“Then he got blown up.”
The smile evaporated. “Well, you guys have been in it, so I don’t have to tell you what’s what. Maybe whatever luck you got from that charm up your ass will rub off on my jokers. We’ll be seeing action soon.”
After a relatively easy invasion during Operation Torch, 2nd Armored had sat on its heels during the Tunisian campaign. While elements entered Tunisia and fought after Kasserine, the bulk had stayed here in Casablanca, tasked with deterring fascist Spain from crossing into Africa while training for a fight that hadn’t yet come.
“Do we have a bog, sir?”
“Go to the repple-depple, they’ll get you sorted.” The replacement depot. “First, I want you to get your gear stowed and grab some chow. Then get your big boy ready to roll out. The company is going out for our second training exercise of the day. You might as well join in.”
Wade blinked. “Your second time out?”
“We’ve been at it since 0400,” Pierce explained. “This is Morocco in June, guys. We get our training done early. Gets real hot in a tank at midday. I’m talking a hundred forty degrees hot.”
Russo had experienced that on the train, crammed into a sweltering sleeper car with rowdy infantrymen who opened all the windows to let in some air only to choke the car with grimy black coal smoke from the engine stack.
“We’ll be glad for the practice,” he said, though he didn’t appreciate having to do any training after being up half the night. “We’re pretty rusty.”
“We practiced an amphibious invasion last week. Rolled onto one of those new landing crafts the Navy cooked up, sailed around, rolled back off. Today, we’re shooting targets in the bush, just like we used to at Fort Knox.”
“We’ll get right to it,” Russo said.
The tankers stowed their bags, wolfed down a quick breakfast, and returned to the tank. As tired as they were, they all were eager to take Dog for a walk.
For months, they’d convalesced at the hospital in Algiers until they’d recovered enough to begin rehabilitation. Though they could have used more rest before returning to combat, they were eager to escape from pushing brooms and censoring mail and get back into an M4’s fighting compartment.
“Ack-Ack, help me get the engine bay open,” Swanson said, smiling.
Russo was polishing a periscope lens. “What are you so happy about?”
“Dog’s got a loader’s hatch. When we get hit, I’ll be out in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”
“I think you mean, if.”
“Whatever you say, Mac.”
While they checked the track tension, fluids, and filter, a grinning tanker sauntered over. “You fellas get your African campaign badges?”
Russo finished his polishing. “Yup.”
“Even though you weren’t here.” The tanker called out to his friends, “See what I was telling you? They’re giving the campaign badge to the replacements!”
“Because they aren’t replacements, you imbecile,” his sergeant said. “They’re Old Ironsides. They fought in Tunisia, which is more than I can say for you.”
While his crewmates laughed at him, the tanker stomped his feet and did an awkward bow that ended in a grimace. “Aw, jeez. Sorry, fellas.”
“Glad we got the ass-sniffing out of the way,” Swanson said and returned to sink his arms into Dog’s engine bay.
Chuckling, the tank sergeant strolled over and singled out Wade for his stripes. “Don’t mind him, Sergeant. He ain’t right in the head on account that big chip on his shoulder keeps smacking into it.”
Russo offered his hand. “Good to meet you. I command Dog.”
While they shook, the man glanced at Wade, who said, “It’s how we do it.”
“Hey, whatever works. Sorry about that, Corporal.”
“Call me Tony.”
The tank sergeant’s homely, sunburned face stretched into a smile. “Tony it is. I’m Mickey. Duck Soup’s my gal.” He pointed. “Butch commands Dealer, and Butter over there has Democracy.”
Russo looked them over and saw average joes like him, men who’d come for the adventure and stayed because they had no choice.
“Butter?” Wade said. “Sounds like there’s a story there.”
“Not really. He collects butterflies.” The tank sergeant lit a Chesterfield and tossed the match. “You hear anything where you came from? About where we’re going?”
“Probably the same as you,” Russo said. “Just latrine rumors.”
“I doubt we’re going to England and invading France,” Wade cut in.
Mickey exhaled a cloud of blue smoke. “Why do you say that?”
The gunner shrugged. “We’re all here. It’s easier to invade someplace close than ship us all the way back to the UK. My guess is Sardinia.”
“Why Sardinia?”
“Sicily’s the obvious choice, but the Germans are expecting us to do that. Sardinia’s the other obvious choice.”
Mickey laughed. “So no France, I can buy that. A guy in signals said he heard it from a source he trusts we’re going to the Balkans.”
Wade thought it over. “I doubt even our brass is that dumb. We’ll probably invade Sardinia and then Italy.”
“Why Italy?”
“Because we’ll all be in Sardinia.”
Mickey laughed again. “You’ve got a good grasp of military strategy, pal. You ought to be a general.”
“This is Hawkeye,” Russo said. “He’s our deep thinker.”
“Yeah, I got one of those too. Mine’s a bit of a pain in the ass, though.”
Swanson guffawed from the engine bay.
Waving his index finger, Pierce marched among the tanks. “Let’s move out, Destroyers! Crank up your big boys and start your engines!”
Russo hauled himself onto the sponson and paused to massage his stiff leg. Then he lowered himself into the cupola, plugged in, and grinned. The comms check confirmed the radio and interphone were operational.
He puffed out his chest in pride. “Driver, start the engine!”
Ackley worked the controls. The tank’s four-hundred-horsepower engine roared to life and revved. “Everything checks out, Mac.”
“Fantastic.” Russo patted the hull. “Good Dog.” The American Locomotive Company had built her well. “Mannaggia dial!” I curse the devil!
“We’ll be in the lead, so look smart,” the lieutenant said over the radio.
In an orderly column two vehicles abreast, the Destroyers rumbled out of the camp onto a wide dirt road. A support train of jeeps, tank recovery vehicles, ambulances, and deuce-and-a-half trucks rolled after them.
Past the checkpoint with its crude guardhouse, the road snaked southeast through farmland into hill country, which was already shimmering in the morning heat. Beyond, the brown humps and cones of the Middle Atlas lay heaped under an azure sky.
Too preoccupied with scratching a living to pay attention to the column, barley farmers leaned against oxen-drawn ploughs. The scene reminded Russo how, at Sidi bou Zid, the farmers had kept at it even with shells shrieking over their heads. It gave him the odd feeling of being in a stranger’s house. He found it a little embarrassing how people just went on trying to live their lives while he rolled around their neighborhood, playing war games with real ammunition.
“Now every young tanker, who was in Casablanca,” Mickey sang in a surprisingly clear, strong tenor.
The platoon frequency filled with laughter and ribald comments.
“Knows Stella, the Belle of Fedala…”
The other commanders joined in, “A can of C ration will whip up a passion, in this little gal of Fedala!”