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“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.