Крэйг Дилуи - The Battle of North Africa

“All y’all missed out on all the fun again,” a rangy corporal called to him in a nasal Southern twang. “It was a piece of cake taking the airfield.”

Clay scanned the area but didn’t see any French planes. The French knew they couldn’t hold La Sénia and had pulled out, leaving behind a token force.

The rangy tanker grinned. “What were all y’all doing?”

He gnawed his gum. “We fought a company of French armor.”

The grin evaporated. “You get any tanks?”

“One, and on the first shot,” Clay bragged, though Wade’s good shooting only reminded him of how little he’d done in the battle himself. He now wished he could be the gunner. He wanted any job in the tank, in fact, as long as it wasn’t the bog.

“Well, I’ll be,” the corporal said, clearly irritated at being one-upped.

“Overall, the company knocked out fourteen enemy tanks.”

“Fine, fine.” The guy was already leaving.

“Hey,” Clay called after him. “What’s the word?”

“The Frogs threw in the towel is what I hear. We’ll be going to France soon.”

The bog turned and spotted Sergeant Austin returning to the tank carrying a spade and roll of toilet paper. “Hey, Sergeant, did you hear? The French surrendered—”

The commander climbed onto the sponson. “Mount up! We got our orders. One last fight to go and we’re done.”

The word, apparently, was wrong. Before they became an ally, the French needed more persuading. Clay couldn’t figure why they were fighting.

“Damn.” Swanson flicked away his half-finished cigarette. “Not even enough time for a smoke. Hey, Wisenheimer.”

“What now?” asked Wade.

“On the way!” With that, the loader fired a massive fart.

Across the airfield, the big tanks rumbled to life. Boomer’s crew squirmed through the hatches into their seats, plugged headsets into radio boxes, and sounded off. They moved with an eagerness that to Clay didn’t seem like a zeal for duty. Whatever waited for them in Oran, they just wanted to get it over with.

He was surprised he felt the same. He’d never been so simultaneously scared and eager for something in his life.

“Who got hit, Sergeant?” he asked after com check.

“Buster. First Platoon. The shot slipped in under the turret and set off their ammo. Nobody made it out.” After a pause, he added: “Driver, follow Boxer.”

Clay didn’t know Buster’s crew. The only thing he remembered was its commander had an annoying laugh. He’d guffaw like a donkey.

Now he was dead. It all seemed so pointless.

“What are we doing here?”

Russo said, “There’s a war on, Eugene. Remember?”

“I mean, why are the French fighting us?”

Corporal Wade piped in over the interphone. “Because they’re following orders, kid. The orders are coming down a chain of command from collaborators afraid of being hanged from a rope. Not by us, but by their own people. Plus we’re here with the Brits, and in these parts, the French hate them as much as they hate the Germans. Back in ’40, the Brits were afraid the French would hand over their fleet to Hitler. So they bombed it, right here at Oran. It was a slaughter.”

“Nobody cares,” Swanson cut in.

“I care,” Clay said. “If I’m going to kill people I’m supposed to be allied with, it’s nice to know why.”

“ Why ain’t gonna get you home, New Guy.”

He growled, “I’m not new. I’ve been with the crew for six months—”

“I’ll tell you why we need to roll into Oran. Two words: French girls.”

“Cut the chatter,” the commander said. “We aren’t done with this op yet.”

The morning wore on like this. Periods of tedium with nothing to do but eat dust and listen to the shrieking treads and routine radio transmissions. Then bouts of bickering to blow off steam until the commander shut them down.

Ahead in the dust, shouts erupted only to be drowned out by deep rumbling. The radio chatter intensified. The flying column had run into its armored brethren of Task Force Green, which had invaded Algeria to the west. As an artillery man, Clay recognized the rumble as the rain of French 155s. Then he heard even deeper booms that seemed to come from the earth itself. A strange rushing sound like distant trains. Salvos fired by Navy battleships and cruisers.

“No, I don’t know what’s happening,” the commander said before anybody could ask. “You’ll find out when I do on the radio.”

The tanks slowed to a crawl. A jeep drove up alongside and paced Boomer long enough for its officer passenger to yell, “Keep it moving, boys! Nothing’s going to stop us. We’re going to Oran!”

“Yes, sir!” Clay yelled back with a salute then turned to Russo. “Who was that?”

“That was…” The driver shrugged. “I have no idea who that was.”

“Kid,” Austin said, “that was General Chaos himself.”

The crew laughed.

Lieutenant Whitley buzzed on the radio. The Bears were stopping south of Oran to wait for the infantry to complete the city’s envelopment. They’d hurried up to wait again. The dust cleared and revealed flat farmland leading to the sprawling port, the city and its flanking hills shining bronze in the afternoon sun.

Boomer parked where instructed. The crew climbed out for maintenance and chow. Sergeant Austin called them together to tell them they’d RON here. Leaning against the tank, Russo rubbed his aching ass. Wade gripped a book behind his back, kneading the cover with his thumb as if he couldn’t wait to escape into it.

“You guys did good today,” the commander said. “But we can do better. If we want to survive this war, we need to be the best.”

Nobody said anything. Swanson lit a cigarette.

“The French are tough, but their heart isn’t in this fight. We punched through every obstacle and made it this far. Tomorrow, we’re going to ram that city right in the gut. I don’t have to tell you how dangerous city fighting is. We’ll be in close quarters with an enemy that has plenty of cover and concealment and knows the ground. We’ll be relying on our infantry. So I want everybody to stay sharp. Especially you, bog, on your .30-cal. You see anybody hostile, you shoot.”

“Roger, Sergeant,” Clay said.

The tank’s job was to smash through the enemy line and plow into the rear areas, where it could use its machine guns and crushing power to deliver havoc. Oran was one such area, the final prize of the operation. The M4 had been designed for this, with the job of fighting other tanks tasked to tank destroyers.

“Let me put it another way,” Austin said. “If you don’t see somebody hostile, you don’t shoot. There’s something like 200,000 civilians living in Oran. We’re not here to slaughter them. Okay?”

Clay gave him an exaggerated nod. “Roger.”

“And make sure you have your fallopian tube plug ready, Eight Ball,” Swanson said. “We’re all counting on you.”

The commander fixed the gunner and loader with his steely gaze. “As for you two… We can’t have our main gun jamming right when we need it. That will not fly when we finally meet the panzers. I want you to grease it good. If there’s a defective part, replace it.”

Wade grimaced and gripped his book tighter. “Fine.”

Swanson sneered at the gunner. “We’ll get right on it. We’re a good team.”

“Shorty, you and Clay will be on track and engine maintenance. Then grab the cans and see if you can scrounge up some gasoline.”

“You got it, Boss.”

The meeting started to break up.

“And one more thing, listen.” Sergeant Austin paused long enough for his gray eyes to bore into theirs. “You all act like a bunch of unruly children. You want to be eight balls off the field, fine. But when we’re in combat, you cut the crap and do your jobs. You read me?”