The Last Thing You Surrender, page 47
Friendly looked aggrieved—he always did when someone mocked his morning blessing of the tank—and the other men’s laughter was lost in the roar of the 33-ton war machine coming to life around them. The cramped space smelled heavily of fuel and men.
The four companies of the 761st rolled east in a column. After a few minutes, a group of tank destroyers and trucks carrying infantry joined them. Bates led the column in his Jeep. Inside Lena Horne, it felt like they were driving into thunder, so heavy and so close was the bombardment of enemy artillery. Luther hunched involuntarily with each explosion. Jocko yelled merrily, “Hell, Hayes, I don’t know what you’re duckin’ for. You should be glad when you hear them explosions. If you can hear it, it means it didn’t kill you!”
“Yeah, I guess,” Luther yelled back, unconvinced. He glanced down at Arnie. The boy’s eyes were large and white in the gloom.
They had gone only a few miles when the column came to a halt. Jocko radioed to see what the holdup was and learned that some French farmer—probably a collaborator with the Germans—had blocked the road with a herd of cattle. Bates was said to have arrested him personally. Some infantrymen cleared the road and the tanks rolled past the bovine roadblock.
The rain slowed. The bombardment ended. Jocko opened the hatch and popped his head out of the turret. Through his sights, Luther could see the faintest hint of the sun on the eastern horizon. The radio crackled continuously, tank crews reaching out to locate one another, encourage one another. Then Wingo’s voice broke in. “I want absolute silence!” he screeched, his voice high and fearful. “You boys keep quiet on those radios.”
There was a beat. Then over the radio, someone said, “Yo’ mama.”
“Who was that?” demanded Wingo. “Who said that?”
Inside Lena Horne, even pious Friendly Sullivan laughed himself to tears. But after, the men observed radio silence as they had been told.
The tanks rolled on. Luther yelled up to Jocko, who was still standing with his head and chest poked up out of the turret hatch. “What you see up there, Sarge?”
“It’s the colonel,” yelled Jocko. “He’s standin’ by the side of the road on top of his Jeep, directin’ traffic like a cop on Michigan Avenue. Cool as a cucumber!” Jocko saluted Bates, then waved for good measure as the tank rolled past him.
Over the radio came the command to assume attack formation. Then a cheerful voice broke in to translate the command into the jive and jazz of big-city streets. “Now looky here, you cats. We got to hit it down the main drag and hep some’a them unhepped cats on the other side. So let’s roll on down ol’ Seventh Avenue and knock ’em, Jack!”
There was a beat. Then the same voice spoke with quiet resolve. “All right, Panthers. Let’s come out fightin’!”
Inside the Lena Horne, the men were whooping in approval when the explosion came. The blast was close. Luther felt the ground tremble beneath the tank. There came another blast. Jocko was lowering the hatch, getting ready to button up the tank when suddenly, he pushed it open wider, looking behind him. “Uh-oh,” he said. “Shit.”
Luther, who had been looking through his sights for targets, said, “What is it, Sarge?”
With a heavy sigh, Jocko lowered the hatch and sank into his position. “Colonel was hit,” he said. “I saw it. Look like he was shot by some kraut patrol in the trees. I don’t know how bad.”
“Damn,” said Luther. He had come to depend on the white officer’s presence. Bates was one of the few white men Luther had ever seen who treated colored men like men.
“Lord, look out for him,” said Friendly softly.
“Amen,” said Jocko.
“Amen,” said Luther, “but who the hell gon’ look out for us?”
In that same moment, the voices began crackling out of the radio. “Hard Tack has been hit. I say again: Hard Tack has been hit. It looks pretty bad.”
“You know what this means, don’t you?” asked Books, turning to look back at Luther and Jocko. His eyes behind the glasses were serious and large. “Wingo is in charge.” There was a beat of silence as the men took this in. Finally, Jocko spoke in a low growl. “Put it out your mind, fellas. We got work to do.”
Lena Horne rolled forward. German artillery began bursting all around. As he searched for targets, Luther was uncomfortably reflecting on the specifications of the M-4 Sherman tank. Designed for speed over power, its armor was less than four inches thick at its strongest point. American tankers who had taken the M-4 into combat against the krauts in Africa reported that its 75mm shells had little effect on the sloped front end of the heavily armored German Panzers—they literally bounced off—while the 88mm Panzer shells could knock holes in the Sherman big enough to see daylight out the other side. They said your only hope was to flank the Panzer and hit it on the side where the armor was thinner and there was no slope—and what kraut was going to be fool enough to let you do that?
As if that weren’t sobering enough, the Shermans also had a habit of exploding on impact. Veterans of the African campaign called the tanks “Ronsons,” after the lighter, whose slogan was Lights Every Time. Hearing that, Luther had tried not to think of what it would be like to burn and to know in the few gasping, searing seconds left to him that his weapon was about to become his coffin. He had shared that fear late one night with Books as they were lying in their bunks. But Books had reassured him nothing of the sort could ever happen. “What you mean?” Luther had asked.
“Think about it,” Books had said. “We are sitting on top of 75mm shells. In the eventuality you describe, we would be blown to pieces long before we could burn.”
Luther had waited for him to laugh. He didn’t. Luther had said, “Thanks. You done really put my mind at ease.”
Now Books did laugh. “Glad to help,” he’d said.
“Hey, Luther, you know, you were right about me that time.”
The voice drew Luther out of his reverie. Arnie was yelling from his position down next to Books. His voice was barely audible against the din of explosions and the rattling of the tank and Luther almost hadn’t heard it. But he did hear it—the whole tank did—and now Luther looked down to see the boy looking back at him with frightened eyes.
“Right about what?” asked Luther.
“That time in the bar. About … never being with a woman.”
For a moment, Luther just stared. Then he felt his gaze soften. How terrified the boy must be, he thought, to announce something like that to a tank full of his comrades. The others pretended not to have heard. Luther was embarrassed for Arnie. He supposed they all were.
He grinned a grin he did not feel. “Well,” he said, “I guess we’ll have to take care of that, soon as we finish killing these here krauts.”
“Both of you clam up!” growled Jocko, pressing his eyes against the telescopic sights. A handheld microphone amplified his voice above the clatter of the tank and the din of the artillery. “Don’t know about you all, but I’m sick and tired of sitting out here getting shot at and not shooting back! Driver, stop!”
Books pulled back hard on the levers controlling the left and right treads and the tank slowed to a stop.
“Gunner, come right 15.”
Luther spun the crank and the big gun shifted around. “What we aimin’ at, Sarge?”
“Sniper in the bell tower.” Jocko chewed on an unlit cigar. “One hundred yards. Load the HE. Come on, move it!”
Luther’s body took over for his mind, and he felt distantly grateful for the numbing, repetitive practice drills Bates had insisted on while they lingered in Louisiana and, later, Texas, waiting for their chance to get into the war. Luther briskly adjusted the trajectory of the gun according to Jocko’s instructions. “One hundred yards,” he confirmed.
Friendly yanked open the breach and inserted a shell. He patted Luther’s back once to let him know the shell was ready, but Luther had heard the breach close, and he knew. Eyes pressed to the gunsight, he flipped the fire switch and stomped the pedal on the floor. The tank shuddered as the projectile tore out of the big gun toward its target.
For a tense moment, Jocko watched through his sight. Then he scowled. “Shit,” he said.
“About 30 yards short, Sarge,” announced Arnie.
“I see it,” said Jocko. “Gunner—” And then, right in the middle of giving the order, he stopped. They stared at him, awaiting instructions. Instead, Jocko barked a disbelieving laugh.
Luther said, “What is it, Sarge?”
“That son of a bitch, Wingo,” said Jocko, still chuckling. “He’s running!”
Luther couldn’t believe it. “What?”
“I see it,” said Arnie, looking through his periscope. “That damn coward! He’s turned his Jeep around and he’s hightailing it!”
Books laughed. “I would hate to see him at a Harlem knife fight, then.”
Jocko said, “Gunner, come up 30. Fire when ready.”
Luther made the adjustment. Again they went through the sequence, their movements as synchronized as some Apollo Theater dance team. Friendly opened the breach, ejected the spent shell, inserted a new one, and patted Luther’s shoulder. Luther flipped the fire switch, then pushed his foot down on the floor pedal.
He watched. And then the bell tower blew apart, bricks spraying every which way like Fourth of July fireworks trailing sparkles of light. “Scratch one sniper,” said Luther as Books, Arnold, and Friendly all whooped in celebration at their first kill.
Jocko’s face was still pressed against the telescopic sight. “Books, give me a hard right turn.”
“Where we goin’, Sarge?” asked Luther. He could feel the adrenaline roaring in his temple.
“Machine gun nest,” said Jocko, “sunken road, center of the tree line. Got our infantry pinned down good. Books, I want you to stand in close on these motherfuckers.”
“Right, Sarge.”
The tank lurched forward. Through his gunsight, Luther saw the Germans coming closer through the futile star-shaped flashes of their machine gun bursts. He couldn’t hear them firing, but he heard the bullets clanking harmlessly against Lena’s hull, like metal hail. He wondered why the krauts didn’t run.
“Close enough,” said Jocko. “Luther, I make that about 20 yards dead ahead.”
“I can hit it, Sarge.” A moment later, there came a great, vast roar and men’s bodies went cartwheeling.
“We’ve got one trying to get away,” warned Jocko.
“I got him, Sarge,” cried Arnie. He popped open the gunner’s hatch. Luther heard a series of short, sharp bursts, and he knew the .50-cal. had done its deadly work.
“Good shootin’,” said Jocko. “Okay, next—”
The explosion filled the interior of the tank.
“We got company, Sarge!” cried Arnold, his voice panicky.
“I see him,” said Jocko, face pressed to the telescopic sight. “Fuckin’ Panzer. Can’t let him get the range. Driver, get us out of here.”
“Which way?” asked Books, as the tank began to move.
“Any fucking place but here!” cried Jocko.
Lena Horne rolled forward over the machine gun nest and its dead and dying krauts and down onto the sunken road, the men inside bouncing about like toys. Books swung a hard left, and the tank went racing east along the tree line.
“Goddamn it, Books. You’re taking us away from our own forces.”
“You said,” cried Books, “and I quote, ‘any fucking place but here!’”
Jocko swore.
Through his gunsight, Luther watched behind them as the enemy tank fired, saw the explosion in the spot where Lena had stood just seconds before. Jocko was listening to the platoon commander on his headphones. The Panzer lumbered down onto the sunken road and gave chase.
“He comin’ after us,” said Luther.
“I see him,” said Jocko. “Books, hard left!”
“Hold on,” said Books, and the tank lurched to the left, leaving the sunken road and climbing up the knoll. Through his sights, Luther saw the Panzer mimic the move. The enemy tanker had adopted an angle that would bring him directly across Lena Horne’s path. Jocko saw it, too.
“Driver, stop.” The tank stopped. Again, the Panzer mimicked Lena Horne’s movements. The two behemoths faced one another like gunfighters at high noon on some dusty frontier street. The gun in the Panzer turret was already rising.
“He lining up another shot,” warned Luther.
Jocko replied, coolly, “I need you to pop some smoke.”
“Roger that,” said Luther. He reached to fire the single-shot smoke mortar in the turret. Seconds later, a plume of phosphorous smoke, ghostly white, wiped the other tank from view.
Jocko was still listening to platoon leader commands through his headphones. Luther heard only his sergeant’s end of the urgent conversation. “Uh huh. Uh huh. Well, you best tell him to hurry it up, or it ain’t gon’ be worth the effort.”
He picked up the microphone again. “We the bunny in the dog track here. Got to keep him interested.”
“He interested,” said Luther. “He most definitely interested.”
There was another close explosion. The men were bounced in their seats.
“Firing blind,” said Luther.
“Are we going to get out of here, Sarge?” asked Books.
“Negative,” said Jocko. “We going to show him some leg. Come left. Not too fast.”
With a creaking of tread, Lena Horne made the turn. Luther held his breath as the tank crept slowly clear of the blinding fog. He followed the tank’s progress through his gunsight. After a moment, he had the Panzer in view. It had not moved. Its front end was wreathed in smoke.
Jocko saw it, too. “Arrogant bastard,” he said. “Thinks he can just wait us out. Gunner, light him up. AP shell, 75 yards, zero elevation.”
“I hope you know what you doin’,” said Luther, bringing the turret around.
“Yeah, I do, too,” he heard Jocko whisper.
Luther and Friendly went through the firing sequence. The shell tore free of Lena Horne’s 75mm gun and hit the sloped front of the Panzer. Sure enough, it bounced like a rubber ball on concrete.
There was a moment. Then the Panzer turret came around. Luther swallowed down a metallic taste. He thought of Thelma.
And then there was a dull thud and the enemy tank jumped.
The turret of the Panzer lifted with the force of it, landing askew on the body of the tank, the big gun pointing down toward the grass. Fire and black, oily smoke boiled up out of the wreckage. Luther gaped. An American tank crept clear of the smoke. It had managed to flank the Panzer unseen while the Germans were fixed on the Lena Horne. As Luther watched, two men came staggering out of the torn Panzer. They were wreathed in flame. Arnie reached to push open his hatch so he could get at his machine gun. Books tapped the boy’s shoulder and shook his head. “Let them burn,” he said.
twenty-nine
IT WAS SUNDAY MORNING, THE DAY BEFORE CHRISTMAS, WHEN the truck pulled into the prison compound. George and Andy stopped and watched with longing eyes as the guards unloaded still more Red Cross packages the prisoners would never see.
“Well,” said George, “there they go again.” He tugged at his pants, which were constantly threatening to slide off his hips.
“Thieving bastards,” said Andy. He sounded resigned.
“So, what are we going to do about it?” asked George. He was sick of being resigned.
Andy laughed. “We could go see The Watcher and ask real nicely if he wouldn’t mind giving us our stuff. ’Course, he’d probably just stare at us like we were bugs.”
“Why don’t we take it?” asked George. “It’s ours. They’re stealing it from us. Why don’t we just steal it back?”
Andy looked at George as if waiting for him to laugh. He didn’t. “You’re serious,” said Andy.
George nodded, realizing that he was.
“But how are we supposed to do that?” asked Andy.
George outlined a simple, impulsive plan. Andy pondered it for a moment. Then he said, “That’s crazy.” There was a moment. Then Andy hunched his shoulders. “What the hell,” he said.
The goods were stored in a back room of the colonel’s house. Half an hour later, Andy went to the guard out front and asked to see The Watcher on some trivial matter. Both prisoners knew the colonel had gone into town to bed his mistress. Risking a beating, Andy pretended not to understand when the guard told him The Watcher was unavailable—“No here! No here!”—and shooed him off.
Meanwhile, George wrapped his hand in his shirt, broke the back window, reached around to unlock it, then climbed in and grabbed indiscriminately at the many boxes and packages stacked there with the Red Cross logo on them. He threw a bunch of them out through the window, then climbed back out, scooped them up, and ran, loaded down with so much loot he could hardly carry it all.
He expected at any moment to feel a bullet in the back of his head, wondered if he would even have time to know he had been killed. But the bullet never came. Obviously, it had never occurred to the guards to anticipate that someone might be insane enough to pull a stunt like this. Still, George wasn’t fooled by the bullet that never came. He understood himself to be dead, just the same. He struggled to care about this, knew he should. But the truth was, he didn’t.
The two friends had a grand time afterward. Hiding behind the benjo, they gorged themselves sick on Hershey’s bars and Spam. Andy smoked cigarette after cigarette until he was driven to his knees by his own hacking and coughing. When that passed, he fired up another smoke. When they’d had all they could smoke and eat, they began passing the rest around to other men. They went through the hospital—where men lay groaning or insensate with malaria, beriberi, dysentery, pellagra, dengue fever, and all the other plagues to which flesh is heir in a filthy place where men are kept half-starved—and handed out smokes, chocolate bars, magazines, and tins of sardines. George felt like some prison camp Santa Claus.
The stolen loot also included a bundle of mail, tied together by string. George and Andy had leafed through it, desperately hoping to come across something with either of their names on it. They didn’t. But they did recognize the names of a few intended recipients and walked around the camp, pressing long-delayed letters into the hands of startled men. A man with an ulcerated leg wept when George gave him a year-old letter from his mother.
