“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.”