“The command was, ‘Traverse right’! Gunner!”
“Wilco!” Wade moved the turret.
The battle had devolved into a chaotic skirmish of tanks roaming through coiling black smoke to trade punches across orchards and fields.
Lumbering at a forty-five-degree angle to Boomer’s path, the Tiger that had destroyed Buckshot came into view.
“Gunner, Tiger, shot, five hundred, lead three mils! Fire!”
Wade stomped. “On the way!”
The shot sparked off the heavy tank’s armor and buried in the dirt.
Then the Tiger roared back.
Wade’s scope filled with a terrifying blur, which disappeared to reveal a chain of dust devils trailing back to the German tank.
Missed!
“Fire!”
“On the way!”
The next round bounced off as well. Christ, it wasn’t fair! It was like shooting the tank with spitballs.
“Give him HE,” Austin yelled. If the commander couldn’t penetrate the Tiger’s armor, he’d bludgeon it into submission.
Texas flag streaming, Betty rumbled toward the Tiger’s flank and rammed it with a crash. Lieutenant Whitley popped up in the cupola and emptied a Thompson into the stunned German commander. The rest of the German crew bailed. Clay lit them up with the bow gun.
“Driver, reverse!” Austin said. “Get us out of here!”
A shell tore off the lieutenant’s head. The next punched into Betty’s engine bay and set the tank ablaze. The crewmen jumped out of the hatches to be mowed down in a stream of green tracers.
Another round struck Boomer’s metal hide with a thunderous clap, and the tank shuddered. Wade jerked at the shock, his jaw clamping shut with enough force to chip a tooth.
“Gunner, traverse left! Mark IV, shot, five hundred, lead five mils!”
He aligned the reticle on the enemy tank, which had stopped to shoot and was now crawling perpendicular to Boomer’s path. It was one of the Specials, carrying a high-velocity, long-barrel gun.
He tracked a bit to get a feel then swung out ahead. Boomer was still reversing, but he trusted the gyrostabilizer to make his aim true. “Ready!”
“Fire!”
“On the way!”
He missed. The Mark IV fired back, and the shell tore through the air, missing Boomer by inches.
“Right a hair, repeat range, fire!”
“On the way!”
The next shell struck the Mark IV’s weaker side armor and created a flaring hole. The tank stopped and caught fire.
“Driver, stop,” Austin ordered.
Wade switched to wide view on his scope. Black smoke from burning tanks obscured most of the scarred landscape. Somebody had fired a smoke mortar, which added a drifting white fog over part of the battlefield. He knew the Germans were all around him, though he had no targets in sight. The platoon had been destroyed. For all Wade knew, his was the last tank in the entire battalion.
Now was the perfect time to get out of here while they could.
“Driver, move out,” the tank commander said. “Gunner, let’s find a target.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
EVERYTHING THEY HAD
Another hot shell casing ejected from the breech. The turret basket was almost full of them, producing a rich ammonia reek that burned PFC Swanson’s nostrils.
He gripped the breech lever, released the latch, and pushed it to the rear and right. “Ammo, Eight Ball!”
Boomer’s steady rate of fire had long ago depleted the ready rack.
Clay passed up another black shot. “Last of the AP!”
Swanson grabbed the round, gave it a quick wipe with a rag, and shoved it into the smoking breach. The breech lock closed automatically, the firing pin cocked. To hell with worrying about his fingers. Right now, he was far more worried about the rest of him making it through this fight in one piece.
He patted Wade’s shoulder. “Up!”
“Right a hair,” Austin said. “Steady! Fire!”
“On the way!”
“Hit! He’s damaged and pulling back.”
Too tired and scared shitless, nobody cheered. The hull vibrated as Clay let rip with the bow gun. A round shrieked past the tank.
“We’re out of AP, Sarge! We’re down to twenty percent load—”
Another round struck Boomer with a crashing sound, and the tank rocked at the impact, hurling Swanson against the wall. His helmeted head crashed against metal. Seeing stars, he howled a curse.
Boomer was limping now. The shell had popped off a bogie wheel.
Clay handed up another round. “HE!”
Swanson pushed aside the hot empty casings and slammed the fresh round into the breech. “You’re up! How do you like your big attack now, Wisenheimer?”
“Not now, Mad Dog!”
“We’re gonna be salutin’ the angels! Salutin’ the angels!”
Austin kicked him hard between the shoulder blades.
“All right, all right!” Another kick. “Quit it!”
Austin ordered, “Mark III, traverse right, steady! On three hundred, fire!”
Wade: “On the way!”
“Fire again!”
“Eight Ball, another round!” Swanson yelled. “Hey, Clay!”
The bow gun stopped firing. “Just a sec—”
A heart-stopping bang. Boomer shuddered and bucked to a halt, her engine dead. Swanson yelped and shrank back as the glowing German AP shell snapped and banged crazily around the turret. Austin dropped down to gape at it.
If it detonated, it’d tear them all to shreds.
They all stared stupidly as the shell settled on its tip spinning on the deck with a whirring dentist drill sound, spewing acrid smoke. Its orange glow strobed on their faces.
Swanson pulled air into his lungs and screamed, “BAIL!”
The men snapped out of their stupor and scrambled for the exits. Swanson heaved through the loader’s hatch and rolled off the tank, slamming the ground. Austin and Wade spilled out after him. Russo joined them a moment later. The bog’s hatch blocked by Boomer’s main gun on the traversed turret, Clay crawled out the emergency hatch under the tank’s belly.
Swanson grabbed Clay’s uniform by the shoulder and hauled the man to his feet. “Run, stupid!”
The tankers bolted through the stumped ruins of another orchard.
Boomer exploded.
Shrapnel zinged past Swanson’s ear and skipped across the dirt as the hot blast wave hurled him through the air. He tumbled and lay gasping in the field.
“Stay down,” Austin said from where he lay. “Don’t move a muscle. Play dead.”
The air filled with the clank of tank tracks. Lying on his side on the cold ground, Swanson opened one eye to watch a metal monster rumble past. It was the biggest tank he’d ever seen, with an extraordinarily long, thick barrel. Its khaki turret bore the straight-armed cross emblem of the Germany Army. The hawk-faced commander was yelling at his crew in German.
So that’s a Tiger, he thought. They’re actually real. How did we survive so long in battle against machines like this?
It was amazing they’d knocked out two tanks and damaged a third before Boomer died from her wounds. Hell, it was a miracle they were even still alive. Those angels Austin had talked about were looking out for Boomer’s crew. Swanson no longer thought the idea of saluting them was dumb. Whoever was looking out for him, they’d earned his respect.