise. If you make noise, I’ll gut you and leave you for the Krauts. Am I clear?”

“Clear as crystal,” Swanson said.

“Capish,” said Russo.

“If you spoke German, now, that would actually be useful.” The man pinned them all with his glare. “Wait for the signal.”

Swanson grinned as the sergeant walked away to give the same speech to his squad. “I like that guy.” He pursed his lips at Russo. “And you, you can’t help yourself, can you. You’re like a guy with that disease, the one where—”

“Tourette’s,” Wade cut in.

“Yup, that’s the one. Thank ye, Wisenheimer. See, Mac, nobody wants to hear you spaghetti this and spaghetti that.”

“Yeah, chooch? They want to hear you talk about how you got your hair shamped and what dead varmints you put in your poke and how you slathered long sweetenin’ all over your pancakes?”

It was Appalachian lingo.

“That’s how normal people talk. Try it out for size.”

Garrett walked over and spat on the ground. “What did I tell you shitheads I’d do if you made any noise?”

“Our bad, Sarge,” Russo said.

“Shut your dick traps.” The sergeant eyed the driver with a mix of wonder and disgust. “Christ, you even breathe loud. Get ready. We’re moving out.”

“Ditch your helmets and put on your cover,” Wade said.

The plan was to walk straight across the plain like they owned the place. With luck, the Germans would mistake them in the dark for comrades. As part of the ruse, everybody was leaving their helmets and putting on their cloth overseas caps. The tanker caps had accentuated front and back peaks. Out of habit, Swanson put his on at a rakish angle, the tanker way.

Their route would run parallel to and about a mile north of Highway 13, a journey of some nine miles in all. The destination, Hamra Hill, lay directly across the plain. At the hill, they’d meet up with guides who would lead them all to safety.

The column shifted and moved. Swanson started marching and immediately almost lost his footing on some loose rocks, earning another glare from Sergeant Garrett. He really missed Boomer now. This walking was for the birds. His tanker boots had a steel toe, good air circulation, and buckles that made them easier to take off when caked with mud, but they had lousy ankle support.

When the columns reached the plain, Swanson gaped as a massive 88 flak gun came into view, its crew nestled around it in their sleeping bags.

A German soldier called out, “Kameraden! Wie geht es dir?” He laughed. “Ich frier mir die Eier ab.”

The Americans tensed and gripped their weapons but said nothing. Swanson grinned and waved. The soldier waved back and returned to his roll.

Well, hell, this crazy scheme might actually work, he thought.

The columns snaked through dry washes and gullies, anywhere they’d be less likely to stand out. A bright, full moon rose into restless cloud cover, turning the landscape into dappled patterns of black and gray. When clouds obscured the moon, they marched, but when it was clear, they hunkered down and waited.

After that, they were practically tripping over Germans.

The hazy outlines of massive tanks and other vehicles surrounded Swanson. A Mark IV growled as it rolled toward him, its officer calling out in Deutsch.

The geniuses leading the column had navigated them straight into a tank park.

Swanson stiffened his posture and marched smartly, making a show for the officer. The other tankers caught on and did the same, and then the doughs, on down the line.

“Buona notte, Signore!” Russo said and waved. “Come sta lei?”

Amazingly, the driver playing the part of Italian ally worked. The tank rumbled off.

They cleared the tank park and reached open country where he could breathe again until a six-wheeled armored scout car found them.

It drove directly up to the tankers. The officer standing in the turret pointed at Clay and yelled something in German that sounded like, “You. Come here.”

“Ja, ja.” The bog approached the car and saluted.

The officer yelled and pointed back toward the tank park. In the dark, the tankers looked like German tankers, and they had no business being out here with these infantry. The officer stabbed his finger. They were to go back.

Swanson tensed, though he didn’t know what he could do without a weapon. The infantry around him kept marching past, quickening their pace.

Clay took a big step back from the car and saluted again. “Ja, ja.”

Swanson jumped at the flash and heart-stopping bang. The officer rolled out of the turret and flopped smoking to the sand. The armored car caught fire. The driver didn’t bail, likely turned into hamburger.

The bog had put one of his grenades to good use.

“Not bad, Cherry.” The loader knelt beside the officer and took his Luger pistol and Iron Cross. He pocketed the pistol and gave the medal to the bog. “Trophy.”

Clay accepted it with trembling hands. “Okay.”

Sergeant Garrett appeared in the light of the flames and pursed his lips. Swanson shrugged. The sergeant shook his head.

Their luck was still holding. The Germans didn’t seem to notice or care a scout car had exploded. The columns shifted away from the firelight and kept going. The farther they got, the greater a sense of desperation grew along the line. The columns began to break up as men straggled and paused to shed weapons and gear. Soon, the route was littered with mortars and machine guns, ammo and blankets.

Then they reached an onion field and once again, the dark shapes of tanks loomed all around.

Another tank park.

Only the tanks weren’t German. They were the wrecks of M4s. This was the killing field where the relief force had bought it. Doughs scurried off to search for water and rations the Berbers hadn’t already looted. The dead bodies of tankers, many missing body parts and picked over by the buzzards, littered the ground. The air smelled like burnt gunpowder and charred flesh.

Wade tapped Swanson’s shoulder and hissed, “Follow me.”

The corporal walked off into the dark toward a tank’s hulking outline.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

ELEPHANT

Corporal Wade marched to the first M4 tank he found and gave it a quick inspection by moonlight. “This one’s burned out. We’ll find another.”

“I like where you’re going with this, Corporal,” Russo said.

Clay grinned. “Why walk when you can drive?”

“Split up,” Wade told them. “When you find one that isn’t burned, whistle or something to get everybody else’s attention.”

“Cool,” Clay said, the tanker version of, Hooah! He was wearing the German officer’s Iron Cross draped around his neck.

Cradling his Thompson, Sergeant Garrett came around a burned-out husk, his squad of infantrymen following. “Where do you guys think you’re going?”

“Out of here,” Wade said. “We’re going to try to get a tank working.”

“We want in.”

“Honestly, it’s a gamble. You might be better off walking.”

“I know how far we’ve come and how soon the sun’s coming up. I think you tankers are our best bet for a way out of here.”

“We could use your help. Are you willing to do what I say, no matter what?” Wade had a special detail in mind, and the doughs would hate it.

Garrett glanced at his men and turned back. “What do you need?”

They got to work. After a few minutes of searching, Clay whistled. He’d found an M4 with a massive puckered hole in the turret and a thrown track that lay twisted in the dirt. Whatever had hit the tank stopped it dead but didn’t start a fire.

Somebody had stenciled ELEPHANT on the side of the turret beside a painting of a fat elephant firing a shell with its trunk. Fixing the track would take time, but they didn’t have much of a choice. They had to make do with this tank.

Wade mounted the turret. The radio antenna was gone. He gazed down into the black maw of the commander’s hatch. “I need some light.”

Sergeant Garrett climbed up and handed him a lighter. “Jesus, that smell.”

A horrible stench poured from the hatch. The tank reeked of death.

Wade took a breath through his mouth to steady his nerves. “Here goes nothing.” He lowered himself into the turret and flicked the lighter.

The small, bright flame illuminated a slaughterhouse. The killing round had punched a hole in the turret and shattered. The splinters had rattled around the cramped compartment at high velocity, turning it into a meat grinder. The commander, gunner, and loader had been shredded so badly he didn’t even know where to look to collect dog tags. Clotted blood and flesh pasted the walls. Empty shell casings filled the turret basket. These guys had fought hard before they’d bought it.

Fighting a surge of bile, he checked the turret systems. Shrapnel had punctured the radio and damaged the switch boxes on the main gun. Deep dents and grooves scarred the traverse drive motor, generator, and gear box. Tilted and off-kilter, the turret itself was broke-dick.

They couldn’t communicate and likely couldn’t traverse the turret. He doubted the gun worked anymore. Right now, Elephant was immobilized and unable to shoot.

“Coming out,” Wade said.

He climbed out quickly, grateful to escape the freezing, blood-spattered turret and breathe fresh air again.

“How does she look?” said Russo, already making the tank his.

“Ugly. What about the engine?”

Assisted by Clay, Swanson had hauled the engine bay doors open and was inspecting it. “No visible problems. We’ll know when we start her up.”

“Good. What’s the story with the track?”

Russo rubbed his stubbled chin. “I don’t think we have to take the track off. We can re-tie it together.”

Hard work to fix it, but it was something they knew how to do and they had the tools and parts for it.

“What about us?” Garrett said from where he still stood on the turret.

“Glad you asked. I need three of yours on cleanup.”

The sergeant’s face darkened. “You’re kidding me.”

“We don’t have time to do it, and we’re not driving without it. Your choice.”

“Mickey, High Speed, Red. It’s your turn to volunteer.”

The men groaned and dragged their feet but did as they were told.

Wade checked off another box. He’d thought command would be a nightmare of pressure and tough decisions, but so far, he was actually enjoying it. He was as cool in a crisis as Sergeant Austin had been, and he liked solving problems.

The most important lesson he’d learned from Austin was how to act the part and give orders with confidence. That and how to decide on one solution and play it out until it hit a brick wall, at which time he’d shift gears and try something else.

For Wade, the best part was it made him forget his troubles back home and be in the moment. For the first time since he’d discovered Alice’s affair, he felt truly alive. A welcome if unsettling by-product of war.

The doughs handed the empty shell casings through the pistol port to another man outside, who set them on the ground. Judging from the bitching and retching Wade heard soon after that, they’d started the grisly task of cleaning the interior.

He and Russo got to work straightening the heavy track. The driver threaded a rope around the end of the block and pulled until the track meshed into the teeth on the sprocket. Wade attached chain to the ends while the driver worked a jack into position.

Gripping his Thompson submachine gun, Sergeant Garrett wheeled at the distant rumble of armored vehicles. “The Krauts are on the move.”

“Let us know if they get close,” Wade said.

“We’ll keep them busy.” The sergeant chuckled as he chambered a round.

Russo cranked the jack to pull the track ends together. “That’s surprising.”

“Hold it there.” With a hammer, Wade tapped the pins and drive connectors onto the ends of the track block pins. “What’s surprising? That Garrett thinks he can take on German tanks with his Tommy?”

The driver worked a wedge onto a connector and used a wrench to tighten the nut. “No. That Garrett can laugh.”

The resulting track was shorter, but it covered the driving star. If the powertrain worked, Elephant would be mobile. Bumpy and slow, but mobile.

“Mount up,” Wade said. “Let’s see if we can get her started.”

“About time.” Garrett climbed onto the back deck to grab hold of the .50-caliber machine gun. His doughs mounted and sat anywhere they could find room on the cold armor.

“Eugene’s going to drive,” Russo said. “I’ll take the bow gun.”

“Hot dog!” yelled the bog.

“Now’s not a good time to shake things up, Russo,” Wade said.

“If he can’t drive us out of here, we wouldn’t have made it in the first place.”

Wade shrugged. “Have it your way. Let’s go.”

The tankers settled into their stations. Garrett’s men had done the best they could, but the seats and controls were still painted in sticky, congealed blood. The men plugged in. The radio didn’t work, but the interphone did, barely.

“How come Eight Ball gets to drive?” Swanson fumed in the turret. “While I’m stuck in this slaughterhouse.”

“I need you to see if you can do anything about the gun or the turret.”

“The gun’s dicked up and done. I’ll be glad to fix it once I’m in a maintenance platoon and not having to deal with this horseshit.”

Wade planted his hands on the cupola and couldn’t help but smile. Being on top of the tank gave him a heady feeling. “Driver, start the engine.”

Clay worked the starter and the clutch but succeeded only in producing a grating whinny from the engine. “Come on, El.”

“Did you check for hydrostatic lock?” Russo said from the bog seat. “The tank’s been cold for a while.”

“I’m not getting any resistance when I crank it.”

“Push the choke all the way.”

“I know! Ignition switch on. Gonna—okay, here we go.” The engine started to catch and then rumbled to life. “I got it. I got it!”

“Move out, Clay,” Wade ordered. “Clock six, right, and head north.”

The tank crawled along at five miles an hour until it cleared the onion field. The sun would come up soon and reveal the fleeing M4 and its telltale feather of sand. They couldn’t go any faster, however, not even with the intermittent moonlight, or else risk ramming a dead tank or getting bellied on a boulder.

Swanson passed up half a D ration chocolate bar, which Wade forced himself to wolf down. They had a long drive ahead of them, and they needed calories.

“Fuel level is at sixty percent,” Clay reported.

“More than enough to get us to the rendezvous,” Wade said. They could make it all the way to Sbeïtla if they needed to. Hopefully, the Germans hadn’t pushed that far, despite their maneuvering brilliance.

The journey made him think about Xenophon’s Anabasis, the March of the Ten Thousand. Around 400 B.C., an army of Greek mercenaries fought for a Persian prince seeking to overthrow his brother and claim the throne. When the prince died in battle, the Ten Thousand found themselves a long way from home in hostile country and had to fight their way out over a period of about two years. The ease with which they strutted around the Persian Empire convinced Alexander the Great it could be conquered by a small but superior Greek army.

The Germans were hardly pushovers like the ancient Persians, however, and the crippled Elephant was hardly the mighty Ten Thousand.

Dawn brightened the horizon behind the peaks of the Eastern Dorsal. Ahead, Hamra Hill stood dark and wreathed in mist. The lost infantry battalion toiled across the plain in straggling groups. To the west, German vehicles raced toward them.

The Americans had been spotted.

“It’s getting light,” Wade said. “Give me as much speed as you can, Clay.”

Elephant rumbled past the doughs, who were scattering. German trucks stopped a mile west to discharge troops. The air filled with the terrifying zipper sound of MG42s. All around the tank, infantrymen dropped to the ground either dead or clawing for cover. Their sergeants blew whistles to rally the survivors. Some fired back with the limited weaponry they had. Scores rose with their hands in the air.

“Bastards!” Sergeant Garrett pulled the charging bolt on the .50-cal.

“Don’t shoot,” Wade told him. “You’ll make your squad a target. Nobody’s firing at us yet.”

A Tiger leading three Mark IVs arrived to settle the uneven fight. The big machines growled among the doughs, who surrendered in droves.

Holding his binoculars with trembling hands, Wade watched the Tiger track Elephant with its big 88 gun. “Balls to the wall, Clay! Go!”

The monstrous tank fired. The shell ripped past with an ear-splitting shriek and plowed a long trench in the earth a hundred yards away. Then it fired again to bracket the fleeing American vehicle.

Now it could zero Elephant until it put her down for good.

The Tiger rumbled forward, stopped, and fired again, repeating the process but unable to finish the job. Elephant was almost out of range.

Wade thought they just might make it.

He peered through his binoculars and saw the black-uniformed German tanker in the cupola offer his adversary a jaunty salute. Then the Tiger turned to complete the roundup of the trapped souls of the 168th Infantry Regiment.

CHAPTER TWENTY

SBEÏTLA

Elephant cleared the olive orchards east of Sbeïtla and rolled into town. The disaster at Sidi bou Zid had sown panic here. Two armored, two infantry, and two artillery battalions lost in a single punch, and the Germans were closing in.

Sitting in the driver’s seat of the M4 tank, PFC Clay looked down on bedlam.

Wild-eyed soldiers, civilians, and vehicles jammed the streets, everybody packing up in a massive evacuation. The only people who carried on with stolid calm were Tunisian street peddlers calling out to the routing army to buy their tangerines, rugs, and cast-iron cookware.

Corporal Wade tapped the hull to signal he wanted the tank to halt. Clay pulled on the sticks. Wade yelled to an MP for directions to 1st Armored’s command post.

Clay grinned. “That was fun.” The grin faded. “The driving, I mean.”

“Best job in the tank, goombah,” said Russo in the bog seat.

Sergeant Garrett and his squad of doughs hopped off the deck. “This is where we leave you boys.”

“What’ll you do next?” Clay said.

“I figure we’ll work our way back toward Hamra Hill and see who else made it. The Krauts couldn’t have bagged everybody.”

“Hope you find your men.”

“Yeah, me too. Thanks for the ride. Good luck to you.”

Clay wagged a thumbs-up at him. “Stay cool, Sergeant.”

The soldier shook his head and muttered, “Tankers.”

And with that parting word, he and his doughs went off to find their lost battalion.

“All right, guys, looks like we’re out of the fire and back in the frying pan,” Wade said. “The Germans took Gafsa, and they’re all converging here from both the south and the east.

“They seem to advance as fast as we retreat,” Russo said.

“Withdraw,” Wade corrected dryly. “I found out where the motor pool is. It’s north of town. Clay, move out. Get us through this mess.”

“Moving out!” Clay yelled, still a bit loopy from being up all night and getting to drive the tank.

Elephant had to crawl through the press, but then an air raid siren cleared the streets of pedestrians. The freed vehicles raced at top speed to get where they needed to go before the Luftwaffe planes started pounding the town. Driving on fumes, the battered tank rolled north of Sbeïtla into 1st Armored’s motor pool.

The maintenance sergeant introduced himself as Sergeant Carson. He gawked at the puckered, fist-sized hole in the turret. “How are you guys even alive?”

“Our first tank got shot out from under us,” Wade said. “This one’s a loaner.”

“You’d be better off with a replacement tank.”

“You got any handy?”

The sergeant wiped his greasy hands on a rag. “Nope.”

“Then we’ll need this one fixed. The radio’s out, the turret’s off-kilter, and the gun systems are damaged. It also needs fuel, ammo, and a good, uh, cleaning.”

Carson whistled for his grease monkeys. “We can do that for you.”

“Then I guess we’ll be looking for a unit,” Wade said. “Our entire battalion pretty much bought it at Sidi bou Zid. We might be the only survivors.”

“Lot of that going around,” the sergeant said, like he didn’t believe it.

Clay climbed out and arched his back while rubbing his aching rear. He spied a group of men on the ridge above, inspecting the eastern approaches to the town with field glasses. “Who are those guys up there?”

“That’s General Pinky Ward,” Carson said. “Looking for Germans.”

“He won’t have to wait long,” Swanson said as he piled out after Wade. “The Krauts was right behind us.”

“Rommel,” the sergeant grinned. The man’s name had mystique. If your ass was getting kicked, there was some small joy knowing a legendary boot was doing the kicking.

Clay looked again at the men on the ridge and wished one of them was a Rommel. They could sure use a Desert Fox right about now.

Carson sized him up. “What do they call you?”

“Sarge, meet the legendary Eight Ball,” Swanson said.

“Yup,” said Clay. He wasn’t Cherry anymore, but he would forever be Eight Ball, a name he now accepted with pride.

“That Iron Cross you got, you want to sell it?”

“Not for sale, man.”

He wasn’t giving it up for all the money in the world.

“Well, how’d you get it?”

Clay smirked. “With an eight ball.”

The tankers burst into laughter. They were all punch drunk from the fighting, burying Austin, and the harrowing night march and escape. More than that, they were drunk on being alive. They’d run the gauntlet and survived.

Carson scowled at being put on. “What’s that?”

“With a grenade.”

“Wow, no kidding. You know, I’d love to get out there with you guys sometime.”

Swanson said, “Pal, I’m dying to get in the maintenance section. I’d trade places with you in a heartbeat. Just say the word.”

Carson suddenly didn’t seem thrilled at the idea of facing combat. “Sure, yeah. One of these days.”

An electric buzz filled the air. Stukas appeared over Sbeïtla. AA flak guns flung streams of metal into the sky.

The tankers paled at their propeller hum, all humor gone.

“We’d better let you get to work,” Wade said.

They scurried off to an empty foxhole with Elephant’s stove and cans of C rations they’d scrounged from her crates. They hunkered down and ate, one eye on the sky overhead, shoulders clenched at the howl of the planes and the blasts of five-hundred-pound bombs slamming into the town.

“Who’re you guys supposed to be?” a gangly, acne-scarred kid said.

“Who’s asking?” Clay said.

“I’m Ackley,” the kid drawled with a surprised tone, as if everybody knew who Ackley was. He wore the distinctive tanker helmet, jacket, overalls, and boots. “You came in on Elephant, but you ain’t her crew.”

“Her crew’s dead,” Wade said. “You with 3rd Battalion?”

“Yeah. I’m Excalibur’s driver. Well, when there was an Excalibur, I was.”

The kid was one of the few survivors from the doomed relief column.

He said, “I’ll say it again, who are you supposed to be?”

“We’re 3rd Platoon, Company B, 1st Battalion,” Wade told him. “We lost our tank and got Elephant working on the way back.”

“Well, all right. You looking for a driver?”

“We’ll settle for a bog.”

Clay liked the sound of that. Either way, he was the bog no more.

“I can do that. Better than the motor pool. They make you work here.”

“Welcome aboard, Cherry,” Swanson said.

“I’m Ackley,” the kid insisted as he plopped into the foxhole and made himself at home. “So you can call me Ackley, or I can call you Shit for Brains.”

Swanson fixed his most intimidating glare on the skinny kid, who stared back with his perpetual disgusted expression. Then he chuckled. “I think you’ll fit right into this crew, Ack-Ack.”

Ack-ack was a nickname soldiers used for anti-aircraft guns.

The kid narrowed his eyes at the name until he seemed to decide he liked it. “Well, all right. What’s your name, since we’re all getting acquainted?”

“Swanson. These guys call me—”

“Swan Song,” Ackley deadpanned. “Yeah, I figured.”

Russo roared with laughter. “I’m Russo. Do me next.”

“Yeah. I’ll bet they call you Megaphone. I heard you all the way on the other side of the motor pool.”

Russo frowned, disappointed he didn’t get a clever take on his last name. “How about our new commander, here? His name’s Wade.”

“A handsome joe like him, he’s Waylaid.”

Wade guffawed. “Yeah, that’s me, all right.”

“What about me?” Clay said. “The name’s Clay.”

Ackley narrowed his eyes again. “Clay. Yeah, that suits you just fine.”

The tankers laughed at the zing. Clay chuckled along, though it ended with a wince of jealousy. Not only was the crew accepting this kid on the spot, but he already seemed to be bumping ahead of Clay on the totem pole.

“Don’t worry, Clay,” Swanson said. “You’ll forever be Eight Ball to me.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

PANIC

PFC Russo had thought it’d be impossible to sleep through air raid sirens, Stukas screaming like bats out of hell, flak guns banging, and bombs booming, but he learned he could sleep through almost anything.

At the sound of MG42 machine guns ripping nearby, however, his eyes popped open. The rest of the crew was already awake except for Ackley, who slept like the dead. Swanson kicked the kid’s boot until he lurched upright.

Russo scanned his surroundings. Heavy cloud cover blocked the moon and shrouded the motor pool in thick darkness. The Stukas had returned to their bases. Vehicles rumbled nearby, filling the air with the stench of exhaust. From their sound, they were tanks.

“The Krauts are probing our defenses east of town,” Wade said.

“Infantry,” Russo said. “I don’t hear any big guns.”

“You woke me up for this?” Ackley bitched.

Clay peered out of the foxhole. The clouds broke long enough for moonlight to shimmer across the nearby trees, where he no doubt imagined a German battalion closing in. “What do we do, Corporal?”

Wade answered, “I’m going to see what shape Elephant is in. If I’m hit, Russo will take command.”

Russo snorted. “You think there are Germans in the motor pool?”

“Right now, I’m more scared of our own guys shooting me.”

“You’ll be all right,” Swanson said. “They haven’t gotten to know you yet.”

Wade snorted. “Speaking of which, don’t shoot me as I’m coming back. Remember the challenge and password.”

“‘SNAFU’,” Russo recited the challenge.

Clay chimed in with the password: “‘Damn right.’”

Wade rolled over the foxhole’s edge and vanished in the dark. For the next fifteen minutes, the men listened to the din of battle spread all around them. Tanks had joined the contest. Panzer shots clanged, and M4 Shermans thudded in reply. Flares arced across the sky to silhouette the orchard. Batches of flames sparked to life, vehicles on fire. Machine guns snarled in the distance.

German armor had reached the outskirts of Sbeïtla.

Maronna mia, Russo thought in mounting panic. These Germans aren’t men, they’re demons.

A veritable plague of locusts, a vicious, invincible, relentless enemy.

No, not demons, and not immortal. He’d seen them make mistakes. He’d seen them die. They were men, albeit with greater experience, superior firepower, and generals who knew what they were doing.

The Germans could die, all right. They just couldn’t be stopped.

Wade startled him by dropping back into the foxhole. “Good thing I wasn’t a German intent on cutting all your throats.”

“We ain’t infantry,” Ackley offered up as a lame excuse.

The corporal ignored him. “All right, listen up. Sergeant Carson says the Elephant is good to go, but the turret has to be traversed manually. Word is the Germans are apparently launching an all-out attack on the town.”

“The word’s usually wrong,” Swanson said.

“Be that as it may, we know they’re attacking. Everybody’s bugging out for Kasserine except for 1st Armored. We’re to hold our ground as long as we can.”

The loader snarled, “Back in the fire. We’re like that kid with the finger, the kid from Holland, you know—”

“The little Dutch boy. Yes, we are. Okay. Ackley, you’re on the bow gun. Swanson, you’re loading. Clay, you’re driving—”

“Hey, what about me?” Russo said.

Wade said, “The turret is on manual, and the gun might be finicky. I’d better man it. That leaves you in command.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you. That a problem?”

He swallowed hard. “No problem, Wade.”

“Good. We never did get new orders, but we can help out. We’ll fall in with whatever unit drives by and chip in where we can. Any questions?”

Nobody had any. The tankers emerged from the safety of their foxhole and scuttled to their tank. They mounted up and plugged in. The maintenance crew had patched the hole by welding a metal plate over it. Weak, but it was something.

Russo almost went to the driver’s seat but checked himself. He climbed into the turret, and cleared his throat. “Check interphone!”

“Gunner, check,” Wade said.

“Reading you loud and clear,” Ackley said. “With or without the phone.”

“Driver, check,” Clay said with pride.

“They did a good job cleaning out all the mess in here,” Swanson said.

Russo took a deep breath, unsure he was ready for this. Like everybody else, he bitched about how he could do the job of commanding better than whoever was doing it, but he didn’t actually want the job himself.

Sicilian Superman, he thought.

He had this.

He wasn’t just going to pinch hit for Wade. He was going to be the best tank commander ever. That was how he’d prove himself an American. Not by doing something special for these men, but by doing something significant for his country.

“Driver, start the engine,” Russo said with all the drama of ordering his men to hold to the last. “Gunner, check systems.”

The engine started, which was a relief after the pounding the tank had taken. Wade and Swanson ran the gun through its paces short of firing it.

The corporal reported, “Everything seems to be in order except the turret motor, which we already knew about. We’ll have to hand crank to tra—”

Ackley let off a burst with the bow gun. Tracers flashed into the darkness.

Before Russo could speak, Clay fumed: “What the hell are you shooting at?”

“Thought I saw something,” the kid said.

“Only shoot when you see Germans, not something, you stupid jerk. You want to hit our own guys?”

“What Eight Ball said,” Russo chimed in.

“Golly,” Ackley said. “I thought we’d rather be safe than sorry.”

Russo sighed. “Driver, take us out. March out where those M3s went and hope they don’t have any Ackley types who fire on us.”

“Roger that, Boss!”

The new tank commander stifled a laugh. If only Clay knew Russo hadn’t exactly been showing respect by calling Austin that. He’d been acknowledging the tank commander belonged to a class that had kept his family struggling since they’d landed in America.

Still, in the end, Austin was one of the finest men Russo knew. The war was eliminating some of the old differences that had divided people back home. Out here, the only thing that really mattered was sticking by the guy next to you, even if you didn’t much like him.

Even if you hated his guts, he was still your brother.

Russo spotted the dim red tail lights of the M3 column marching east out of town. Beyond, big guns crashed with greater intensity. He spared a glance over his shoulder to see flares bubble in the sky over 1st Armored’s command post. General Ward’s CP was under attack.

This was bad.

“Driver, stop!”

Clay yanked the sticks. The tank idled on the road and spewed clouds of exhaust. Trusting in the commander, nobody said anything. They knew he had an ear for machines, especially what American armored vehicles sounded like.

“Back us off the road and stop,” Russo said.

Elephant growled in reverse.

“Good. Loader, put a shot in the gun.”

The night was pitch black. He could barely see the road he’d been on. Could he shoot by sound alone? Would the enemy tank pass by like a ship in the night?

Or was it an American tank, and he was on the verge of making a massive mistake?

“We’re up,” Swanson said.

Young olive trees crashed to the ground ahead of him. Whatever it was, it was big and heavy. It rumbled louder, very close now, floundering as it struggled to navigate the orchard.

“No target,” Wade reported.

Moonlight shimmered along the olive orchard and briefly outlined a hulking black shape. Then the dark thickened as the clouds returned to obscure the moon.

“Wait,” Russo breathed.

The tank barreled out of the olive trees and stopped. It couldn’t have been more than a hundred yards away. Either the German tank commander had spotted Elephant, or he saw something suspicious and was stopping until he’d figured out what it was.

“Gunner, tank, shot, one hundred, traverse right five mils, wait.”

Wade hand-cranked the turret. “I have him.”

The German tank revved its engine but did nothing.

Russo gaped into the darkness and held his breath.

Moonlight fell again upon the olive grove—

Panzer! “Fire!”

Wade: “On the way!”

The barrel of Elephant’s 75 flashed as it belched a shell that blurred straight into the German tank and punched a hole in it.

“Give him HE!” Russo ordered.

“Up!” Swanson called out.

“Fire again!”

“On the way!”

The HE round chased after the first and burst inside the tank. Blue-green fire shot out its hatches.

“Another hit!” Suddenly exhausted, Russo sagged in the cupola. “Check fire.”

“Nice one, Mac,” Swanson said.

“Thanks.”

“I mean, not bad for a ginzo.”

Russo ignored him. “I need a volunteer to dismount and take a look at it.”

“Why?” Clay said.

“Because I want to make sure I didn’t kill one of our own tanks.”

“What difference does it make?” the loader said. “Why bother?”

“Because the ginzo says so.”

“Well, I ain’t risking my neck for it.”

Russo understood. If they’d just put two shells into a friendly tank, Swanson would simply rather not know. It’d be better not to know.

Wade said, “Let me through, and I’ll go.”

“Take the Tommy.”

“Already have it.”

“Thanks, Wade.” He moved aside to allow the corporal to exit the tank.

“Don’t mention it.” The gunner jumped off the sponson, shouldered the Thompson, and disappeared in the dark.

“Ackley, cover him,” Russo said. “And don’t shoot him on the way back.”

“I ain’t covering nothing because I can’t see shit,” the kid said. “We probably blew up some guy’s barn.”

After a few minutes, Wade returned. “He’s a Mark IV, and you got him.”

Russo blew out a long sigh. “Good.”

“I found the commander. He was thrown clear by the explosion. Dead. One less hero of the Third Reich.” The corporal extended his hand, which held an Iron Cross medal. “I found this on him. It’s yours. You earned it.”

“Where do you want to go now?” Clay said.

Russo clenched the Iron Cross in his fist. “Next time, we might not be so lucky. We’re going to stay right here and wait for daylight.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

THE STAND

Just before dawn, the crew ate their rations cold and fired up Elephant’s big aviation engine. At first light, the tank rolled into the olive orchards southeast of Sbeïtla. Corporal Wade sat hunched behind the gun’s periscope with a ready grip on the elevating and traversing wheels. The 75 was loaded with AP.

Swanson crouched behind him with another round in his lap. Short as Napoleon but twice as cocky, Russo stood in the turret with his back ramrod straight. After last night’s action, the driver had meshed with his new role as commander.

Wade was certain he’d made the right call putting Russo in the cupola because it allowed the corporal to focus on what he did best behind the 75. Who got the best seat in the tank didn’t matter anymore. What did was maximizing survival probability in a game that felt very much stacked against them.

“Friendly armor ahead,” Russo said. “Fingers off the triggers.”

Wade spotted the M3s through his scope. An interim model manufactured while the Sherman was being developed, they were similarly medium tanks. With a 37 squirrel rifle in the turret, a 75 main gun, and four machine guns, they packed a lot of firepower, but they were poorly designed. The 75 was mounted over the sponson, which limited the gun’s field of view and prevented the tank from taking a hull-down position. With their high, stacked profile, they made big, fat targets.

Whoever was in charge here knew what he was doing, though. The M3s had parked in ideal defilade positions along the wadi with their barrels aimed at Highway 14, the main road into Sbeïtla. Their crews were camouflaging the tanks with wet clay among stands of olive trees. Armored infantry and antitank guns dug in on the flanks.

“You thinking what I’m thinking, Wade?” Russo said.

“We should get in with these guys, is what I’m thinking.”

Elephant stopped and, after a brief pow wow, joined forces with Second Platoon, Fox Company, 2nd Battalion, 13th Armored Regiment. Lieutenant Preston commanded the platoon from his own M3 medium tank, which his crew had named Fatso. Elephant clanked into a hull-down position facing a rise three miles to the east and parked.

“Let’s camouflage this big boy,” Russo said.

Wade got out and grabbed a shovel. He usually hated the endless busywork of digging and moving only to dig again, but today, it had a purpose. Even Swanson, who reliably avoided any work not having to do with tank maintenance, pitched in and turned out to be creative in shaping the clay on the armor. Gnawing on a massive wad of Wrigley’s, Clay pitched in as well.

From a distance, Elephant’s turret would look like a big old rock.

Lieutenant Preston watched them work. “You boys have seen some action.”

“More than I’d like to think about, sir,” Wade said.

“So have we. We ran into Jerry up north, outside Tébourba, so close to Tunis we could see its minarets. They lit us up with antitank guns. Goddamn 88s…”

Wade nodded and went back to digging. Several miles to their rear, Stukas returned to bomb Sbeïtla again. American artillery rumbled.

“Well,” Preston said and walked away, lost in his memories.

It turned out they were on the right flank guarding the approaches to Sbeïtla. Ahead of them, a tank destroyer battalion had deployed in a picket line. If the tank destroyers broke, the M3s would stop the panzers here.

The M3 tank crews didn’t look scared, which made Wade reflect and realize he wasn’t either. Nobody here was, not anymore. What they were was pissed.

The Germans had slapped them around for fifty miles. That would stop now, on this ground. All over the battlefield, units were buckling in terror and bolting for the rear, chased by rumors and apparitions and in some cases very real panzers, but these men were done with it. The brass had ordered them to hold for one full day to allow the rest of the American forces to pull back to Kasserine, but orders had nothing to do with it.

Wade understood. He felt the same as them. He’d joined the Army to escape his crashing marriage, but the war he’d signed up for had become even more personal than his memories of Alice and her affair.

He was mad now and ready to fight.

Russo returned to the tank. “We’re sharing a radio frequency with Preston’s platoon now. Until we get to Kasserine, we’ll be taking orders from him.”

Wade slapped a shovelful of mud onto Elephant’s deck. “That’s good.”

Swanson scooped it up and slathered it on the turret.

“We’re hull-down. Why did you put mud all over the front plate?” Russo asked.

“Because we might have to fall back and end up in a spot where we aren’t.”

Russo blinked. “Right. You’re smart, Wade.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“Anything else we should be doing that I might have missed?”

Wade smiled. “You’ve got this, Tony. Keep it up.”

Expecting the loader to deliver one of his trademark barbs, Russo shot a suspicious look at him. “What about you, Mad Dog?”

Swanson said, “You asking me what I think of our tactical setup, Mac?”

“That’s right.”

“I think I’d like to win one for a change.”

“That’s what we’re going to do.”

“I’m also happy to see Wisenheimer apply his smarts to keeping us alive instead of crap that don’t matter.”

Wade chuckled. “Yeah, Dog. Between my brains and your brawn, we somehow managed to camouflage a tank.”

Ackley ambled over to inspect their work. Despite making no apparent contribution himself, the kid had managed to plaster himself with mud. “The Krauts ain’t doing much of anything. They might not even attack today.”

Wade listened to the distant crash of gunfire. By now, he knew the difference between a tank assault and a skirmish. Right now, the Germans were skirmishing. He couldn’t figure it. As far as he knew, the enemy had the initiative and momentum across the entire front. “Strange time for Rommel to get timid—”

Gunfire erupted in the distance, a collection of booms that grew into a continuous thunder.

Russo: “Mount up and button up!”

The tankers clambered into Elephant and listened to the radio while they waited. Through his periscope, Wade called out a lot of white smoke ahead. The tank destroyers were dropping smoke pots to cover their withdrawal.

“We’re going to hold fire until the major gives the order,” Preston said over the radio. “Then we all fire. Fox 3 Actual, out.”

Glowing in the late morning sunlight, vehicles topped the rise.

“They’re ours,” Wade reported. “The tank destroyers.”

The tank destroyers were supposed to fall back by company and delay the panzers as long as possible, but they were bolting pell-mell.

“There goes our picket line.” Russo was peering through his periscope. “Loader, give me a round of shot.”

Swanson slammed a round into the breech. “You’re up!”

Afraid to even blink, Wade sat with his whole body clenched behind his scope. He was shivering but not from the cold. Sweat trickled down his face. The panzers were taking their sweet time. He spared a moment to wipe his forehead with his sleeve and glance at where Alice’s picture should have been, but it had burned up in Boomer along with Ulysses.

He returned to the scope and waited. A wave of dust topped the rise, followed by a line of monstrous German vehicles with Italian infantry clustered behind them in a formation called the grape.

“Contact,” Wade said in a steady voice. “A line of panzers. They’re Mark IIIs.” While he spoke, more appeared. “Mark IVs right behind them.”

“Wait on picking a target,” Russo said.

Wade licked chapped lips. “Roger.”

A colossal bang made him flinch. The men cursed in the aftermath.

“What the hell was that?” Clay cried. “Are we hit?”

Wade returned to the scope. He saw that the Germans had heard it too and slowed to a crawl. “My bet is an ammo dump went up in Sbeïtla.”

Russo let out the breath he’d been holding. “Mannaggia, that was loud. Sounded like it was inside the tank.”

“Just letting rip one of my C ration specials,” Swanson said.

Wade expelled his nervousness with a loud cackle. “Break out the gas masks!”

Russo and Clay joined in the laughter. They were all cracking up except for Ackley.

“Cut it out,” the kid said. “We got Krauts right in front of us, for Pete’s sake.”

The advance element of panzers resumed its march into the wadi. Then the main body arrived with a rumble that shook the earth.

“I’m counting thirty, maybe forty tanks,” Russo said.

“Uh-huh,” Wade said, caring only about the one that’d be in front of him when the order came through to fire.

The commander was grinning. “They don’t see us.”

Wade forced a smile too. For the first time, he had the drop on the Germans, who rolled on unaware they were driving deep into a trap. He settled his scope and its reticle on the nearest tank in the formation, a Mark III.

“Gunner, tank, shot, two-five-zero, wait.”

Wade hand-cranked the turret and checked the elevation. “Ready.”

Two hundred fifty yards now. Like shooting fish in a barrel.

Come on, come on, let’s—

“Let ’em have it, boys!” Preston said over the radio.

“Fire!” Russo cried.

Wade stomped the firing pedal. “On the way!”

The 75 blasted its shot in a white blur directly toward the Mark III and punctured its hull. Fire flared from the hole before it burst with a shriek of rending metal. Pieces of tank flew everywhere to clang on the rocks.

Hit! He’s hit! He’s burning!

“Hit!” Russo exulted. “Shift target! Traverse left!”

“You’re up!” Swanson said.

All over the wadi, tanks blazed away at each other at almost point-blank range. The Germans had stopped and were pulling back. Wade cranked the turret until another Mark III appeared in his crosshairs.

“Mark III, shot, three hundred, fire!”

“On the way!”

The shot banged off the tank’s sprocket. The Mark III whiplashed as the broken track rolled off the wheels and lunged across the ground.

“Hit him again!”

Swanson slammed another round into the breech. “Up!”

“Fire!”

“On the way!”

The next shot crashed into the turret and blew the commander out of the hatch in a jet of fire and black smoke. Wade’s eyes went wide as the 75’s devastating power poured into him. Every atom in his body howled with joy.

“Heil Hitler, you Nazi fucks!” he screamed.

Screw you, Alice! Screw you, Larry Enfield! Screw you, Hitler and Mussolini and Tojo and every one of you stupid, no-good, goddamn Nazis—

“Shift targets!”

Wade feverishly worked the turret, his scope presenting a beautiful vista of burning panzers. “No target! I need a target!”

His terror forgotten, he wanted to kill them all.

“No targets,” Russo said. “Wait for orders.”

The Germans had pulled out, hounded by arty fire as they went. The shooting faded until the only sound was the popcorn pop of ammo cooking off in the burning wrecks.

Wade sighed, trembling with excess adrenaline.

“Fox 2 Actual to Fox 2,” Preston said. “You beautiful bastards. You just stopped Rommel in his tracks.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

PURE STUBBORN

The tankers cheered as the last of the German vehicles disappeared behind the rise, leaving behind the flaming wrecks of seven panzers.

PFC Swanson didn’t join in. With a sigh, he leaned against the turret hull. He’d thought a real victory would feel different. However, as after the previous battles, he was tired and hollow. All he wanted was a cigarette.

Okay, winning beat losing, particularly given he was still alive, but otherwise, it didn’t have a whole lot going for it, at least from where he sat.

This made four fights now—four instances in which his tank had killed or disabled enemy vehicles, four times he’d dodged his own death. Between Boomer and Elephant, his crew had knocked out six tanks in all, and he was no better off for it.

When he’d enlisted, he’d pictured the war being over after a few epic battles. He couldn’t have been more wrong. He was quickly learning this war was like a football game where the teams traded the initiative and fought tooth and nail to move the ball a few yards each play, one down after the next, losing players along the way, sometimes a few, sometimes many.

Russo dropped into the turret. “That’s how it’s done.”

“Bully for us,” Swanson said. “They’ll be back. And then what?”

“Then you load the 75,” Wade told him. “And then I fire it. We kill Germans. We do whatever it takes to stay alive until the end.”

Swanson stared at him. “I guess you have it figured out.”

“I never thought I’d have to tell you not to overthink something.”

“There’s a first for everything. I’m going out for a smoke.”

Outside, he sat on the rear deck and lit up. The Germans would return in an hour, maybe two or three or whenever, and they’d be pissed. They wouldn’t let a bloody nose stop them from fighting. They just weren’t the type. In Swanson’s book, the Nazis were the worst. The earnest sort who thought they were better than everybody else and did their fanatical best to prove it. The guys in his tank may have been about as agreeable as a pebble in his shoe, but they weren’t like that.

The Germans had proven to be an unstoppable wind, and so far the American rock had been as movable as a tumbleweed. That was starting to change, though. Swanson could feel it. In the end, he had to admit it was good to deliver a bloody nose. In the face of German experience, weaponry, and tactics, the tanker had his sheer stubbornness to call on, a deep sort of stubborn bred into the American character.

All his life, arrogant types like these Germans looked down on him as being mean and lazy. That they were probably right didn’t matter. Nobody was allowed to look down on him. The Army blurred these divisions with plain indifference. Look at the tanks where he’d served, where poor White trash like him shared the same tiny space with an upper-crust sergeant, an egghead, a ginzo, an all-American kid with something to prove, and whatever the hell Ackley was.

Swanson’s tank was America, and whatever else it did, the least it would do was stomp some arrogant pricks for thinking they could take the world from other people they regarded as inferiors. The resentment he’d felt his whole life now had a face, and it was German. The purebreds were going to find out the hard way what a bunch of mutts could do.

He took a last drag of his Chesterfield and flicked it into the clay. Then he joined Russo in adjusting the tension on the tracks.

“You okay, Mad Dog?” Russo asked him.

“Now that you’re in the cupola, you suddenly care?”

“Jeez, I was only—”

“Just move the straightedge so I can turn these nuts, you dumb ginzo.”

In the end, whatever story he told himself didn’t matter. Like ol’ Wisenheimer said, he’d load the gun, the gunner would shoot it, they’d kill Germans, and they’d try to stay alive. Play after play, yard after bloody yard, until they scored the final touchdown.

“Shorty,” Wade called down from the cupola. “You’re needed on the radio.”

Russo glanced at the other tankers, who were mounting their vehicles. Gunfire intensified to the south. “We’d better mount up.”

Swanson followed him down the hatch and plugged into the radio. The Germans had swung to the south and were hitting 2nd Battalion in the flank.

“We can’t withdraw until the last of the infantry pulls out,” Lieutenant Preston said. “We’re going to hold as long as we can.”

And here we go again, Swanson thought. The unstoppable wind. “We’re like those cavalry guys who fought the Indians, and they all got—”

“Custer’s Last Stand,” Wade said.

“Right. Whenever they need a Custer’s Last Stand, they call us.”

“Then stop being cavalry,” Ackley said. “And start being an Indian.”

Swanson guffawed. “Good thinking, Ack-Ack.”

“Driver, start the engine,” Russo said. “Follow Fatso.”

Elephant swung into the column with the platoon of M3 tanks and pushed to the south. The hull and very air around him vibrated with the escalating thunder of big guns. He raised the scope and took in a series of gullies and copses running up to tanks shooting into a haze of dust and smoke. An M3 was burning.

“All Fox 2 tanks, stop,” Preston ordered.

“Driver, stop,” said Russo.

Swanson turned away from the scope. From here on out, he’d concentrate on ramming rounds into the breech as fast as possible.

“Panzer! Mark IV on our ten, shot, one-two-zero-zero, lead three mils, fire!”

The loader already had a black AP shot in his hands he’d wiped clean with a rag. He shoved the round all the way into the breech and slammed it closed.

“You’re up!”

“On the way!” Wade yelled.

The gun bucked and belched a shell casing.

Swanson pushed the next round into the breech. “Up!”

“Right five, up six, fire!”

“On the way!”

A roar filled the turret, followed by heavy clanging as shards of torn metal splattered Elephant’s hull.

“That was Fatso!” Russo said. “Driver, reverse! Reverse! Gunner, left four, down three, fire!”

“Up!”

“On the way!”

The tank rocked and gonged like an anvil pounded by the world’s biggest hammer. The crew cried out. Swanson tensed to bail, but Elephant had survived the hit.

For the next two hours, the tank kept reversing and rarely stopped, shooting all the while. During the rare breaks in action, the men passed around a canteen. Then they finished Austin’s flask. When they had to piss, they used empty shell casings and tossed them out the pistol port. Swanson shoved one round after another into the breech until his arms ached and the turret basket was full.

The tank rocked at another glancing shot. Dirt poured into the open commander’s hatch from a near miss. Russo screamed himself hoarse belting out orders. The AP ran out, then the HE.

Elephant was firing white phosphorous rounds when it took another hit. The tankers howled as the round punched a hole through the armor and splashed the interior with high-velocity shrapnel.

Pain sliced into Swanson’s chest. Russo’s legs buckled out from under him. Wade slouched against his periscope with smoking holes in his back.

Smoke and heat filled the turret.

“Bail out,” Swanson said. He made to grab Wade’s shoulder and pull but couldn’t move his arm.

“Clay,” Russo was shouting into the interphone. Swanson couldn’t hear him through the line, which had gone dead. “Clay!”

Swanson looked down at the front of his tanker jacket, which was blood-soaked and torn to shreds. Pain flared through his chest again. Merely breathing was agony. He coughed on the smoke and nearly passed out from the stabbing anguish.

He thought he might be dying; he probably was. One thing was certain, he wasn’t going to burn alive. If he was to die today, he’d do it outside.

“I’m moving,” he grunted to nobody in particular. With his good left arm, he grabbed Wade by the shoulder again and hauled the man out of his seat toward Russo. The three tankers landed in a groaning pile.

Clay appeared in the hatch above. “Hurry the hell up!”

“Get Wade out first,” Russo said. “I’ll go last.”

“Shut up,” Swanson growled and heaved him up. Clay grabbed hold of the man under his armpits and hauled him out.

Wade was next, just a sack of meat. Swanson doubted the man was even alive. It didn’t matter; nobody was burning up today. Grabbing hold of the man’s jacket, he growled and raised him high enough for Clay to get hold of him too.

The limp body ascended through the hatch. Then Clay returned for Swanson.

He rolled off the deck and hit the ground hard enough to spasm and vomit from the agony. Beside him, Russo was rolling around screaming. Either unconscious or dead, Wade was the lucky one. Ackley limped over with a bloody leg, wrapped his arms around Swanson’s chest, and pulled him toward safety. In a hail of MG fire, Clay pitched flying into the dirt.

That was when he blacked out.

He came to on the deck of a tank rumbling in the dark in a windswept column. He was stiff and aching from his wounds. Still alive, somehow, maybe still dying. The mob of men and vehicles choked the road in chaotic night retreat through the badlands. Ambulances and trucks and towed howitzers and clomping French hussars were all part of this crawling rout toward Kasserine. Overhead, reflecting vast fires on the ground, the thick clouds glowed like coals. Flares arced through the black sky, and tank shots burst in the distance as the rear guard kept the Axis at bay. The battle raged on, but it was somebody else’s problem now.

That was war. You think you’re the hero of the story and that you’ll see a fight through to the end, but then bang, you’re hit, and your story suddenly ends, and everybody goes on without you.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

HOSPITAL

Facing their row of beds in the Oran hospital, the doctor kept telling them how lucky they were.

“Yeah,” Ackley enthused. “We’re so lucky. So very, very lucky.”

Lying on his stomach in the hospital bed, Corporal Wade could only groan. He didn’t feel lucky. The surgeon had pulled six slivers of German metal out of him, and the morphine barely kept the pain at bay.

“You should know that for all five of you to be alive after your tank got hit like that, yeah, you’re lucky,” the doctor said.

Clay had enjoyed the least luck of them all. While pulling them to safety, a machine gun had ripped into him. He was hanging on by his fingernails in another ward for the worst-off cases.

“How’s Private Clay, Doc?” Wade said.

“No change since last time you asked me. We’re doing the best we can for him. Honestly, it’s up to him now to recover—”

“Tankers!” an infantryman growled from his bed. The man had bandages covering his head and left eye. “They’re tankers? You let tankers in our ward, Doc? This ward is for real soldiers!”

“Hide your wallets,” another dough called out.

“How am I gonna sleep with these perverts around?”

“Get them out of here before the Krauts start dropping arty on us!” This last part because when the tanks showed up, enemy artillery fire would start raining soon after and make life hell for the infantry.

“Everybody, settle down,” said a familiar voice.

Through a morphine haze, Wade slowly shifted his head so he could focus in the direction of the gruff voice. It was Sergeant Garrett.

“I know these boys,” the sergeant said. “They saved my ass. So anybody has a problem with them, has a problem with me.”

“Everything’s peachy, Sergeant,” a man said, and nobody disagreed.

The doctor said, “Ahem. We’re getting a distinguished visitor today—”

“Our luck just keeps getting better and better,” Ackley said.

The man gave him the stink-eye. “So you’ll want to behave yourselves.”

The doughs shouted examples of what they considered good behavior until he left red-faced and muttering. Then a pretty redheaded nurse came into the ward. All smiles now, the men quieted to watch her go about her rounds.

“Distinguished visitor, indeed,” somebody said, and the rest laughed.

“So that’s it,” Russo rasped from the bed next to Wade’s, his legs wrapped in bandages and his back propped up against pillows. He wore his Iron Cross over his pajama top. “While we recover, the Army will finally snare the Desert Fox and invade France. The war might be over before we get back in the field.”

Over the past two weeks, Axis tanks and infantry had overrun the Kasserine Pass and pushed on to Sbiba, Tebessa, and Thala, where they were finally checked by a stubborn defense. Overextended with limited supplies and facing counterattacks, Rommel threw in the towel and withdrew so he could focus on Montgomery approaching the Mareth Line from the east.

American troops advanced into Kasserine Pass to find endless burned-out vehicles, shells and casings, food tins, equipment, bodies, and abandoned halftracks and jeeps among massive craters. Soon after, they were back where they’d started, in Sidi bou Zid. In the end, America had won by taking so many punches the enemy had worn himself out.

“We won’t be invading France,” Wade said dreamily.

“I haven’t had a smoke in two weeks,” Swanson growled from the bed on his other side. “You do not want to mess with me.”

“I think if it’s one thing we’ve proven, it’s that we’re not ready for the big one. My guess is we’re going to take Italy out of the war next. The Army will have us in a new tank as soon as they can.”

“They’ll send us home anyway,” Russo said. “We did our bit.”

“Not a chance,” Wade told him.

Russo and Swanson said nothing to this gloomy prediction.

“Charles? Ha, it is you. I saw your name on the casualty lists.”

Surely, the morphine was messing with him. He was hallucinating. He opened a bleary eye to take in Larry Enfield, professor of literature, wearing a dress uniform with captain’s bars.

A staff officer, serving far from the fighting. Enfield had always been smarter than him.

“Larry,” he managed.

“How are you, Professor? God, it feels like forever since we’d toss back a few pints at the Falcon and debate everything under the sun.”

“I’m going to kill you,” Wade said.

Captain Enfield chuckled. “Don’t be like that, Charles. You know it was one of those things. I was shipping out, and Alice had one too many that night. All of us were always good friends. One thing led to another. I felt awful about it. She still loves you, you know.”

Wade struggled to rise. “Somebody, help me up.”

“Let me pull some strings for you, get you posted with me to Eisenhower’s staff.” The man stared at Wade’s wounds. “It’s hard to see you like this. You’ve obviously been through enough.”

Enfield had no idea. He’d gutted Wade long before the Germans had.

“Kill you,” Wade breathed.

“Hey, pal,” Swanson said with an evil grin.

“That’s ‘captain’ to you, soldier.”

“Captain, I’m going to give you five seconds to scram before I get out of this bed and punch your lights out. I swear to God I’ll do it, even if it means ripping out every one of my stitches and spending the rest of my days in Leavenworth. Sir.”

Garrett glared at Enfield. “There a problem here, Mad Dog?”

“There might be, though it ain’t nothing I can’t handle.”

The infantry sat up in their beds.

“This is me counting,” said Swanson. “Five…”

Enfield backed toward the door. “No problem, fellas. No problem at all.”

“Four…”

“You’d better beat your feet, Captain,” the sergeant said. “He ain’t kidding.”

Wade was snarling, still trying to rise.

“Take it easy,” Swanson said. “That boy has flown the coop.”

He relaxed with a groan. “Thank you, Dog.”

After a while, the loader said, “So your girl had a thing with that fancy pants?”

“Yeah.”

“And that’s why you joined up to fight the war?”

“Yeah.”

Swanson chuckled. “I’m starting to like you, Wisenheimer. Because even with all that learning, you’re a special kind of stupid, just like me.”

Wade trembled with a surge of tears he couldn’t stop. A man builds armor around himself, but it can’t keep out everything, and when it fails, every evil in his world floods in. He wept for the killing he’d done and the carnage he’d witnessed. He wept for Alice and the dull ache of longing he still felt whenever he pictured her face. He wept for John Austin, who had put his crew and his tank first, and Clay, the poor dumb kid who wanted to live as a hero and had instead nearly died as one.

“You’re all right,” Swanson said. “Let it out.”

“We got you, brother,” Russo said.

“Hang in there, Wade,” Garrett called from across the room. “We have your back.”

When a man’s armor failed, his comrades would close ranks around him. They’d lend him theirs to make him strong again.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

THE VISITOR

PFC Russo stiffened in his bed as the doors to the ward burst open. His first thought was Captain Enfield had returned with the MPs, and there was going to be an all-out brawl.

Instead, he found himself gawking at a barrel-chested two-star general standing with his hands on his hips. He wore a dress uniform completed by a riding crop and shiny cavalry boots. Even the helmet perched on his grizzled dome was lacquered to a gleam. Twin ivory-handled .45 revolvers hung from holsters on his hips.

He struck Russo as a movie version of a general. There was something of a peacock about him, but one couldn’t help but be impressed.

An entourage of staff officers in tow, the general strode down the row of beds and inspected the bewildered men with his permanent scowl. At Ackley’s bed, he wheeled. “What’s your name, son?”

“Ackley,” the kid said as if this was something the general should have known.

“Ackley, huh? Ackley the Terrible!”

The kid matched the general’s scowl. “Just Ackley—”

The man had already moved on to Swanson. “What about you, soldier?”

“PFC Amos Swanson, sir.”

“You’ll be back on your hind legs killing the Boche in no time.”

“Great,” Swanson muttered.

“Dying is not authorized in this ward,” the man said in a high-pitched voice that didn’t match his martial appearance. “I don’t want you dying for your country. I want you making some German bastards die for their country. Now let me see your war face.”

“My what?”

“Your war face, soldier! Let me see it!”

Swanson growled, “I don’t—”

“Now there’s a warrior! Wear that face at all times.”

“Yes—”

The general had already moved on to Wade’s bed and pursed his lips at the wounds he’d received in the back. “Who the hell is this?”

“That’s Hawkeye,” Swanson said. “He’s our gunner. He knocked out six tanks.”

A flicker of a smile crossed the man’s worn face. “You don’t say. What’d you do back in the world, soldier?”

Swanson said, “Not much.”

“History professor,” Wade mumbled.

Ackley said, “Well, I guess you could say I was—”

“History! A worthy subject.” His eyes shifted to pin Russo. “What in the name of all that’s holy are you wearing?”

Russo swallowed hard. “It’s an Iron Cross, General.”

“I know it’s an Iron Cross! What’s it doing hanging around your neck?”

He told their story, starting with disabling the French tank at St. Lucien. The long mud march, the endless dust, the plague of Axis planes, the aimless driving between fronts, getting caught in the horrific massacre at Sidi bou Zid. The night escape in Elephant, reaching Sbeïtla, the night encounter with the panzer, ambush, and desperate rear guard fighting until they were hit the last time and nearly killed.

Russo gazed at some point miles past the general’s shoulder, though he was looking inward. “Eugene Clay got us out of the tank and then a Nazi MG put him on death’s door. He saved us. He’s the hero.”

“That’s one hell of a story. But a man isn’t a hero without a team working together.” The general turned and scowled at his staff. “This is what I was talking about. Courage, stubbornness, and the ability to adapt. Sometimes, an American has to be kicked a few times, but then his innate manhood takes over and he discovers his love of battle. I want these men given the best care and put in 2nd Armored. Well? I see doubt on your faces it can be done. Am I a general or not?”

The officers agreed he certainly was.

“Then make it happen.” The general grinned at the tankers. “I’m going to promote these boys and give them their own tanks.”

“I’d like to get into a maintenance platoon,” Swanson said.

The scowl returned in full force. “Is that what you want to tell your kids you were doing during the war against fascism? You fixed jeeps?”

“At least I’ll be alive to have kids,” the loader muttered.

“We’d be honored to fight at your side, General,” Russo said quickly before Swanson got them into trouble. He wasn’t sure if the man was serious about giving them command of their own tanks, but he had to address it just in case. “We’d like to stick together, though. Like you said, we’re a team.”

“All you boys feel the same way?”

“I reckon so,” Swanson said.

“Yes,” Wade chimed in. “The devil you know—”

“Good, then, it’s settled.” The general glared at all of them. “The eyes of the world are on you men. History itself is watching. God Himself is guiding your hand. With a little help from the Almighty and proper warrior spirit in the ranks, we’re gonna punch Hitler right in the nuts.”

With that, the general stormed out in an exit as grand as his entrance, leaving a deafening silence in his wake.

At last, Russo spoke. “Who the hell was that?”

Sergeant Garrett shook his head. “Are you kidding? That was General Patton.”

“Okay,” said Russo, who didn’t know who Patton was.

“He’s the big cheese right now. He commanded the army that landed in Morocco, and he’s taking over II Corps from General Fredendall. He just conned you into the Hell on Wheels division. The 2nd Armored.”

“In Morocco?” Swanson said. “Fine with me. There’s no fighting there.”

“Part of the division is already arriving and driving into Tunisia, so there’s no telling where you’ll end up. Either way, he’s a real fire breather, that one. Wants to eat Germans for breakfast. If you’re with him, you’ll see more action than you ever bargained for. Good luck.”

“Great,” the loader growled. “Out of the fire straight into the frying pan again.”

Wade said, “‘Theirs not to make reply, theirs not to reason why, theirs but to do and die: Into the valley of death rode the six hundred.’”

Swanson stared at him and said, “They gave you too much morphine.”

“It’s a poem. ‘The Charge of the Light Brigade.’ It’s about duty.”

“Yeah, well, this guy does not do and die. He reasons why. Remember that.”

“The poem is also about fools who take duty too far. What do you think, Shorty?”

Russo said, “I was thinking Eugene would love that general.”

He didn’t mind the situation as much as them. Sure, he’d been through hell. The tank being hit, his legs buckling under him, shrapnel slicing into his crew, the endless trek to Algiers back across the muddy Atlas in ambulances and mule carts, all of it would haunt him as long as he lived. He wanted to go home with his Purple Heart and any other medal the generals wanted to pin on his chest, and say good riddance to a war he’d thoroughly imagined wrong.

But Wade was right; the brass wasn’t going to let him go, so he might as well make the best of a bad hand. A promotion sounded grand, and maybe he’d get to keep his job as tank commander, which gave him a rush like nothing else in his life ever had or would. He’d never admit this to his crewmates, but being a tank commander, while definitely not being better than sex, was pretty darn close.

And damn, the cheesy general had gotten to him. Like Wade’s poem had, regardless of other interpretation. He wasn’t the Sicilian Superman; he was an American warrior, and his blood was still up for a fight. He wanted to destroy fascism. He and his crew were good at this. America still needed him. There was good to be found in continuing this fight, and something more, which was honor.

“I say we go back and punch some Nazis in the nuts,” Russo said.

The infantry burst into laughter.

“Hell,” said Garrett. “Since you put it like that, I might just tag along.”

Russo felt under his pillow until he clenched Austin’s musket ball in his fist. For all that had happened to him, it had brought him luck. Sarge and the Tanker in the Sky were looking out for him, helping him keep his promise to make it home and deliver the bullet to a boy whose father had sacrificed everything for him.

As long as Russo had their help and these guys fighting at his side, he knew he’d see this war through.

AFTERMATH

While ending in a German withdrawal, the sequence of battles constituting the Battle of Kasserine Pass is considered one of America’s worst defeats during the Second World War. Pushed back nearly a hundred miles in ten days, American forces suffered some twenty percent casualties, including more than one hundred eighty tanks, while the Germans lost fewer than a thousand men. The Americans learned their lesson well, particularly about mobility in modern warfare, the need for close coordination between combined arms, and the need to fight en masse. Eisenhower replaced Fredendall with Patton as commander of II Corps and relieved other senior tank and infantry officers. The complicated command structure was streamlined. The ensuing fighting proved even costlier in Allied lives, but by May 1943, Allied tanks and infantry entered Tunis and Bizerte.

Soon after, General von Arnim surrendered all Axis forces in North Africa, some 230,000 men. Hitler’s gamble of reinforcing North Africa had delayed Allied plans for attacking southern Europe but ultimately failed, which, combined with the German surrender at Stalingrad in the Soviet Union, marked a turning of the tide in the war against Nazi Germany. After consolidating their gains, the Allies could now invade Fortress Europa, where its tankers and doughs would meet Field Marshal Rommel, the Desert Fox, again.

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Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed the first episode of Armor, please review the book on Amazon and be sure to check out the next book in the series.

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And turn the page to read the first chapter of Armor II: The Fight for Sicily!

ARMOR II: THE FIGHT FOR SICILY

THE STAGE:

OPERATION HUSKY

Despite the humiliating Allied defeat at Kasserine Pass in February 1943, the Tunisian campaign yielded a spectacular victory by May with the surrender of all Axis forces. The Allies had finally secured North Africa.

While still far from Berlin, the Allied forces had achieved some significant results. The campaign made the Mediterranean safer for Allied shipping, eliminated the Axis threat to Middle Eastern oilfields, and shortened convoy routes with Britain’s reopening of the Suez Canal. It also exposed what British Prime Minister Winston Churchill called Europe’s “soft underbelly” to invasion.

As the Tunisian campaign drew to a close, Allied leaders faced the question: Now what?

They’d already drawn up plans to invade Sicily. By taking the ten-thousand-square-mile Italian island, the Allies hoped to complete their domination of the Mediterranean while possibly enticing Italy to break its alliance with Germany.

In July 1943, some 160,000 Allied troops boarded a vast armada at ports across North Africa. Led by General George S. Patton and Field Marshal Bernard Montgomery, these forces prepared for another hard fight.

Toughened by Tunisia, the Americans were ready to invade Europe.

MOROCCO

CHAPTER ONE

WAR GAMES

Barracks bags slung over shoulders, the four tankers hopped off the deuce-and-a-half and scanned the chaotic tent city and tank park. Eleven thousand strong, 2nd Armored Division consisted of three tank, infantry, and field artillery battalions plus signal, recon, tank recovery, maintenance, and supply units.

Corporal Anthony Russo was glad to be back among his own. While waiting for transport in Casablanca, he and his comrades had decided to see the sights. A wrong turn took them into the Arab Quarter, a maze of twisting, crowded alleys where people lived in abject poverty. Here, Americans had been killed just for their clothes. A crowd of beggars formed followed by some toughs, and the tankers were lucky to escape unharmed.

Russo had been harmed enough already. They all had—him in his legs, Swanson across his chest, Wade along his back, Ackley in his shin, Clay just about everywhere you can be hurt.

While Clay remained in an Algiers hospital, the other tankers’ rehabilitation had been cut short with orders to ship out to Morocco, a bad sign. One didn’t have to listen to the latrine rumors to know something big was going to happen.

Swanson snatched Russo’s kit bag and swung it over his other massive shoulder. “I’ll take that for you, Mac. You walk like you haven’t taken a shit in a week.”

“You’re half right,” Russo said.

“Where’s the lieutenant?” Ackley said, his tone revealing he didn’t really care where the lieutenant was but wanted to change the subject.

“Here comes the Professor,” the loader said. “He knows everything.”

Swanson no longer called the gunner Wisenheimer but instead Professor, which still sounded derogatory but marked a slight improvement in their relations. Russo was still Mac, though it was said with less derision.

Wade returned from asking around, grimacing from his still-aching wounds. “We found our regiment. D Company isn’t far.”

Russo plodded in tow. After being rousted in the middle of the night and packed onto a truck for the long, bumpy drive to the camp, he was ready for a hot and a cot. It was barely dawn, and the tankers were already up and at ’em as the African sun just started to bleach the eastern horizon.

But he was smiling. It was good to be back.

The men found their platoon commander and saluted. Lieutenant Pierce was gaunt and prematurely balding, his sharp face slightly softened by gleaming round spectacles and an easy smile. He appeared more like a gentleman farmer than a tank commander, but that was the Army. Most of them still didn’t feel like real soldiers, and only a few of them, like the hard-bitten Sergeant Garrett, looked the part.

The lieutenant returned their salute and held out his hand to shake. The tankers introduced themselves. Corporal Russo, Sergeant Wade, Corporal Swanson. General Patton had honored his promise to promote them all.

Pierce scrutinized Ackley. “And who’s this?”

The kid wrinkled his nose. “I’m Ackley.”

“He’s our driver,” Russo said. “One of the only survivors of a whole other massacre.”

“Welcome to Destroyer Company, the Hell on Wheels,” the lieutenant said. “We’ll get you billeted, but first let me show you around.”

He pointed out the dining facility, showers, water tankers, latrines, PX, motor pool, and medical tents. Then he gestured to a cluster of armored vehicles. “This is us. Your tank’s here too. We just got it a few days ago, fresh off the boat.”

The M4 medium tanks were Duck Soup, Dealer, Democracy, and the lieutenant’s own Delilah. Their crews paused from doing maintenance work on the big vehicles to check out the newcomers.

When Pierce got to the last tank, his face darkened. “Looks like somebody named it for you.”

In big white letters, DOG was emblazoned on the turret over the fresh green paint job.

“Golly,” Ackley said. “I surely hope that ain’t an omen.”

Some of the tankers snickered. Somebody barked.

“Paint whatever you want over it,” the lieutenant said. “A crew should be allowed to name their own home.”

“I kind of like it,” Wade said.

“They could have named it Dildo for all I care,” Swanson said. “If it moves and shoots and has a coupla inches of armor, I’m good.”

“We’ll take it as is,” confirmed Russo, who considered it a point of pride to always turn a practical joke around by making it seem like a surprise gift.

Pierce wasn’t listening. His face darkened again. “And who put a goddamn Confederate flag on my Delilah?” The snickers started again. “I’d better see Old Glory flying again before we go back out, you chumps.”

“Our last commander had a Texas flag on his,” Russo said.

“Yeah? What happened to him?”

“He rammed a Tiger tank and shot its commander out of the cupola.”

Pierce smiled and shook his head. “That’s a Texan, all right.”

“Then he got blown up.”

The smile evaporated. “Well, you guys have been in it, so I don’t have to tell you what’s what. Maybe whatever luck you got from that charm up your ass will rub off on my jokers. We’ll be seeing action soon.”

After a relatively easy invasion during Operation Torch, 2nd Armored had sat on its heels during the Tunisian campaign. While elements entered Tunisia and fought after Kasserine, the bulk had stayed here in Casablanca, tasked with deterring fascist Spain from crossing into Africa while training for a fight that hadn’t yet come.

“Do we have a bog, sir?”

“Go to the repple-depple, they’ll get you sorted.” The replacement depot. “First, I want you to get your gear stowed and grab some chow. Then get your big boy ready to roll out. The company is going out for our second training exercise of the day. You might as well join in.”

Wade blinked. “Your second time out?”

“We’ve been at it since 0400,” Pierce explained. “This is Morocco in June, guys. We get our training done early. Gets real hot in a tank at midday. I’m talking a hundred forty degrees hot.”

Russo had experienced that on the train, crammed into a sweltering sleeper car with rowdy infantrymen who opened all the windows to let in some air only to choke the car with grimy black coal smoke from the engine stack.

“We’ll be glad for the practice,” he said, though he didn’t appreciate having to do any training after being up half the night. “We’re pretty rusty.”

“We practiced an amphibious invasion last week. Rolled onto one of those new landing crafts the Navy cooked up, sailed around, rolled back off. Today, we’re shooting targets in the bush, just like we used to at Fort Knox.”

“We’ll get right to it,” Russo said.

The tankers stowed their bags, wolfed down a quick breakfast, and returned to the tank. As tired as they were, they all were eager to take Dog for a walk.

For months, they’d convalesced at the hospital in Algiers until they’d recovered enough to begin rehabilitation. Though they could have used more rest before returning to combat, they were eager to escape from pushing brooms and censoring mail and get back into an M4’s fighting compartment.

“Ack-Ack, help me get the engine bay open,” Swanson said, smiling.

Russo was polishing a periscope lens. “What are you so happy about?”

“Dog’s got a loader’s hatch. When we get hit, I’ll be out in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

“I think you mean, if.”

“Whatever you say, Mac.”

While they checked the track tension, fluids, and filter, a grinning tanker sauntered over. “You fellas get your African campaign badges?”

Russo finished his polishing. “Yup.”

“Even though you weren’t here.” The tanker called out to his friends, “See what I was telling you? They’re giving the campaign badge to the replacements!”

“Because they aren’t replacements, you imbecile,” his sergeant said. “They’re Old Ironsides. They fought in Tunisia, which is more than I can say for you.”

While his crewmates laughed at him, the tanker stomped his feet and did an awkward bow that ended in a grimace. “Aw, jeez. Sorry, fellas.”

“Glad we got the ass-sniffing out of the way,” Swanson said and returned to sink his arms into Dog’s engine bay.

Chuckling, the tank sergeant strolled over and singled out Wade for his stripes. “Don’t mind him, Sergeant. He ain’t right in the head on account that big chip on his shoulder keeps smacking into it.”

Russo offered his hand. “Good to meet you. I command Dog.”

While they shook, the man glanced at Wade, who said, “It’s how we do it.”

“Hey, whatever works. Sorry about that, Corporal.”

“Call me Tony.”

The tank sergeant’s homely, sunburned face stretched into a smile. “Tony it is. I’m Mickey. Duck Soup’s my gal.” He pointed. “Butch commands Dealer, and Butter over there has Democracy.”

Russo looked them over and saw average joes like him, men who’d come for the adventure and stayed because they had no choice.

“Butter?” Wade said. “Sounds like there’s a story there.”

“Not really. He collects butterflies.” The tank sergeant lit a Chesterfield and tossed the match. “You hear anything where you came from? About where we’re going?”

“Probably the same as you,” Russo said. “Just latrine rumors.”

“I doubt we’re going to England and invading France,” Wade cut in.

Mickey exhaled a cloud of blue smoke. “Why do you say that?”

The gunner shrugged. “We’re all here. It’s easier to invade someplace close than ship us all the way back to the UK. My guess is Sardinia.”

“Why Sardinia?”

“Sicily’s the obvious choice, but the Germans are expecting us to do that. Sardinia’s the other obvious choice.”

Mickey laughed. “So no France, I can buy that. A guy in signals said he heard it from a source he trusts we’re going to the Balkans.”

Wade thought it over. “I doubt even our brass is that dumb. We’ll probably invade Sardinia and then Italy.”

“Why Italy?”

“Because we’ll all be in Sardinia.”

Mickey laughed again. “You’ve got a good grasp of military strategy, pal. You ought to be a general.”

“This is Hawkeye,” Russo said. “He’s our deep thinker.”

“Yeah, I got one of those too. Mine’s a bit of a pain in the ass, though.”

Swanson guffawed from the engine bay.

Waving his index finger, Pierce marched among the tanks. “Let’s move out, Destroyers! Crank up your big boys and start your engines!”

Russo hauled himself onto the sponson and paused to massage his stiff leg. Then he lowered himself into the cupola, plugged in, and grinned. The comms check confirmed the radio and interphone were operational.

He puffed out his chest in pride. “Driver, start the engine!”

Ackley worked the controls. The tank’s four-hundred-horsepower engine roared to life and revved. “Everything checks out, Mac.”

“Fantastic.” Russo patted the hull. “Good Dog.” The American Locomotive Company had built her well. “Mannaggia dial!” I curse the devil!

“We’ll be in the lead, so look smart,” the lieutenant said over the radio.

In an orderly column two vehicles abreast, the Destroyers rumbled out of the camp onto a wide dirt road. A support train of jeeps, tank recovery vehicles, ambulances, and deuce-and-a-half trucks rolled after them.

Past the checkpoint with its crude guardhouse, the road snaked southeast through farmland into hill country, which was already shimmering in the morning heat. Beyond, the brown humps and cones of the Middle Atlas lay heaped under an azure sky.

Too preoccupied with scratching a living to pay attention to the column, barley farmers leaned against oxen-drawn ploughs. The scene reminded Russo how, at Sidi bou Zid, the farmers had kept at it even with shells shrieking over their heads. It gave him the odd feeling of being in a stranger’s house. He found it a little embarrassing how people just went on trying to live their lives while he rolled around their neighborhood, playing war games with real ammunition.

“Now every young tanker, who was in Casablanca,” Mickey sang in a surprisingly clear, strong tenor.

The platoon frequency filled with laughter and ribald comments.

“Knows Stella, the Belle of Fedala…”

The other commanders joined in, “A can of C ration will whip up a passion, in this little gal of Fedala!”

Russo sighed with longing, imagining what this legendary French lady looked like and wishing he could meet her himself. Then he sighed again, this time from fulfillment. He was back in a tank, officially its commander. Plus he was an E-4 now, which paid $66 a month, most of which he sent home to his proud parents in Trenton, New Jersey. The war could give as well as take, though it took far more than it gave and always threatened to take it all.

The column stopped in a fallow field at the base of a low hill. Pierce explained the regiment had set up a course over the rise. Wood targets representing machine gun nests, infantry, tanks, and antitank guns had to be identified and destroyed.

“Captain says we’re starting now,” Pierce buzzed over the radio. “Button up and form a line on my three.”

“We’re the end of the line, Ackley,” Russo said. “Watch out for that big rock. Wait until we’re past it—”

“I know,” Ackley said, all irritation.

“Now advance and give ’em hell,” the lieutenant said.

“For Stella!” Butch yelled from Dealer’s cupola.

The M4 tanks lurched over the rise with a roar. The commanders called out targets. Whoever had developed the course had given them a doozy designed to test the tankers’ ability to fight together. A machine gun nest menaced the platoon from fifty yards on their right flank, while a tank and two antitank guns stood on the opposite hill in defiladed positions.

Pierce dissected the problem in an instant and belted out orders. Aside from a copse of palm trees partway down the hill, there was no concealment, though concealment didn’t matter right now, only cover did. Unfortunately, the only option for cover was to back up and take a hull-down position.

Reversing, Duck Soup dropped white phosphorous in front of one of the antitank guns to blind it until it could be dealt with later, then joined Democracy in firing high-explosive rounds at the other gun.

“One, Two, Five, knock out that tank!” the radio blared.

In the platoon, Dog was Five.

“Gunner, tank, shot, five hundred, fire!” Russo yelled.

“On the way!” Dog bucked at the recoil.

The shell streaked across the gully and blazed a trench into the hillside. Russo winced as if it had ripped a hole in his gut. He heard the din of battle as panzers rumbled toward him in a haze of gun smoke and exhaust. He wished they would stop but was terrified when they did because that was when they fired—

He snapped out of it. “Driver, right stick and take us along the rise so we’re in front of that MG crew. Gunner, up four, right four. Traverse as we turn. Mannaggia dial!”

“American, Mac!” Swanson said. “Up!”

“On the way!”

Another miss. Delilah claimed the kill, her shell smashing the target. Dirt fountained into the air and left a crater.

Feeling sick now, Russo started to give the order to shift targets, but HE rounds ranged the exposed antitank gun and pulverized it. Which was all well and good, this being a team effort and the goal being survival under fire.

That left the machine gun nest.

“Driver, left stick, high gear, advance. Run those disgraziats down!”

Wade was already shooting with the coax machine gun. While the rest of the platoon raced whooping down the hill to take out the next antitank gun still shrouded in smoke, Dog rolled on top of the enemy MG position and flattened it. Ackley jerked the tank in a shimmy to grind it into splinters.

A black cloud poured over the opposite hill.

Russo raised his binoculars and yelled into the radio, “Sandstorm!”

He actually wasn’t sure what the hell it was, but it was big and dark and growing. It’d be on him in seconds. He dropped into the turret and pulled the hatch closed after him as the cloud closed in.

“What the hell?” Swanson said at his scope. “They’re bugs!”

“Locusts,” Wade clarified. “Amazing.”

The swarm swept over the tank with a skin-crawling shimmering sound from the flapping of millions of wings. Their bodies pattered against the hull. The tankers sweated in oven heat as the rising African sun slowly cooked the tank.

“Just like Tunisia,” the loader growled. “Everything is trying to kill us.”

“They came as far as Algeria,” the gunner went on in a lecturing drone. “It’s been hotter and drier than usual, which makes them swarm. A single swarm can cover a hundred square miles.”

“Stop talking,” Swanson said.

Russo raised his scope to see for himself. Thousands of grayish-yellow, spotted locusts flitted past. Then one landed on the scope, followed by more until it was covered in a seething carpet of bugs.

He asked, “Can anybody see?”

“I can’t see shit,” the loader fumed. “It’s like that calamity that happened to the pharaoh—”

“The eighth plague of Egypt,” Wade said.

“Exactly what was I going to say, Professor. It’s like we share the same mind.”

The gunner shuddered. “Ugh.” Whether to the bugs or the idea or sharing the loader’s mind, Russo didn’t know.

Irritated voices filled the radio.

“Looks like everybody’s blind,” he said.

In more ways than one. During the exercise, the other tank commanders had congratulated each other on their fine shooting, having fun with it. Russo knew it was a whole different experience while under direct panzer fire.

The truth was the Germans would have attacked first, and in tank combat, whoever shot first had a big advantage. Their initial salvos would likely have left one or more of the platoon’s tanks a burning wreck.

“We’d better get moving,” Ackley said. “We stay here much longer, we’re gonna melt in this heat.”

Orders came through to drive through the swarm and return to base. Russo lowered his goggles and raised his handkerchief to cover his eyes and face.

So far, this whole damn war is the blind leading the blind, he thought.

Russo hoped, wherever they were sent next, command wouldn’t revisit the same mistakes that had plagued the army in Tunisia. He hoped whoever was in charge, Patton or anybody else, had gained enough experience they could see clearly and prevent another disaster.

Then he raised the hatch. Instantly, the tank filled with flying insects, which set the tankers to cursing as Dog stumbled back to camp.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Craig DiLouie is an author of popular thriller, apocalyptic/horror, and sci-fi/fantasy fiction.

In hundreds of reviews, Craig’s novels have been praised for their strong characters, action, and gritty realism. Each book promises an exciting experience with people you’ll care about in a world that feels real.

These works have been nominated for major literary awards such as the Bram Stoker Award and Audie Award, translated into multiple languages, and optioned for film. He is a member of the Horror Writers Association, Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America, and International Thriller Writers.

Learn more about Craig’s writing at www.CraigDiLouie.com. Sign up for Craig’s mailing list to be the first to learn about his new releases here.

Other books by Craig:

Crash Dive Series

Our War

One of Us

Suffer the Children

The Retreat Series

The Alchemists

The Infection

The Killing Floor

Children of God

Tooth and Nail

The Great Planet Robbery

Paranoia

Copyright

ARMOR: a novel of WW2 Tank Warfare

Episode #1: The Battle of North Africa

©2020 Craig DiLouie. All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or used fictitiously. Elements of General Patton’s words with the tankers are adapted from his famous speeches to his soldiers in February 1944.

Editing by Timothy Johnson. Cover art and layout by EK Cover Design.

Published by ZING Communications, Inc.

www.CraigDiLouie.com

Click here to sign up for Craig’s mailing list and be the first to find out about new episodes of the Armor series! When you sign up, you’ll receive a link to Craig’s interactive submarine adventure, Fire One.

Content

Craig DiLouie
THE BATTLE OF NORTH AFRICA

HISTORICAL NOTE

MAP: Theater of operations. North Africa, 1942.

THE STAGE: OPERATION TORCH

ALGERIA

CHAPTER ONE COMBAT READY

CHAPTER TWO WARMING THE BENCH

CHAPTER THREE THE AIRFIELD

MAP: Progress of invasion of Oran, Algeria on November 8, 1942.

CHAPTER FOUR THE BATTLE OF ST. LUCIEN

CHAPTER FIVE GENERAL CHAOS

MAP: Progress of invasion of Oran, Algeria on November 9, 1942.

CHAPTER SIX ORAN

TUNISIA

MAP: Tunisia and its major mountain ranges.

CHAPTER SEVEN RACE TO TUNIS

CHAPTER EIGHT THE LONG SLOG

MAP: Tunisian front, mid-January 1943.

CHAPTER NINE DUST EATERS

MAP: Map of Southern Tunisia, showing towns of importance.

CHAPTER TEN CHASING THE TAIL

CHAPTER ELEVEN THE STORM

CHAPTER TWELVE THE PINCER

MAP: Opening attacks in the Battle of Kasserine Pass.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN HELL BREAKS

CHAPTER FOURTEEN PANDEMONIUM

CHAPTER FIFTEEN EVERYTHING THEY HAD

CHAPTER SIXTEEN IN THE BAG

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN RELIEF

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN THE LONG MARCH

CHAPTER NINETEEN ELEPHANT

CHAPTER TWENTY SBEÏTLA

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE PANIC

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO THE STAND

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE PURE STUBBORN

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR HOSPITAL

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE THE VISITOR

AFTERMATH

WANT MORE?

ARMOR II: THE FIGHT FOR SICILY

THE STAGE: OPERATION HUSKY

MOROCCO

CHAPTER ONE WAR GAMES

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Copyright