He was going to make it home, and he’d drag his crewmates with him. Without Boomer around them, and with the Sarge dead, he’d found himself feeling strangely protective of them. The corporal might be in charge, but Swanson was going to get them all through. They were morons, but they were tankers like him.
You’re a good man, Austin had said before he died.
He’d seen something in Swanson he didn’t see in himself.
You can do this. You can live. You can win.
The commander had gotten him wrong. He wasn’t a good man, at least not by Austin’s genteel standards. But he’d liked hearing it from the sergeant. It made him want to be the man Austin thought he was.
He thought: We’ll do right by you, Sarge. I can’t promise we’ll win against these crazy Krauts, but we’re gonna survive this.
“Mad Dog,” Wade called. “Over here.”
Swanson gazed up at the darkening sky, which began to blaze with millions of stars misted by gray clouds. The air temperature was dropping. “Yup, I’m coming.” He added, “See ya around, Sarge.”
He passed platoons of doughs wearing packs on their backs and carrying rifles with bayonets affixed. They hadn’t even started out yet, and they were already making an awful racket with all their gear.
He found the tankers gathered around Sergeant Garrett, who said, “We’ll be walking out of here in two columns, thirty yards apart. You guys will be behind my squad, but you’ll be on your own. I have my own guys to look after and can’t babysit you tread heads. Don’t lose the man in front of you. Don’t leave the column. If you have to piss, you hold it. And don’t make any noise. If you make noise, I’ll gut you and leave you for the Krauts. Am I clear?”
“Clear as crystal,” Swanson said.
“Capish,” said Russo.
“If you spoke German, now, that would actually be useful.” The man pinned them all with his glare. “Wait for the signal.”
Swanson grinned as the sergeant walked away to give the same speech to his squad. “I like that guy.” He pursed his lips at Russo. “And you, you can’t help yourself, can you. You’re like a guy with that disease, the one where—”
“Tourette’s,” Wade cut in.
“Yup, that’s the one. Thank ye, Wisenheimer. See, Mac, nobody wants to hear you spaghetti this and spaghetti that.”
“Yeah, chooch? They want to hear you talk about how you got your hair shamped and what dead varmints you put in your poke and how you slathered long sweetenin’ all over your pancakes?”
It was Appalachian lingo.
“That’s how normal people talk. Try it out for size.”
Garrett walked over and spat on the ground. “What did I tell you shitheads I’d do if you made any noise?”
“Our bad, Sarge,” Russo said.
“Shut your dick traps.” The sergeant eyed the driver with a mix of wonder and disgust. “Christ, you even breathe loud. Get ready. We’re moving out.”
“Ditch your helmets and put on your cover,” Wade said.
The plan was to walk straight across the plain like they owned the place. With luck, the Germans would mistake them in the dark for comrades. As part of the ruse, everybody was leaving their helmets and putting on their cloth overseas caps. The tanker caps had accentuated front and back peaks. Out of habit, Swanson put his on at a rakish angle, the tanker way.
Their route would run parallel to and about a mile north of Highway 13, a journey of some nine miles in all. The destination, Hamra Hill, lay directly across the plain. At the hill, they’d meet up with guides who would lead them all to safety.
The column shifted and moved. Swanson started marching and immediately almost lost his footing on some loose rocks, earning another glare from Sergeant Garrett. He really missed Boomer now. This walking was for the birds. His tanker boots had a steel toe, good air circulation, and buckles that made them easier to take off when caked with mud, but they had lousy ankle support.
When the columns reached the plain, Swanson gaped as a massive 88 flak gun came into view, its crew nestled around it in their sleeping bags.
A German soldier called out, “Kameraden! Wie geht es dir?” He laughed. “Ich frier mir die Eier ab.”
The Americans tensed and gripped their weapons but said nothing. Swanson grinned and waved. The soldier waved back and returned to his roll.
Well, hell, this crazy scheme might actually work, he thought.
The columns snaked through dry washes and gullies, anywhere they’d be less likely to stand out. A bright, full moon rose into restless cloud cover, turning the landscape into dappled patterns of black and gray. When clouds obscured the moon, they marched, but when it was clear, they hunkered down and waited.
After that, they were practically tripping over Germans.
The hazy outlines of massive tanks and other vehicles surrounded Swanson. A Mark IV growled as it rolled toward him, its officer calling out in Deutsch.
The geniuses leading the column had navigated them straight into a tank park.
Swanson stiffened his posture and marched smartly, making a show for the officer. The other tankers caught on and did the same, and then the doughs, on down the line.
“Buona notte, Signore!” Russo said and waved. “Come sta lei?”
Amazingly, the driver playing the part of Italian ally worked. The tank rumbled off.
They cleared the tank park and reached open country where he could breathe again until a six-wheeled armored scout car found them.
It drove directly up to the tankers. The officer standing in the turret pointed at Clay and yelled something in German that sounded like, “You. Come here.”
“Ja, ja.” The bog approached the car and saluted.
The officer yelled and pointed back toward the tank park. In the dark, the tankers looked like German tankers, and they had no business being out here with these infantry. The officer stabbed his finger. They were to go back.
Swanson tensed, though he didn’t know what he could do without a weapon. The infantry around him kept marching past, quickening their pace.
Clay took a big step back from the car and saluted again. “Ja, ja.”
Swanson jumped at the flash and heart-stopping bang. The officer rolled out of the turret and flopped smoking to the sand. The armored car caught fire. The driver didn’t bail, likely turned into hamburger.
The bog had put one of his grenades to good use.
“Not bad, Cherry.” The loader knelt beside the officer and took his Luger pistol and Iron Cross. He pocketed the pistol and gave the medal to the bog. “Trophy.”
Clay accepted it with trembling hands. “Okay.”
Sergeant Garrett appeared in the light of the flames and pursed his lips. Swanson shrugged. The sergeant shook his head.
Their luck was still holding. The Germans didn’t seem to notice or care a scout car had exploded. The columns shifted away from the firelight and kept going. The farther they got, the greater a sense of desperation grew along the line. The columns began to break up as men straggled and paused to shed weapons and gear. Soon, the route was littered with mortars and machine guns, ammo and blankets.
Then they reached an onion field and once again, the dark shapes of tanks loomed all around.
Another tank park.
Only the tanks weren’t German. They were the wrecks of M4s. This was the killing field where the relief force had bought it. Doughs scurried off to search for water and rations the Berbers hadn’t already looted. The dead bodies of tankers, many missing body parts and picked over by the buzzards, littered the ground. The air smelled like burnt gunpowder and charred flesh.