by Jeff Shaara
“Holy Christ.”
They sat frozen for a long second, and now Parnell said, “Hey, Hutch. This whole damned valley is full of tanks. And I don’t think they’re ours.”
Hutchinson said nothing, and Logan glanced up at him, thought, we gotta get closer. Too far. And we can’t just sit here. He wanted to ask the question, wondered if Hutchinson knew himself. But then the answer came, tanks on both sides firing, launching shells.
Hutchinson shouted into his ear, “Fire! Fire at will! Pick your targets!”
Logan stared through the gunsight, his hands shaking, turned the turret slightly, saw a dozen tanks at one time, all in motion, some spreading out, rolling to the side, some coming straight toward him. He focused on one, his mind racing, the lessons, his brain making the calculation, a thousand yards, at least. The range was still too far, and he stared hard, cursed silently, thought, closer, damn you, come closer! The smoke came again, the tanks firing all around him, gunners not as patient.
The ground jumped and Hutchinson said, “Driver advance. Stay close to the captain. Head for the—”
There was a hard jolt, the tank tilting, then falling level again. Logan rocked hard against the tank hull, felt the pain, a sharp punch in his shoulder. The tank jerked forward, Parnell guiding it down toward a narrow cut in the brush, more blasts of fire, smoke filling the tank. The tank moved back up a small rise, and Logan leaned into the shoulder braces, stared into the gunsight, steadied himself, found a target, one tank, a low, square turret, realized now, it was larger than anything he had ever seen. The tank’s turret was moving, the gun long and fat, swinging past, a burst of smoke, the open ground swept by black fog. His heel settled hard on the pedal, his brain racing, four hundred yards, the ground rocking beneath them, a sudden flash to one side, a spray of metal hitting the tank. He tried to stay focused, couldn’t help it, glanced to the side, stared at black steel, blind, could hear thunder from incoming fire, a hard, shattering scream. He spun the turret, had to see, caught the black smoke, fire, a tank close to them in pieces, tread lying flat, the turret tossed to one side, the white star…
Parnell halted the tank, the turret just above a low line of brush. Logan pulled the turret back toward the German tanks, focused his eye in the gunsight, the one German tank still coming, closer still. No time, he thought. Shoot him…shoot the bastard! He pressed his foot forward, the thirty-seven punching back, a fresh smell of gunpowder. He pressed his shoulders hard into the braces, blinked hard into the sight, thought, come on! Bust him! He saw the streak of fire, a trail that followed his sight line. The shell punched straight into the black tank, a quick yellow blast. He waited for more, the smoke, the glorious flash of fire, the tank erupting in flames. But there was nothing, no change, and he thought, damn! I missed him! He glanced down at Baxter, the next shell already loaded. Logan aimed again, the tank square in the sight, his foot punching the pedal again. He ignored the recoil of the gun, followed the streak of light, saw a flash of fire, the shell impacting the turret, a burst of gray smoke.
Parnell shouted into his ears now, surprising him. “You got him, Jack! Keep shooting! Damn, they’re everywhere! There’s gotta be a hundred of ’em!”
He kept his eye in the sight, began to move the turret, searching, but then the smoke cleared, and he saw the tank again, rolling forward, still coming, moving straight toward them. He leaned back, stared at Baxter, who had already loaded the gun, held another shell in his hands, waiting, and Logan said, “It bounced right off him! What the hell?”
In the hatchway, Hutchinson still said nothing, the air around them ripping with fire and smoke, and Logan leaned forward again, stared into the gunsight, thought, three hundred yards…closer than that. Too damned close. He punched the foot pedal again, but there was no sign of the shell’s trail, the German tank hidden in bursts of smoke, blasts of fire throwing dirt and rock into the Stuart, rubble hitting Logan, dirt falling around him. He looked up, Hutchinson still outside the turret, and he shouted, “Hutch, get down! Close the hatch!”
Hutchinson didn’t respond, seemed to rock back in the open hatchway, and Logan saw the spreading stain, the man’s pants wet and black, and Logan shouted again, “Hutch! Get down!”
He reached up, pulled Hutchinson’s belt, felt the wetness, blood on his hands, tried to stand, to grab…and he saw now the man’s head hanging to the side, a deep, ragged hole punched in his chest. The blood was spreading, the dust and dirt clinging to the hot stickiness on Logan’s hands. There was a voice in his ears, meaningless words from Parnell, and he stared up at Hutchinson’s face, the man’s eyes open, staring at nothing, Logan’s own voice, soft, empty words:
“Hutch…get down…”
T hey had withdrawn back to the west of Sidi Bou Zid, gathering what remained of the American armor, a defensive formation along a key roadway, intersected by the same road that led toward the mountains. The tanks that could still move had escaped the disaster, were guided into place by unknown officers. Behind them, artillery pieces rolled as well, heavy armored trucks coming out of the east, bringing remnants of infantry, those men who had not been trapped on the high ground, the observers and foot soldiers who held on to islands of rock in a sea of German armor.
Parnell had driven the tank without anyone telling him what to do, had watched as Logan had watched, as the tanks around them shattered into flaming wrecks, outgunned and outranged by the heavy German machines that rolled toward them. The radios had gone out quickly, the microphone dangling uselessly beside Hutchinson’s body, no one on the other end of the line, no one to give any orders. It became a hard race for survival, and the Texan had the instinct, drove them along the same route that had taken them into the fight. For a while, the German armor seemed to pursue, trying to swing around them, cut off the retreat. But the Stuart was still quick and maneuverable, and Parnell drove the tank with perfect skill. Logan had pulled the turret around to face the rear, had fired the thirty-seven in blind anger, useless, little chance of actually destroying anything. But there was one good reason to point the gun to the rear. Logan knew that the front of the turret was the thickest part, the heaviest armor, and if he couldn’t take out the Germans with the thirty-seven, at least they would retreat with their strongest armor facing the enemy.
By the time they reached the intersection just east of Sbeïtla, the division’s reserves had moved up to meet them, a defensive position that might not hold the enemy away. By late afternoon, the Germans seemed content to hold the valley around Sidi Bou Zid, and they turned their attention toward mopping up the virtually helpless infantry.
H e was surprised to see Gregg, the captain sitting low beside his tank, his knees pulled up tight to his chest. Gregg looked up at him, said, “Glad to see you made it.”
“We lost Hutch.”
“I know. You’ll get a new commander. Probably do it myself. My driver was killed, two of my guys were wounded. Some small shell fell right in the driver’s lap. Russell, that damned fool. Sightseeing. Nobody would have been hurt if that stupid son of a bitch had just buttoned up.”
Logan tried to pull his mind away from Gregg’s description, fought now to keep the image of Hutchinson away, had stopped asking himself why Hutchinson had stayed up above the hatch. Logan started to back away, didn’t want a conversation.
Gregg said, “Never expected that. They beat us to the punch. Somebody said Rommel was there, leading them. Could be. We lost…we lost most everybody.”
Logan wanted to escape, was carrying his own grief, couldn’t absorb the captain’s sadness, didn’t want to hear how badly they had been shot up. Hutchinson was gone, and for now it was all the grief Logan could handle. His mind fought for excuses, and he thought of coffee, tried to speak, his words cut off from behind, the sound of a jeep, grinding to a hard stop.
“Captain Gregg!”
Logan turned, saw the jeep, another behind it, an officer stepping out. The man was dirty, his uniform ragged, torn pants, the man’s jeep smokin
g from the engine.
“Captain!”
Gregg was up now, moved toward the man, saluted, and Logan saluted as well, didn’t know what else to do. He saw the insignia, a colonel, and the man ignored him, spoke to Gregg.
“Captain, get your men into some kind of order. At first light, we’re hitting them hard. General Ward is bringing up more antitank companies, field artillery, and armored infantry, anything we can put into line. The enemy is reported to be holding fast around Sidi Bou Zid. We’re going to counterattack with everything that can shoot. The infantry’s still pinned down out there on the hills. It’s up to us to save their ass.”
Gregg glanced at Logan. “We lost a lot of people, Colonel.”
“So did the enemy, Captain! And they’ll lose more tomorrow. Take charge here, or I’ll find someone else to do the job!”
Gregg seemed to stiffen, and Logan saw the familiar sight, the man’s thick chest, the hard glare.
“I’ll handle these men, sir. We’ll be ready.”
The colonel moved back to the jeep, climbed in, the driver jerking at the gearshift. The jeep paused for a long moment, lurched forward, more black smoke, began to move away. Gregg saluted again, the jeep already past him, dust and sand from both jeeps blowing in a low cloud past the row of tanks, seven machines, what had once been forty.
21. LOGAN
NEAR SBEÏTLA, TUNISIA
FEBRUARY 14, 1943, LATE NIGHT
T hey camped in an olive grove, men finding sleep anyplace they could, some still inside their tanks. Logan found no sleep at all, leaned up against the gnarled trunk of an ancient olive tree, watched as trucks and armored vehicles rolled past. They had been coming up all night long, spreading out on the primary roads, moving toward what he could only guess were jumping-off points designated on maps that hung on walls in the command posts far behind them.
He reached for the canteen, empty, was suddenly furious, wanted to toss it away, fling it into the night. He gripped it hard in his hand, tried to crush it with his fingers. He looked at the faint reflection in the dull tin, remembered the foxhole, the sandstorm, Hutchinson offering him the sandy water. Logan stuffed the canteen back into the canvas holder on his belt.
“You want some coffee?”
The voice surprised him, Logan suddenly aware that he was not alone in the world, or even in the olive grove.
“Who’s there?”
The man came close, and Logan saw the coffee cup, held close to him, the voice again, Baxter.
“Here. Half a cup left. They were getting ready to pour it out. Some food truck back there a ways. Jackass sergeant figured he wasn’t wanting any, so why should anybody else have it.”
Logan took the cup, barely warm, and he drank, ignored the bitterness.
Baxter said, “The rain’s coming back in the next day or so. Maybe. Heard somebody, some officer, talking to somebody else. We been lucky, he says. Good fighting weather. I didn’t stick around, afraid I might have broken somebody’s jaw, some lamebrained lieutenant colonel. What the hell was good about today?”
Logan finished the coffee, handed Baxter the cup, said nothing.
Baxter sat, faced him. “More Shermans supposed to be here by morning. Be damned sight better than the Stuart, I guess. Parnell oughta be happy. The Sherman’s slower, but a whole lot of horsepower compared to the Stuart. Be nice to load something heavier than the thirty-seven.”
The image had stayed with Logan, the streaking trail from the shell of the thirty-seven, the impact of the high-explosive round, a burst of fire against the turret of the German tank with all the impact of a fiery snowball. Logan laid his head back against the rough tree bark, said, “Gregg came by again, hour or so ago. His crew got pretty shot up. We’ll be with him now. We’ll be the lead tank. Again.”
“So, Skip’ll get to drive his Sherman, and you get to shoot the seventy-five.”
“Yep.”
They sat for a long moment, the silence broken by another column of trucks, the clattering steel of a half-track.
Baxter lay flat on the ground, seemed to stretch his back. “Hard to remember what he looked like.”
Logan turned toward Baxter, the man’s face hidden by the darkness, knew he could only be talking about Hutchinson.
“Not me. I’ll never forget him. His blood’s still under my fingernails.” Logan paused, felt anger again, the same anger he had felt since the tank had drawn away from the fight. “Damned fool. He rode us into battle like some kid at a county fair, eyes full of the wonder of it all. Forgot how to be a soldier. So, he got himself killed for being stupid.”
Baxter sat up again, seemed to look around, searching the darkness. “You know damned well he was the best tank commander in the regiment. There was a whole lot more stupid going on today than what happened to Hutch. There’s more than the usual bitching, you can hear it everywhere. Even General Ward’s not smelling too rosy.”
Logan closed his eyes, desperate for sleep. “Fine. The best tank commander in the regiment got killed because he wouldn’t keep his head down. Yeah, bitching about it’s not gonna change anything. It’s not my job to worry about who’s making decisions back there.”
“No, we’ll leave that to Skip. Here he comes.”
Logan saw the shadow, heavy boots punching the ground between the olive trees. Parnell stopped, searched the darkness for a moment, said, “Jack! Pete! Where the hell you at?”
The shout split the silence, and curses rolled out of the grove, sleeping men responding to the rude intrusion.
Baxter said, “Over here, Skip. Shut up before somebody shoots you.”
Parnell dropped down heavily, leaned close, his voice in a low, conspiratorial whisper. “We lost a bunch of officers today. There’s hell to pay at HQ. Fredenhall and Ward are having at each other like two bobcats in a burlap bag. If we don’t kick some ass tomorrow, word is, the big brass is done for. Word is, Ike will send a bunch of ’em home.”
Baxter lay back down. “Whose word? Yours?”
“Fine. Ignore good intelligence. I picked it up from somebody who was hanging close to Colonel Stack. There’s some pissed-off people at Division, lots of finger-pointing. We got our butts tossed in a hog trough today. What we shoulda done…”
Parnell’s voice was digging into Logan, probing the angry place, annoyance growing into fury, rising up like a long, low, thundering wave, a bolt of lightning in his brain. He lunged forward, grabbed Parnell’s throat, rolled him backward.
“Shut up! Shut up! What the hell do you know?”
The Texan made a hard choking sound, and Logan kept squeezing, his eyes clamped shut, his fury surging into his hands, fingers digging hard into the man’s throat. He ignored the pulling on his shoulders, his mind erasing the loud voices around him.
“Hey!”
“Stop it!”
“Get off him!”
He kept his grip tight on Parnell’s throat, the man writhing, twisting frantically beneath him, Logan’s eyes still closed, blind to the man’s wide-eyed terror. Hands gripped his arms now, pulling him back, and he felt a jab of steel punched against his temple.
“Let him go or I’ll blow your brains out!”
Logan froze, his hands loosening, hanging in the air. Parnell fell back, limp, choking, coughing violently, and Logan felt the hard steel pushing against him, felt himself pulled back to his knees, hard fingers still gripping his arms. The steel stayed against his head, and now the voice of Gregg:
“I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you dead.”
Low voices came through the darkness.
“It’s okay, Captain.”
“Captain…it’s over.”
Gregg stepped back, slid the pistol into his belt, stood over Logan for a long silent moment. “Get hold of yourself, soldier. You hear me?”
Logan stayed on his knees, felt himself shaking, fear, sadness, fought the urge to cry. He watched as the others helped Parnell to his feet. He felt the guilt now, the sadness overwhelming, was sudden
ly sorry for Parnell, just a loudmouthed Texan, so completely helpless…like Hutchinson.
“I’m sorry. Lost my head, Captain. Won’t happen again.”
Gregg said something, moved away, the others scattering as well. They were alone again, and Parnell sat slowly, kept his distance from Logan. Logan watched him, felt drained, weak, rubbed his temple, where Gregg had pressed the .45. He would have killed me, he thought. He would have. What the hell’s the matter with us?
He watched Parnell, the man still gasping for air. “I’m sorry, Skip. You okay?”
Parnell took a raspy breath. “What’d I say, Jack? Didn’t mean to rile you.”
Baxter said, “It was nothing you said, Skip.” He leaned close to Logan, put a hand on his shoulder. “Jack’s just mad, is all. The captain’s mad. We’re all mad. Best we save it for the morning.”
T he American commanders had drawn the obvious conclusion that, since the enemy had not continued their pursuit of the battered American armor, the enemy’s immediate goal would be the mopping up of the American infantry, hundreds of men stranded high up on the djebels, the islands of tall rock in the wide valleys now firmly controlled by German armor and increasing numbers of infantry. In the Allied command centers, what Parnell had heard was finger-pointing, the passing of blame, evolving into urgency, to stop whatever thrust the Germans intended to make. West of Sidi Bou Zid, the good roads led straight to key supply dumps and airfields, critical positions spaced far apart, causing the American defenses to be stretched thin, protecting the different routes the Germans might strike. To counter their vulnerability, the Americans intended to push hard toward recapturing the area around Sidi Bou Zid, hoping to rescue the infantry, as well as to drive the German armor back through the mountain passes to the east.
