“Any idea what we’re facing, over?” Bull’s commander cut in.
“Intel is they’re tanks, possibly company strength. Wait one… There’s a town called St. Lucien about five miles southeast of the airfield. That’s where we’re going. A platoon of M3 tank destroyers is coming with us. Out.”
“Roger that, out,” Austin said and switched to the interphone. “Driver, clock six right, steady on Boxer.”
“You got it, Boss,” Russo said.
“Let’s go kick some Vichy ass.”
The crew whooped. Wade stiffened in his seat. They were going into combat again, but this time, Third Platoon would be out front, going head to head with French armor.
“Hey, Wisenheimer,” Swanson said behind him. “Wade.”
“What?”
“I intend to make it home in one piece. You’d better shoot straight.”
“Then make sure you load correctly,” Wade growled back.
With the automatic breech and a good loader, he should be able to get two or three shots off very quickly. But Swanson was crazy. Wade could see the man taking his time loading just to be irritating and make some obtuse point.
His hands felt along the firing switch, L-shaped handle used to traverse the turret, small wheel used to elevate the main gun, and wheel and button used to aim and fire the coaxial .30-cal machine gun. He’d drilled so many times their uses were second nature to him, but feeling their presence was reassuring.
“Don’t worry about me,” the loader said. “I’ll do my part and help you get home with your dong intact to that perfect wife of yours.”
“If only you had something good you wanted to go back to.”
“My life was just fine before you showed up.”
“Everybody’s life is perfect except yours, Private. Poor you.”
“You think you’re perfect—”
“And it’s all their fault, not yours.”
Sergeant Austin cut in, “Clear the interphone.”
“At least my friends aren’t books,” Swanson muttered.
Wade laughed. Being the type who liked to dish it out but couldn’t take it, the loader was too easy to antagonize. “You’re right.” He did prefer the company of books to the other men in the tank. “That should bug you.”
It certainly bothered Wade. Behind all the cool sarcasm, he felt like he was dying.
“SHUT YOUR TRAPS,” the commander ordered.
Dust covered Wade’s scope and obscured his view. The four-hundred-horsepower engine ground on. The treads clanked on the bogie wheels. The radio buzzed with routine chatter. Alice mocked him.
He wanted to talk to somebody. And no bitching about officers and food. No gossip about where they were going and what they’d be doing when they got there. No discussion about the tank and whether all its complicated parts were working properly. And no endless pining about women and food. He wanted to talk about history. He’d always loved history and could gab about it for hours on end. Outrageous gossip about people who were long dead.
Algeria had a rich past. At one time, it served as a way station for people traveling between Europe and the Middle East, making it valuable real estate. The Carthaginians ruled it then the Romans then the Vandals. The Muslims conquered it in the eighth century. Later, the Ottomans added this land to their empire, during which time the Barbary Pirates plagued the sea, until the French made it a colony.
The only guy in this tank who cared about any of this was him.
The radio chatter intensified. The column was approaching St. Lucien. Then the radio exploded with excited voices.
“They’re firing at us,” Austin told his crew. “We’re having fun now. Button up. Driver, clock two to form up on Boxer’s three in that field.”
“Clock two,” Russo acknowledged.
The dust cleared from Wade’s scope to reveal farmland all around and a town in the distance. The tank growled off the road into a vast field, its wheat or barley recently harvested. It was like driving over a thick brown carpet richly textured by the light of the rising sun.
“The tank destroyers are moving up on the left to flank them. Clock ten and steady on, driver. Gunner, on my order, give him volley fire with shot.”
“Roger,” said Wade. It was all rolling out as they’d trained countless times.
Swanson opened the breech and slammed in an armor-piercing, or AP, round. The breech closed automatically. This done, the loader patted Wade’s shoulder. He instinctively flinched from the man’s touch.
“I ain’t sweet on you,” Swanson said. “You’re up.”
The round was loaded and ready to fire.
Wade switched to six-times magnification on his scope and spotted the enemy tanks advancing line abreast from St. Lucien. Char D1 light tanks.
Company B charged forward to meet them head on.
Pouring sweat despite the turret compartment still being cold, Wade gripped the traversing handle and elevation wheel.
“Target is the tank closest to our zero,” the commander said. “We’ll let him have it at a thousand yards.”
Wade grimaced at his scope. “Roger. I got him.”
He settled his scope on the enemy tank, resting the reticle on its turret. He traversed until confident the barrel lined up for a good shot. Shimmering in the morning haze, the enemy tank drew nearer with each passing moment.
Smoke mushroomed from its barrel. Wade flinched, every nerve tingling. The shot blurred away toward its target.
The light tanks were moving fast, however, which ruined their accuracy. In contrast, the M4 had the benefit of a gyro-stabilized gun. Boomer could fire while on the move, though not very accurately at high speed.
“Driver, stop,” Austin said. “Gunner, fire!”
Wade stomped the firing pedal. “On the way!”
The tank bucked as the main gun belched the AP round at the enemy. The hot, empty shell flew out of the breech and banged on the turret basket floor. Swanson was already ramming the next round into the smoking chamber.
Through the haze, Wade observed the effect. The shell had crashed into his target’s track, which whiplashed behind it as the Char D1 swung wild.
Not bad for a first shot!
“He’s immobilized,” Austin said. “The crew is bailing.”
“Should I scratch his back?” Clay called out. He wanted to know if he should shoot the crew off the tank with his bow machine gun.
“Negative, bog.” The French were still their allies, even if they were currently fighting the Americans. “Gunner, shift target, clock right. Range, about five hundred. Drop ten.”
Wade reduced the elevation to align the gun with the French tank, which had closed the distance to five hundred yards and stopped to direct aimed fire at the oncoming Americans. “Ready!”
Swanson patted his shoulder. “You’re up!”
“Fire!” Austin shouted.
“On the way!”
Nothing happened.
“Fire,” Austin said. “Fire!”
“The round is jammed!” Swanson said.
“Then unjam it!” Wade yelled.
“You unjam it! Try to shoot it out!”
Wade stomped the firing pedal then yanked the manual lanyard. “Nothing!”
“Get that round cleared now!” the commander screamed.
“Goddamn it, where’s my rammer?” Swanson was going to have to force out the jammed round. His rammer had a special shape enabling him to do that without striking the fuze and blowing them all up.
“Hurry,” Wade begged. “Hurry.” In the scope, the French tank traversed to align its barrel with Boomer, and it was now in killing range. With the magnification, it looked like the tank was aiming right at him. “Hurry up!”