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.