“Sergeant, don’t stop the work,” he said. “I’d like to take a look inside.” Stern pointed at the last tank in Lawson’s platoon.
“Yes, Sir,” Lawson responded, glad Stern had picked one of his more squared-away vehicles. They walked over to Delta 34. “Three-Four’s got a good crew, Sir. The tank commander’s here somewhere.” Lawson looked around, but Stern had already pulled himself up on the tank’s fender and was heading for the open hatch on the top of the turret.
These Mis aren’t like the old M60s, thought Stern, there’s less to hold on to. He stood on top of the turret, about to lower himself into the commander’s hatch, when from deep inside the tank he heard a voice call “Power!” The turret began to move and he sat down fast and hard and held on — not quite for dear life, but close.
“Hold it!” Lawson shouted from in front of the tank. The turret stopped. Someone inside bumped something and swore, then the loader’s hatch opened and a head popped out. Stern’s legs were dangling through the commander’s hatch.
“Shit, man, you better tell somebody the next time you climb up on a tan…” The soldier froze when he saw Stern’s rank insignia. “Oh shit,” he said as his face fell. “Sorry, Sir.”
Stern let out a long sigh. “Never mind. Let’s have a look at the inside of your tank.” Stern slid easily into the commander’s seat. A second later the soldier plopped into the loader’s station next to him. Stern’s trained eyes worked over the tank’s interior. Satisfied, he pointed at the two combat vehicle crewman’s helmets (CVCs) hung on a hook. The soldier handed one to Stern, who noted that though it was old, it was clean and obviously well cared for. Lawson maintains his stuff, he thought, one of too few who do around here. He put the CVC on, motioning for the soldier to do likewise. Once they were both hooked up, Stern flipped a switch and spoke into the helmet’s boom microphone. “What’s your name, soldier?” he said to the man next to him. “Shelley, Sir. Cpl. Greg Shelley.”
“What’s your job, Corporal Shelley?”
“I’m the tank commander.”
“Who’s in your crew?”
“We’re one short, Sir,” Shelley responded nervously. “There’s just me and Private Keats, the driver, and…”
Stern cut him off. “Shelley and Keats? You’re kidding. Don’t tell me that your gunner’s name is Byron?”
“No, Sir,” Shelley said. “The gunner’s Prt, Percy Winchell.” “You write poetry, Shelley?”
The tank commander looked at him as though Stern had lost his mind. “Me, Sir? I mean no, Sir, I don’t write no poetry, Sir.” “Probably a good thing.” Stern stuck his head out of the vehicle commander’s hatch and saw that Lawson still stood in front of the tank, waiting. He dropped back down. “Power!” Stern shouted. He glanced at Shelley. “Always look before you move the turret, son.”
“Yes, Sir,” replied Shelley, properly contrite.
Stern waited a few seconds, then looked through the tank commander’s sight as he turned the turret. He moved the turret so he could look between the tanks parked in the row in front of him, getting a good view of the field that lay beyond the ragged motor pool fence. About a kilometer across the field he could see a few cars moving along the road leading to Baumflecken Kaserne. Beyond that, several kilometers distant, crouched the small shapes of the houses along the outskirts of the town of Baumflecken. He shifted back to the road, refocusing the sight. Directly in his line of vision sat a green and white German polizei vehicle and behind it a black sedan. He looked down, searching. Now where’s the thermal sight switch? he thought. Aha, there it is. He flipped the switch and the picture in front of him suddenly had a green background. The heat of the cars made them stand out starkly against the cool countryside. There’s somebody outside the car. How about that, Stern thought. I can tell he’s ninety degrees from me. He’s looking… where? Stern switched back to daylight optics… toward the kaserne’s main gate. His arms are up like he’s holding up a camera or binoculars. He took his eyes away from the sight and turned it off, frowning.
He took one last look around inside the vehicle. “Good tank, Corporal.” He pulled off the CVC. So did Shelley.
“Thanks, Sir.”
Stern hoisted himself from the commander’s seat to the top of the turret, then worked himself down off the tank until his feet hit the asphalt. As he turned he saw Lawson and another soldier waiting for him.
“Sir,” Lawson said, “this is Private Winchell, Three-Four’s gunner. He had the brigade high score in gunnery when we shot a little over two weeks ago.”
Winchell saluted. Next to Lawson, Winchell seemed like a fragile toy. Lawson was a tall, muscled, dark black man. Winchell was short and slender — petite almost — with a thin mustache, soft features, and pale skin.
“What was your score, Private?”
“One-twenty out of 121, Sir,” Winchell answered. His voice came out soft and high.
“Good shooting, Winchell.” Stern looked at Lawson.
“If Three-Four is any measure, you have a good platoon, Sergeant. I can’t get over having Shelley and Keats in the same tank.” He shook his head and smiled wryly.
“I thought it was appropriate,” said Lawson, grinning.
“Indeed. Thank you, Sergeant. Good platoon. Keep it up.” Lawson saluted and Stern turned to leave. He took three steps, then stopped and turned.
“Private Winchell?”
“Yes, Sir?”
“Ever look out at the highway to our front?” Stern waved his hand toward the track-park fence and the fields beyond.
“Yes, Sir. Often, Sir, when I check the optics and thermal sight.” Winchell answered.
“Ever notice a polizei car and another vehicle?”
“Why, yes, Sir. Sometimes they’re out there looking at the gate and sometimes they’re not. Seems they’re out there a lot more often lately, almost all the time, and we’re down here almost every day.”
“Hmm,” Stern mused. “Thank you, Private.” He turned and headed back through the motor pool toward the headquarters building. On his way back he would ponder — without answer — the questions of why the polizei were staking out his kaseme and where Lawson’s “Uncle Tom” accent had disappeared to.
Mark Griffin — sweat-soaked, mud-caked, and mad as hell — sat waiting for Stern in his office. He didn’t stand up when Stern came in. “I want to talk to you, Colonel,” Griffin said, sticking out his jaw.
Stern closed the door behind him. “And I want to talk to you, S3.” Stern shot back, not about to let Griffin forget who was the second in command and who was the operations officer. “What is this shit I hear about you taking Captain Tuttle apart with a hacksaw for a mistake in training? And in front of his battalion commander? It’s called tact, Colonel. Get some.”
Griffin shook his head. “Somebody ought to shoot the incompetent numbnuts before he gets somebody killed. Tuttle’s company was moving like pond water and with no goddamned security. None, zero, zilch. Could’ve waltzed up on him with a battalion of dumbassed tanks before he’d have thought about it. We don’t have company commanders like that in the infantry.”
“Obviously we do.”
“I’ll take care of that.”
“That’s not your job, S3. You train them, you don’t hire and fire them. And you don’t train a man by embarrassing him and yourself in front of his battalion commander — and then making me take the heat when that commander calls the boss.” Stern lowered his voice. “You’re on my staff and when you make an ass of yourself I get the ass chewing. Lately I’ve gotten too many ass chewings because of you.”