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.”