A Mark III rolled after the Tiger, followed by two trucks loaded with German infantry in peaked caps and khaki uniforms.
Swanson didn’t care about them. He looked back to watch Boomer burn. Smoke poured from her hatches. MG ammo crackled and popped as it cooked off. He thought he didn’t care about the tank, not really. He’d been hoping to leave her to join a maintenance platoon.
Seeing her die, though, was like watching his house burn down with his sweetheart in it, because Boomer, he now understood, had been both to him.
After the Germans passed, he ventured to talk. “What now, Sarge?”
The commander grimaced as he rose to his knees and scanned their surroundings. “We fought all the way to Lessouda Hill.”
Swanson spotted a red stain on his back. “Hey, are you hit?”
Austin ignored him. “We’d be better off on the hill than trying to make it back to our lines after nightfall. The 168th is still up there.”
The crew gathered around the commander. Russo investigated the jagged tear down his left side. He shot the other men a grave look, poured sulfa on the wound, and taped a bandage over it.
“We’ll have to carry him,” the driver said.
Swanson said, “I reckon I’ll do it.”
Austin shook his head. “I can pull my weight.”
“Don’t be stupid.” He heaved the tank commander onto his back and rose to his feet.
Austin gasped with pain.
“Sorry, Sarge.”
“You’re doing fine.” The man’s head slumped against Swanson’s shoulder.
The survivors gazed up the steep slope of the tall hill. Somewhere up there, an entire battalion was dug in and promised safety, but it was going to be a long climb.
“Anybody armed?” Wade said.
Clay held out two grenades. “I grabbed these on the way out.”
“I’d rather have a Thompson, but good thinking.”
The bog barked a laugh. “I wasn’t thinking at all. If I was thinking, I’d have grabbed some water.”
“Keep those grenades in your pockets, Cherry,” Swanson growled. “I don’t want you blowing my balls off trying to be a hero.”
Clay puffed out his chest. “We don’t surrender.”
Wade said, “Yeah, we do.”
For once, the man was showing some common sense. They were exhausted, leaderless, and had no food, water, or weapons. Right now, surrendering sounded like a sensible option.
Instead, they gambled on the 168th finding them before the Germans did.
The tankers mounted the slope, tramping over rocks and through scrub and prickly pear. Austin grew heavier with each step. Swanson’s arms and legs burned. He grit his teeth and pushed through it.
“You’d better not die on me, Sarge,” he said. “You promised me you’d get me into a maintenance platoon.”
“My boy is nuts for trains,” the sergeant said in a weak voice.
“Hang in there,” Russo said.
They marched until Wade stopped and looked around. “We’ll rest here for a bit.”
“We have to keep moving,” Swanson said. “And who the hell put you in charge?”
“He’s a corporal,” Clay said.
“The guy in charge has shrapnel in his back and needs help.”
“We’ll rest here five minutes,” Wade said. “Then I’ll carry him next.”
Swanson was spent, going on sheer stubbornness alone. “I’m gonna set you down now, Sarge.”
The men helped Austin onto the ground, where he could put his back against a boulder. The sergeant cried out in pain. His face was pale and dripping with sweat, and his breathing was labored as if he’d climbed along with his men.
“Need a drink,” he said.
“Wish I could give you one,” Swanson told him.
“In my pocket.”
Swanson pulled out a silver flask and opened it. “Liquor!”
He helped Austin take a few pulls of the medicinal brandy. The commander sighed. Swanson had a snort himself and passed it to Russo, who drank and passed it to Clay, who passed it to Wade.
Wade gazed across the battlefield. “That’s quite a view.”
Sidi bou Zid and Lessouda were in ruins, the land between them scarred and marked by the burning wrecks of tanks and other vehicles. Many vehicles stood intact, abandoned by their crews in the blind rush to safety. German grenadiers herded hundreds of dazed prisoners in straggling eastward columns. Panzers shimmied over slit trenches to crush the last Americans who defied the juggernaut.
1st Battalion had been virtually wiped out.
The men watched the German double envelopment complete as tanks of two armored divisions met east of Lessouda. Despite pockets of shooting, the battle was over. More German trucks arrived and offloaded infantry to mop up, keep the 168th pinned on the hills, and probe west.
“You got to hand it to Jerry,” Russo said. “He knows his business.”
No matter how you sliced it, the Germans had scored a stunning victory.
“What’s it look like down there?” Austin whispered.
“It’s bad,” Swanson told him. “You can see the whole pooch we screwed.”
“You have nothing to be ashamed of. That battle… That was really something.” The commander shook with a wet cough, which turned his lips red with blood. “You’re a good man, Swanson. All of you are. An annoying bunch of babies, but good. You can do this. You can live. You can win.”
“You’re a lousy judge of character, Sarge.”
Shots rang out and pinged among the rocks.
Swanson threw himself to the ground. “Kamerad!” It was the one German word every man in the U.S. Army knew. Let’s be friends, I surrender! For good measure, he added, “Nicht shiessen!” Don’t shoot!
“They aren’t Germans,” Wade said from his hiding place. “That was a Garand doing the shooting.” An American rifle.
“Hey, down there!” a voice called from the rocky heights. “If you’re gonna kamerad, show yourself with your hands up!”
“We’re Americans!” Wade yelled back. “Don’t shoot!”
They stood with their hands raised in the air as a squad of GIs approached with their Garands tucked into their shoulders.
“Americans?” Swanson saw red. “Watch where you’re fucking shooting! I didn’t survive all that just to get shot by my own guys!”
“Yup, they’re ours,” a sergeant said. The men lowered their weapons. “I’m Hank Garrett. We thought you were Kraut tankers. You 1st Armored?”
Wade lowered his hands. “Yes.”
“We saw the whole thing. That was a hell of a fight down there.”
“It was.” There was nothing else to say.
“Well, if you’re gonna come with us, we’re moving out.” The sergeant set his mouth in a grim line. “Sorry about your man.”
Swanson wheeled with a curse.
Sergeant Austin had slid onto his side, leaving a bloody smear on the rock. Curled up with a peaceful expression on his face.
The tank commander was saluting the angels.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
IN THE BAG
Barely conscious of the physical world, PFC Clay turned his gaze inward as he trudged with the other survivors up the endless hill.
The fighting had been savage and horrific, and it had ended with Sergeant Austin dying and himself almost burning to death.
He wanted to think about these things. Even more, he wanted to feel something, anything. The terror of combat, the miracle of survival, the tragedy of the commander’s death, all of it deserved indulgence and understanding. One could study these mysteries for a lifetime.