Крэйг Дилуи - The Battle of North Africa

With the exception of the task group including elements of 1 stArmored, which captured Tafaroui Airfield, French resistance stopped all other forces.

Corporal Charles Wade awoke feeling the way he always did: trapped, angry, and like the world’s biggest idiot.

“Christ,” he muttered. “I’m still in the Army.”

For some reason, he felt even worse than usual today. A real case of the ass.

As was typical, he was the last awake in the entire battalion. Dawn was a red sliver on the eastern horizon, the sky still dark yet purpling at its edge. He shivered in the chill as he climbed out of his roll, unable to believe he was doing this.

The loader was tying his own rolled-up fartsack to the tank’s rear. “Top of the morning, Wisenheimer.”

When he’d enlisted, Wade had painstakingly created a strongman persona right down to the fictitious nickname, Hawkeye , which he’d claimed everybody called him back home. To avoid being singled out for tedious abuse, he didn’t want anybody to know he was a history teacher at the University of Minnesota.

It didn’t stick. Swanson was the first to call him, Wisenheimer , derogatory slang for a smart guy and which was doubly insulting because it sounded vaguely German. The loader wasn’t that smart, but like most bullies, he had a certain animal cunning. He also had it in for Wade.

“Swanson,” Wade grunted, still dazed from sleep.

“The war waits for no man, not even one as important as you.”

“I had this weird dream you were worth talking to, Private.” Wade had no interest in trading barbs with this Neanderthal until he’d had a strong cup of coffee.

He filled a large mug with water and used it to brush his teeth, shave, and wash. Russo climbed into the tank to warm up the engine. Men strolled past, a spade in one hand and a roll of Army Form Blank—toilet paper—in the other. The sun was up now, so the men could light their one-burner tanker stoves and boil water for coffee.

While he waited, he opened a breakfast box and pulled out a can of bacon and eggs, which came out in the form of a cake. Instantly, black flies buzzed around it. “What the hell is this?”

“Listen to you bitch,” Swanson said as he finished wolfing his down and bent to light a cigarette. “It’s like music to my ears. Keep it up.”

“Eat fast,” Sergeant Austin said. “We’re on the move in five.”

Clay handed Wade a mug of coffee. “Here you go, Corporal.”

“What’s the word, Sergeant?” Wade asked.

“We’re going to Oran,” the commander grinned. In other words, he didn’t know anything about how the invasion was going.

Wade blew on his coffee and drank it quickly, wishing he had time to get a few more pages into Ulysses . Right now, books were the only thing keeping his brain and soul from withering away and dying.

“Mount up!” men called across the tank park. “We’re on the move!”

Wade climbed into the tank through the commander’s hatch and settled into his vinyl-covered seat. Austin pulled mosquito netting over the hatch to trap the flies inside, which the crew whacked until they were all dead. Russo cranked the engine. As usual, the turret compartment smelled like gasoline and ass. Otherwise, it was freezing in here, a situation the rising African sun would soon rectify.

Never a moment’s comfort in this man’s army.

Wade put on his headset and plugged it into a cord dangling from his control box. Behind him, Swanson switched on the radio transmitter and receiver then pressed their assigned channel button until it locked.

The commander switched to INT and said, “Check interphone.”

“Gunner, check,” Wade said.

“Bog, check,” Clay said.

“Driver, check,” Russo called out.

“Loud and clear,” said Swanson.

“Next stop, La Sénia Airfield,” Austin said. “Shorty, follow behind Boxer.”

“Roger,” Russo said.

Wade peered into his periscope, which offered a wide view on the left for acquiring targets and a six-times magnification, reticled telescope sight on the right for shooting. The battalion’s vehicles were rolling off the airfield and forming up to drive north toward Oran.

Loaded with gear, the big, dusty tanks looked more like a caravan of mechanized nomads than an armored fighting force.

He settled the scope on Boxer and said, “Boom, you’re dead.”

Seeing as he had nothing to do for the near future other than sit on his sore ass, he wished he had more coffee. Only the lead tank traveled with a loaded gun to prevent some Swanson-type from accidentally firing at friendly armor. More mind-numbing hurry up and wait. He wished he could nap or read a book. He wished he’d never joined the goddamn United States Army and went off to war.

Wade regarded the photo of his wife, which he’d stuck to the bulkhead with a piece of gum. He’d put it there not to remind him what he was fighting for and what waited for him back home, but to give himself a thorough punishment every day for enlisting.

Alice smiled at him as if to say, Thanks for making tracks, honey. Not that the sneaking around wasn’t fun, but it’s so much easier this way. I hope you make it home alive, Charlie, though do keep in mind that, if you do happen to get yourself bopped off, your loving wife will get your back pay plus a six-month bonus.

He had plenty of time to stew.

Wade had met Alice in graduate school. He’d hoped to ensnare her with his intellect and ambition. He’d always believed he was meant for great things, and he’d worked hard his whole life to take advantage of every opportunity.

In the end, it was she who snared him with her beauty and personality. He fell madly in love, and after graduation, he married her and landed a job teaching history. The war had started, and while he hated fascism and wanted to see it destroyed, he was too established in life to consider joining up.

Then he’d caught her cheating with Larry Enfield, a literature professor who’d recently gained an appointment as a staff officer in the Army, and something inside him broke. He realized he wasn’t a great man; he wasn’t meant for great things. In a blind fit, he marched to the recruiting office to make history instead of teach it.

Even now, he wasn’t sure what he’d really been trying to accomplish. A part of him wanted her to see him the same way she had seen his rival, a fighting man in uniform. Another part of him wanted to escape, put the whole thing behind him.

Escape he had, and he’d been paying for it ever since. There are some things you can’t take back, enlisting in the United States Army being one of them.

“—Bears 3, we’re turning around,” Lieutenant Whitley said over the radio on the platoon frequency. “The Frogs are getting set to stage an attack on the airfield. The rest of the battalion is going ahead without us. Over.”

“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.”