The Rising Tide: A Novel of World War II (30 page)

There was silence now, the big machine gun quiet.

Gregg said, “Junkers. Six of them. They missed everybody. Driver, advance. They’ll be back.”

The tank rolled away from the wadi, and Logan wanted to see Gregg’s face, but the captain was back behind him, awkward position. He knew Gregg was searching the horizon, one hand up on the fifty-caliber. It was a look fresh in Logan’s mind, the hardness in the captain coming back, none of the sentimentality from the first big fight. The intercom spoke in his ear.

“I hope you’re a better shot than I am, private. Had a damned plane square in my sights and shot right over him.”

Logan looked up, saw Gregg leaning over him, a quick nod. “Find me a target, sir. We’ll see what this seventy-five can do.”

They rolled on for several minutes, Logan searching still, the others doing the same. He heard chatter from the radio, then the intercom.

“Eyes sharp! Observers report a formation of enemy tanks to our front and right!”

After a pause, Gregg said, “There they are! Driver, twenty degrees right. Slow down, let the formation get into position. They’re a good way off, maybe fifteen hundred yards. They don’t appear to be moving. Button up. Let’s keep going.”

Gregg dropped down, the hatch closing, and Logan couldn’t help feeling relief. He eased the periscope around, could see the other tanks now, moving out on either side, putting distance between them. He leaned forward, stared through the gunsight, felt the churning again, made two hard fists, tried to squeeze the shaking from his hands.

Gregg slapped him on the back, surprising him. “Find us a target, Private. The seventy-five can’t bust through the front armor of those big boys. Look for a flank shot. Or shoot low, take out the treads.”

Gregg’s voice was calm, words coming slowly. Logan flexed his fingers, stared through the sight, could see the enemy tanks now, some in motion, spreading out as well. He expected to see the smoke, signs of firing, but there was nothing yet, the tanks out to the side feeling their way slowly forward, the enemy doing the same. Parnell spoke now, one of the few times Logan had heard his voice since they’d climbed into the tank.

“Sir, flat, open ground ahead. Cover beyond, then some rocks, maybe two hundred yards farther.”

“Kick it a little, driver. Get across the open quick. You get to those rocks, let’s stop, have a look. I’ll tell the formation to halt in cover, whatever they can find. We need to keep an eye out for planes.”

Logan stared through the sight, searched for a cannon barrel, signs of a turret pointing to the side, the vulnerable target. But the tanks were still facing him.

Gregg said, “Driver halt. That’s far enough. I’m having a look. Something’s strange. There’s too few of them.”

The hatch opened, and Gregg stood, binoculars up. “They’re pulling back. They know we’re too many. Driver, advance. Let’s drive it hard. It’s only a few scouts, maybe. We’ve caught these bastards with their pants down!”

Parnell pushed them forward, the tank now clear of the rocks, and Logan saw the smoke, the first bursts of fire from the German tanks. He waited for it, the blasts falling short, clouds of dirt and rock a hundred yards in front of them. He held the turret steady, and Parnell seemed to read him, driving the tank in a straight line, keeping a mound of thick brush between the Sherman and the enemy.

The gunsight settled on one tank, and Logan said aloud, “Eight hundred…keep moving, Skip. I need to catch one turning.”

Parnell said nothing, the tank pushing forward, the brush now all around, a shallow ditch appearing, the tank settling low, a good position.

Gregg read him as well. “Halt, driver. Good spot. Let’s have another look. You’re close enough, gunner. Find us a target. Fire when ready.”

Gregg pushed the hatch open again, stood, Logan bathed in the cool, misty air, a light fog drifting across the open ground. He heard a sharp punch, a tank to one side firing, then another. He focused on the German tank in his sight, the machine rocking, climbing a low rise, the turret swinging, the long barrel of the gun pointing out to the left, the voice in Logan’s head,
now.

He punched the foot pedal and the big gun thundered, the tank rocking back. He strained to see, the trail of the shell winding straight toward the enemy, a flash of fire, the captain’s shout in his ear:

“Short! Twenty…thirty yards!”

Logan knew not to wait for Hapner, the man moving quickly, another shell, and he adjusted the turret, a touch of the gun’s elevation. He punched the trigger again, another hard blast, long seconds, a flash of fire, Gregg:

“Contact! Low, on the treads!”

Logan didn’t need the captain’s report, could see it for himself, saw movement on the tank itself, men emerging. Gregg said, “They’re bailing out! Find another target!”

Logan moved the turret, saw another machine rolling down into a low depression, hidden, only the turret visible. There was a flash, the enemy gun firing, more flashes now, hard thumps all around, smoke rolling past, clouding his view. Dammit, where are you? He eased the turret to the side, searched again, rocks, motion, another tank, no, it’s an armored truck, a big gun. The smoke rolled across again, but he could see that the ground was alive with movement, the Sherman rocking again, the sound of the fifty-caliber above him, Gregg’s voice:

“Planes! Don’t worry about me! Keep firing, gunner!”

Logan punched the trigger again, too quickly, the shell ripping past the flank of the big truck. He cursed himself, caught movement from the loader, Hapner, Gregg’s voice in the intercom.

“Tanks to the flank! Both flanks! Gunner, swing to the left. Targets approaching!”

Logan cranked the turret, swung the gunsight around, searched, tanks close by, white stars, firing, bathed in smoke, one on fire.

“Where? I only see ours!”

Gregg shouted again. “Driver! Reverse! Get clear of the brush! Prepare to maneuver ninety degrees north!”

Logan felt desperate confusion, thought, where? Why? The targets are in front of us. He said aloud, “Captain! Where are we going?”

The tank jerked backward, Logan’s head knocking hard into the gunsight. Dammit! What’s happening?

Gregg shouted again. “Enemy tanks to the rear!”

Parnell responded, “Dammit, Captain, which way do I go?”

There was a huge blast, and Gregg dropped down hard, the hatch still open, his helmet off, and he pounded Logan’s shoulder, shouted close to his ear, “Fire at will! Anything you can see! We’re hemmed in! Enemy tanks on all sides! Driver!”

Parnell ignored him, deafened by the blast, Gregg’s intercom useless now. The tank spun to one side, lurched forward, and Logan shouted at Gregg, “Sir! The hatch!”

Gregg stood, pulled the hatch down, steadied himself on Logan’s shoulder, leaned close to his ear. “Fire on the move! We might have to shoot our way out of here!”

The tank rocked forward, and Logan’s head smacked hard into the gunsight again, his helmet in his face now. He tried to steady himself, pulled at the helmet, saw Gregg bleeding from the nose. Gregg shouted something into the radio microphone, his voice drowned out by more firing, close by, more blasts from shellfire. Logan held tightly to the gunsight, no targets now, just smoke, the tank rocking hard, Parnell pushing it through rough ground, spinning to one side, back again, zigzag movement, the instinct of good training. Logan looked through the periscope, fire, wreckage, men running, more smoke, a spray of dirt and steel. There was a hard punch, the sound of steel against steel, and the tank rose up sideways, fell back down, thick smoke boiling up inside. He heard a scream, the engine suddenly quiet, shouts, Gregg up again, the hatch open.

“Out! Now!”

Logan tried to stand, his lungs burning, blind, the tank thick with smoke, the captain’s voice again:

“Get out!”

He felt a hand on his shoulder, pulling his jacket, and he rose up, tried to stand, his hands reaching up for the opening, heat now, coming from below, black smoke blinding him. He climbed, felt for the hatchway, screaming all around him, and he felt Gregg lifting him out, the two men tumbling off the tank, hard landing, no air in his chest. He tried to breathe, fought to see, his eyes burning, choking fire in his lungs, fire on the tank, smoke boiling from the hatches. He tried to shout,
Get them out,
but nothing came, no words, choking tightness in his throat. He lay flat on the soft dirt, saw Gregg back up on the tank, leaning into the hatch, more screams, a burst of fire, searing heat rolling over him. Logan pushed with his legs, rolled over, away from the tank, thorny brush beneath him, his clothes ripped, blood on his hands. He found his breath again, tried to stand, was on his knees now, looked at the tank, boiling fire, Gregg tumbling off the hull, another shape falling with him, smoking black, collapsing on the ground. Logan moved closer, the heat too much, driving him away, Gregg lying flat, moving, trying to crawl. Logan pulled his jacket over his head, rushed forward, grabbed Gregg’s hand, pulled hard, burnt skin, the hand slipping away,
breaking,
Logan tumbling backward, another burst of fire, the tank consumed now, gasoline and gunpowder, the bodies of men.

“A
re you alive?”

Logan felt the jacket sliding down, opening his face to the cool air. He tried to open his eyes, saw shadowy shapes.

“Ah, so you are.”

He fought to see, the shapes growing clearer, men, standing over him. He took a breath, the cool air ripping the soreness in his throat, said, “Water.”

The man bent low. “Oh, not now. Sorry.”

He felt hands lifting him, his legs under him now, burning soreness in his feet. He blinked, could see more clearly, several trucks, black crosses, the smoldering wreck of the tank. The fire was in his throat now, and he said again, a question this time, “Water?”

The man said something, authoritative, an order, words Logan couldn’t understand. Then the man spoke to him again. “Prisoners will receive care in due time. Water too.”

Logan saw the man’s face now, the khaki hat, the uniform.
German.

“You are a fortunate man. But you will march now.”

T
hey were gathered into long columns, some with wounds, others pulled from their tanks at gunpoint, the men caught in the trap laid for them by the German panzers. Logan was led to a line of men, guarded by German soldiers, men with bayonets. The column was led by a small truck, followed by one armored car, a heavy machine gun perched above, trained on the Americans who could no longer make any kind of fight. They marched toward the rocky passes, the same place where Logan had seen his first German tank, where the shell from the thirty-seven had proved no match for the power of the far bigger machines.

He tried to see where they were going, but there was no strength, the thirst overpowering, his throat clamped shut, lungs still seared by fire. His steps were slow and automatic, like the men around him, driving themselves with what little remained of the energy they had brought to the fight. His thoughts drifted, fire and screams, smoke, the captain. He wondered if they were with him, somewhere, up ahead, far behind. Or if they were not. He had seen no one come out except the captain, and that one…body. He tried to clear his mind, thought, the others might have survived, escaping through the hatch, unseen in the fireball. Logan tried to hold that in his brain, said it aloud,
“They could have escaped.”

He tried to see it, Parnell and Baxter making it back to safety, uninjured, telling the story of what had happened. Logan had no idea what had hit the tank, a bomb, a shell from a German tank, artillery. What did it matter, after all? What did any of it matter? He pushed one foot in front of the other, aching soreness in his feet, squinted toward the hills ahead. He tried to count the men in the column, but his mind wouldn’t see anymore, his brain not working beyond the simple footsteps. He struggled to ask questions, simple thoughts, where are we going? Are they going to shoot us? Maybe just put us behind some wire. And then what? Will they let us go? Send us home? He thought of the tank again, the marvelous machine, the men in his crew, good men, more,
friends.
Will I see them…? In front of him, a man fell, blood on the man’s pants, a German pulling him off the road, a pistol in the German’s hand. Logan would not look, closed his eyes, one foot moving in front of the other.

T
he prisoners were marched away from the battleground, across the wide expanse that spread out in all directions, tank crews and artillerymen joined by columns of infantry, the men who had been trapped in the djebels, the rocky, high ground, unable to fight their way to safety. Behind them, what remained of the American counterattack streamed westward in a desperate escape, men abandoning their broken machines, some retreating with no order, little more than a panicked mob. Those who reached the American defenses were helped by those who still manned the passes, ambulances and medics, shocked officers and desperately nervous troops, who now eyed the German advance with a growing sense of hopelessness, the wave of fear creeping through the ranks that they had stumbled into a hell they could not withstand, that they had finally come face-to-face with the man named Rommel.

In the command posts, the senior officers tried to gather information, tried to communicate with anyone who might still be an organized force, to rally any hope that somewhere around Sidi Bou Zid, somewhere east of Sbeïtla, there was enough organized resistance that the Germans might still be driven back. Scattered fights still raged, smoke and fire dotting the ground, men with rifles and antitank guns making a last effort to stand tall in the face of German armor. But the commanders knew how utterly complete the disaster had been, and so they began to draw new lines, searching the maps for the best route of escape, pulling the men and their machines back to a new defensive position, a place that might still keep the German wave from rolling completely through western Tunisia. The last stout ridge of rocky hills was called the Western Dorsale, the last place where Rommel’s army might still be contained. The American commanders held out hope that the passes could be held, the roads that led to the key towns of Tébessa and Thala, beyond a small village close to the primary pass, named for that gap in the hills. It was the place that would give its name to this entire campaign. The commanders and the soldiers who made their retreat through the place would always remember the name. It was Kasserine Pass.