17. LOGAN

NEAR SOUK EL KHEMIS, TUNISIA
CHRISTMAS 1942

“I think I got trench foot.”

Logan was in no mood for Parnell’s complaining. “You ever actually been in a trench?”

Parnell examined the crust of mud on his boots. “Well, no. Not here anyway.”

“And, trench foot is all about feet, not boots. I’m betting your feet are all pearly pink. But don’t show me.”

Parnell scraped at the mud, seemed to ignore Logan’s logic. “Boots are ruined. Shoulda left ’em in the tank and gone barefoot. Hell, back home, it rains like this, which ain’t often, nobody wears shoes.”

“Don’t give me that. Where you come from, nobody wears shoes at all.”

Parnell puffed up now, pointed to Logan. “Shows how much you know. You go steppin’ on a prickly pear, or a damned scorpion, you’ll wear shoes every day, including Sunday.”

Logan leaned back against a fat rock, pulled at his jacket, tried to hold away the wet chill. They sat beneath a canvas shelter, tin plates between them, what was left of a dinner of C rations. To one side, Baxter was poking the black skeleton of a barely flickering fire, smoke drifting past him, out through an opening above his head. He dropped his tool, a thin stick, said, “Too wet. Nothing gonna burn.”

Logan looked at him, saw frowning frustration, thought, that’s the first thing he’s said all day. Maybe all week. They sat in rare silence, Parnell occupied again with chipping mud off his boots. Logan looked up, stared at the darkening canvas, thought of his blanket, rolled up in the storage bin of the tank. The tanks were parked in staggered rows a hundred yards away, camouflaged by an uneven carpet of netting and canvas. Around them, men had built shelters, dug holes into whatever dry place they could find, anyplace uphill from the flowing mud. He hadn’t been to the tank since that morning, a routine firing of the engine, the oil and fuel trucks coming through to service as many of the machines as they could. The service had been done mostly at night, but over the past few days the rains had grown heavy again, thick gray skies darkening to black, the skies free of bombers, so that work could be completed during the day. Obviously, the weather had finally become too much for the Germans. The daily bombing runs had stopped, a blessed relief to the antiaircraft gunners, who could actually spend their shifts under some kind of shelter.

Parnell pounded his foot on a rock, dislodging a chunk of hard mud from his heel. “I’d sure like a cup of coffee.”

Logan reached down, tossed him the small can from the remains of the C rations. “Here. You can have mine.”

Parnell looked at the can, made a sour face. “Can’t drink this stuff. Whoever heard of coffee you don’t have to cook? I’m not so sure this is coffee anyway. I heard talk it’s more like ground-up animals and stuff.”

“I’ve heard you’re an idiot. So give it back. You’ll wish you had this stuff when we’re out in the field somewhere. Mix it up right in your canteen.”

Parnell tossed the can back to Logan. “Nasty stuff. I’d rather drink mud. Right now, I want coffee, the real thing. How ’bout you, Pete? I’ll buy, you go get it, Jack.”

Baxter ignored him, stared at the failure of a campfire, seemed lost in thought. Logan tossed the can of instant coffee into the pile of tin plates, alongside the empty cans, some kind of meat and bean stew. He felt a rumbling in his stomach, thought, he’s right, dammit. Powdered coffee. Leave it to the army. I’ll never tell him that though. We ever run out of ammo, I’ll just shoot that stuff at the enemy. Logan shivered, was truly missing his blanket now, said, “I’m not filling my boots full of water for a damned cup of coffee. My feet are cold enough now. You want it, get it yourself.”

Parnell grunted. “They need waitresses out here. They’d make some pretty good tips about now.”

Baxter seemed to wake up, pulled himself to his feet, his hands pushing up against the low canvas ceiling.

“I’ll go. Gotta hit the latrine anyway.”

Parnell slapped Baxter’s leg as he moved past him. “Good boy. Bring a whole damned pot if they’ll let you.”

There were heavy footsteps, the edge of the canvas tossed back, a spray of mud and rainwater. It was Hutchinson, the man ducking in quickly, stepping right onto Baxter’s futile campfire.

“Damn! This is some fun!”

Logan shielded himself from the chilly waterfall that seemed to roll off the man. “What you find out?”

Hutchinson shook himself, rubbed his hands together. “No campfire? What the hell?”

Baxter moved past him. “Nothing will burn. I’m getting coffee.”

Hutchinson sat, pulled off his jacket. “Not for me. Had ten cups. Headquarters had the biggest pot I ever saw. That’s why I’m shaking. That, or this wonderful A-rab winter.”

Baxter ducked out, was gone now, and Logan said again, “What you find out?”

Hutchinson shook the water from his jacket. “No go. There are some Shermans coming up, but we’re not getting them, not yet anyway. They’re parceling them out between our boys and the Brits. Just not enough of them to go around.”

Parnell rubbed his back against a rock. “Well, hell, you might figure the limeys will get first crack. I knew I shoulda said something to Ike: ‘Hey, we’re Americans, you know. You’re shipping brand-new tanks over here just to give ’em to somebody else.’ Ain’t right.”

Hutchinson wiped mud from his hands. “Yeah, Buffalo Bill, that’s what you should have done. The Old Man comes up here to see how we’re doing, and you’d just turn the tank right into his path, stop him cold. I’d like to watch you chew out General Eisenhower. I’m sure that would have changed everything.” Hutchinson shifted his weight, tried to find a comfortable place to lean, the rocks jutting out in mostly sharp angles. “The captain made a good case for us. Told the brass that our damned thirty-sevens are no more than popguns. The Shermans have seventy-fives, which according to the brass is about the only thing we got that can stand up to the Krauts. But for now, we gotta make do.” Hutchinson looked at Logan. “Make every shot count. Hit ’em in the treads, or, better yet, we try to flank them, put a shell into their ass end.”

Logan stared at the ground. “Ridiculous. They send us into a fight with a gun that can’t kill anybody.”

“I don’t want to hear that crap. You’re a good shot, so…make good shots. There’s nothing a Stuart can’t do. We can outmaneuver and outrun anything the Krauts have.”

Logan let the words fill his brain, wouldn’t say them out loud. Outrun. That may be a good thing.

Hutchinson was still looking at him. “There’s something else. Colonel Todd was killed. Artillery shell hit him when he was outside his tank.”

Logan sat up straight. “Where?”

“With the French, up near Pont du Fahs.”

Parnell said, “Where the hell is that?”

Hutchinson spit a spray of water toward Parnell’s feet. “Does it matter?”

“No, I guess not. Damned shame.”

“General Ward’s supposed to be up here tonight. The whole damned division is heading out this way. Lots of talk about what’s coming.”

The canvas rolled back again, Baxter breathing heavily, shouting, “Out here! They need some help!”

He was gone again, and Hutchinson scrambled to his feet, Logan as well, the two men moving out into thick, wet air. Men were gathering near the road, a jeep turned up on its side, half-buried in a narrow ditch. Others were down in the muck, pulling at the driver, the man screaming, someone else shouting, “Medic! Get a medic!”

Hutchinson jumped down into the ditch, Logan following, mud and water up over his knees, the men pushing against the jeep.

“It’s stuck! Push again!”

They worked in unison now, the jeep rocking, more screams from the driver, the men at Logan’s feet yelling, “Got him! He’s free!”

They pulled the man up and out of the ditch, medics there now, the man’s screams calming to a soft whimper. The jeep suddenly gave way, the mud loosening, the jeep rolling upright. A heavy wave of mud and water washed over Logan, and he tried to pull himself out of the ditch, felt a hand under his arm, a hard pull. He wiped the sludge from his eyes, saw Hutchinson staring down at the injured driver, soft words on Hutchinson’s lips.

“Oh, dear God.”

Logan wiped at his face, fought to see, the medics close beside him, the driver still making soft, shivering noises, medics talking in low, hushed voices. Logan saw now, the man’s leg was gone, cut off at the knee, blood flowing into the mud, a black stream oozing into the ditch. The man began to shake, a low sound from his throat, a single note, then a choking cough, a soft rattle. Then he was silent. The medics still worked, a white cloth turned filthy wrapping the stump of a leg. Logan ignored the rain, the dirty water in his boots, soaking his pants and shirt. He stared at the man’s bloody pants leg, felt sick, weak in the knees, but Hutchinson still held him, no one speaking.

A man moved close beside Logan, older, an officer, said, “He’s done for. Let him be.”

A medic looked up, and Logan saw tears, red eyes, the man still working the bandage.

The officer said, “Let him be, soldier. Get a stretcher. You boys jump down there. We need to find his leg. It has to be in that mudhole, right there. A man oughta be buried with all his parts.”

Logan stared down at the silent face of the driver, the dead man’s mouth open, soft rain wetting his face.

T he rains had grown lighter, glimpses of sunlight through broken clouds. The mud was there still, filling the roadways, the ditches, trapping more jeeps and more trucks, spraying filth on any man who tried to walk near the roadways. The First Armored was growing stronger every day, new tanks and half-tracks making their way on the one fragile rail line, machines assembled and fueled and oiled at the gathering points, where the crews would mount up, driving them to the east.

Logan rolled the canvas cloth into a fat roll, Parnell on the other side, Baxter waiting to help them hoist the heavy cloth into the metal chest on the stern of the tank. Hutchinson was up in the turret, testing the hand crank, moving the gun barrel in a slow, wide arc. No one spoke, each man holding his thoughts, what might happen now, what a change in the weather might bring. Orders had cut through the rumors that in a few days there would be a new advance, and the rumors had grown louder that the armor was going hard for the seacoast, to drive a wedge into the German position. Logan had ignored the talk, tried to take himself somewhere else, someplace where the sun shone brightly, where a man could walk on a silent stretch of beach and not be afraid of anything. The fantasy was foolish, the dreamy thoughts broken by the face of the young jeep driver, the missing leg, by the men who knelt in the thick ooze to put their hands on the missing piece of the dead soldier. But the nightmares came more from the face of the medic, a young man with soft red eyes, crying for a man he could not save. Medics don’t cry, he thought. Medics are cold and precise and do their job without emotion. He carried the image everywhere he went now, a medic reacting with grief, a man trained for a job he was not yet prepared to do.

Baxter tightened the last cord around the canvas, and Hutchinson climbed up out of the turret, stood high above them, waiting for them to climb aboard. They had no orders to confront the enemy today, would simply move forward, establishing a new tank park, a new camp, making room for the units coming up from behind. One by one they jumped up on the tank hull, Parnell and Baxter dropping down inside the turret, moving forward, opening their hatches. Logan was up as well, stopped, stared down into the turret, to his seat at the breech of the gun.

“Go on, Jack. Mount up.”

Logan gripped the hatchway with both hands, took a breath, glanced up, across the rows of tanks, half-tracks, and armored trucks moving into line. He watched as the oil trucks moved away, could see muddy piles of C-ration cans, slit trenches, and deep ruts across the rocky, open ground. He ignored Hutchinson, repeated a thought that had rolled through his mind many times before. One little tank, a tiny piece of power in a vast machine, an entire army rolling into place, generals making their next great plan. Hutchinson put a hand on Logan’s shoulder.

“You okay?”

Logan looked into Hutchinson’s eyes, saw the medic again, fought against the thought, the nightmare that had come to him every night since the jeep driver had died. Are we ready for this? Do we know what will happen when we face a real enemy?

He blinked, tried to clear away the image, swung a leg over the side of the hatchway, said, “Yep. I’m fine. Let’s go find some Krauts.”