“The word’s usually wrong,” Swanson said.
“Be that as it may, we know they’re attacking. Everybody’s bugging out for Kasserine except for 1st Armored. We’re to hold our ground as long as we can.”
The loader snarled, “Back in the fire. We’re like that kid with the finger, the kid from Holland, you know—”
“The little Dutch boy. Yes, we are. Okay. Ackley, you’re on the bow gun. Swanson, you’re loading. Clay, you’re driving—”
“Hey, what about me?” Russo said.
Wade said, “The turret is on manual, and the gun might be finicky. I’d better man it. That leaves you in command.”
“Me?”
“Yeah, you. That a problem?”
He swallowed hard. “No problem, Wade.”
“Good. We never did get new orders, but we can help out. We’ll fall in with whatever unit drives by and chip in where we can. Any questions?”
Nobody had any. The tankers emerged from the safety of their foxhole and scuttled to their tank. They mounted up and plugged in. The maintenance crew had patched the hole by welding a metal plate over it. Weak, but it was something.
Russo almost went to the driver’s seat but checked himself. He climbed into the turret, and cleared his throat. “Check interphone!”
“Gunner, check,” Wade said.
“Reading you loud and clear,” Ackley said. “With or without the phone.”
“Driver, check,” Clay said with pride.
“They did a good job cleaning out all the mess in here,” Swanson said.
Russo took a deep breath, unsure he was ready for this. Like everybody else, he bitched about how he could do the job of commanding better than whoever was doing it, but he didn’t actually want the job himself.
Sicilian Superman, he thought.
He had this.
He wasn’t just going to pinch hit for Wade. He was going to be the best tank commander ever. That was how he’d prove himself an American. Not by doing something special for these men, but by doing something significant for his country.
“Driver, start the engine,” Russo said with all the drama of ordering his men to hold to the last. “Gunner, check systems.”
The engine started, which was a relief after the pounding the tank had taken. Wade and Swanson ran the gun through its paces short of firing it.
The corporal reported, “Everything seems to be in order except the turret motor, which we already knew about. We’ll have to hand crank to tra—”
Ackley let off a burst with the bow gun. Tracers flashed into the darkness.
Before Russo could speak, Clay fumed: “What the hell are you shooting at?”
“Thought I saw something,” the kid said.
“Only shoot when you see Germans, not something, you stupid jerk. You want to hit our own guys?”
“What Eight Ball said,” Russo chimed in.
“Golly,” Ackley said. “I thought we’d rather be safe than sorry.”
Russo sighed. “Driver, take us out. March out where those M3s went and hope they don’t have any Ackley types who fire on us.”
“Roger that, Boss!”
The new tank commander stifled a laugh. If only Clay knew Russo hadn’t exactly been showing respect by calling Austin that. He’d been acknowledging the tank commander belonged to a class that had kept his family struggling since they’d landed in America.
Still, in the end, Austin was one of the finest men Russo knew. The war was eliminating some of the old differences that had divided people back home. Out here, the only thing that really mattered was sticking by the guy next to you, even if you didn’t much like him.
Even if you hated his guts, he was still your brother.
Russo spotted the dim red tail lights of the M3 column marching east out of town. Beyond, big guns crashed with greater intensity. He spared a glance over his shoulder to see flares bubble in the sky over 1st Armored’s command post. General Ward’s CP was under attack.
This was bad.
“Driver, stop!”
Clay yanked the sticks. The tank idled on the road and spewed clouds of exhaust. Trusting in the commander, nobody said anything. They knew he had an ear for machines, especially what American armored vehicles sounded like.
“Back us off the road and stop,” Russo said.
Elephant growled in reverse.
“Good. Loader, put a shot in the gun.”
The night was pitch black. He could barely see the road he’d been on. Could he shoot by sound alone? Would the enemy tank pass by like a ship in the night?
Or was it an American tank, and he was on the verge of making a massive mistake?
“We’re up,” Swanson said.
Young olive trees crashed to the ground ahead of him. Whatever it was, it was big and heavy. It rumbled louder, very close now, floundering as it struggled to navigate the orchard.
“No target,” Wade reported.
Moonlight shimmered along the olive orchard and briefly outlined a hulking black shape. Then the dark thickened as the clouds returned to obscure the moon.
“Wait,” Russo breathed.
The tank barreled out of the olive trees and stopped. It couldn’t have been more than a hundred yards away. Either the German tank commander had spotted Elephant, or he saw something suspicious and was stopping until he’d figured out what it was.
“Gunner, tank, shot, one hundred, traverse right five mils, wait.”
Wade hand-cranked the turret. “I have him.”
The German tank revved its engine but did nothing.
Russo gaped into the darkness and held his breath.
Moonlight fell again upon the olive grove—
Panzer! “Fire!”
Wade: “On the way!”
The barrel of Elephant’s 75 flashed as it belched a shell that blurred straight into the German tank and punched a hole in it.
“Give him HE!” Russo ordered.
“Up!” Swanson called out.
“Fire again!”
“On the way!”
The HE round chased after the first and burst inside the tank. Blue-green fire shot out its hatches.
“Another hit!” Suddenly exhausted, Russo sagged in the cupola. “Check fire.”
“Nice one, Mac,” Swanson said.
“Thanks.”
“I mean, not bad for a ginzo.”
Russo ignored him. “I need a volunteer to dismount and take a look at it.”
“Why?” Clay said.
“Because I want to make sure I didn’t kill one of our own tanks.”
“What difference does it make?” the loader said. “Why bother?”
“Because the ginzo says so.”
“Well, I ain’t risking my neck for it.”
Russo understood. If they’d just put two shells into a friendly tank, Swanson would simply rather not know. It’d be better not to know.
Wade said, “Let me through, and I’ll go.”
“Take the Tommy.”
“Already have it.”
“Thanks, Wade.” He moved aside to allow the corporal to exit the tank.
“Don’t mention it.” The gunner jumped off the sponson, shouldered the Thompson, and disappeared in the dark.
“Ackley, cover him,” Russo said. “And don’t shoot him on the way back.”
“I ain’t covering nothing because I can’t see shit,” the kid said. “We probably blew up some guy’s barn.”
After a few minutes, Wade returned. “He’s a Mark IV, and you got him.”
Russo blew out a long sigh. “Good.”
“I found the commander. He was thrown clear by the explosion. Dead. One less hero of the Third Reich.” The corporal extended his hand, which held an Iron Cross medal. “I found this on him. It’s yours. You earned it.”