21. LOGAN

NEAR SBEÏTLA, TUNISIA
FEBRUARY 14, 1943, LATE NIGHT

T hey camped in an olive grove, men finding sleep anyplace they could, some still inside their tanks. Logan found no sleep at all, leaned up against the gnarled trunk of an ancient olive tree, watched as trucks and armored vehicles rolled past. They had been coming up all night long, spreading out on the primary roads, moving toward what he could only guess were jumping-off points designated on maps that hung on walls in the command posts far behind them.

He reached for the canteen, empty, was suddenly furious, wanted to toss it away, fling it into the night. He gripped it hard in his hand, tried to crush it with his fingers. He looked at the faint reflection in the dull tin, remembered the foxhole, the sandstorm, Hutchinson offering him the sandy water. Logan stuffed the canteen back into the canvas holder on his belt.

“You want some coffee?”

The voice surprised him, Logan suddenly aware that he was not alone in the world, or even in the olive grove.

“Who’s there?”

The man came close, and Logan saw the coffee cup, held close to him, the voice again, Baxter.

“Here. Half a cup left. They were getting ready to pour it out. Some food truck back there a ways. Jackass sergeant figured he wasn’t wanting any, so why should anybody else have it.”

Logan took the cup, barely warm, and he drank, ignored the bitterness.

Baxter said, “The rain’s coming back in the next day or so. Maybe. Heard somebody, some officer, talking to somebody else. We been lucky, he says. Good fighting weather. I didn’t stick around, afraid I might have broken somebody’s jaw, some lamebrained lieutenant colonel. What the hell was good about today?”

Logan finished the coffee, handed Baxter the cup, said nothing.

Baxter sat, faced him. “More Shermans supposed to be here by morning. Be damned sight better than the Stuart, I guess. Parnell oughta be happy. The Sherman’s slower, but a whole lot of horsepower compared to the Stuart. Be nice to load something heavier than the thirty-seven.”

The image had stayed with Logan, the streaking trail from the shell of the thirty-seven, the impact of the high-explosive round, a burst of fire against the turret of the German tank with all the impact of a fiery snowball. Logan laid his head back against the rough tree bark, said, “Gregg came by again, hour or so ago. His crew got pretty shot up. We’ll be with him now. We’ll be the lead tank. Again.”

“So, Skip’ll get to drive his Sherman, and you get to shoot the seventy-five.”

“Yep.”

They sat for a long moment, the silence broken by another column of trucks, the clattering steel of a half-track.

Baxter lay flat on the ground, seemed to stretch his back. “Hard to remember what he looked like.”

Logan turned toward Baxter, the man’s face hidden by the darkness, knew he could only be talking about Hutchinson.

“Not me. I’ll never forget him. His blood’s still under my fingernails.” Logan paused, felt anger again, the same anger he had felt since the tank had drawn away from the fight. “Damned fool. He rode us into battle like some kid at a county fair, eyes full of the wonder of it all. Forgot how to be a soldier. So, he got himself killed for being stupid.”

Baxter sat up again, seemed to look around, searching the darkness. “You know damned well he was the best tank commander in the regiment. There was a whole lot more stupid going on today than what happened to Hutch. There’s more than the usual bitching, you can hear it everywhere. Even General Ward’s not smelling too rosy.”

Logan closed his eyes, desperate for sleep. “Fine. The best tank commander in the regiment got killed because he wouldn’t keep his head down. Yeah, bitching about it’s not gonna change anything. It’s not my job to worry about who’s making decisions back there.”

“No, we’ll leave that to Skip. Here he comes.”

Logan saw the shadow, heavy boots punching the ground between the olive trees. Parnell stopped, searched the darkness for a moment, said, “Jack! Pete! Where the hell you at?”

The shout split the silence, and curses rolled out of the grove, sleeping men responding to the rude intrusion.

Baxter said, “Over here, Skip. Shut up before somebody shoots you.”

Parnell dropped down heavily, leaned close, his voice in a low, conspiratorial whisper. “We lost a bunch of officers today. There’s hell to pay at HQ. Fredenhall and Ward are having at each other like two bobcats in a burlap bag. If we don’t kick some ass tomorrow, word is, the big brass is done for. Word is, Ike will send a bunch of ’em home.”

Baxter lay back down. “Whose word? Yours?”

“Fine. Ignore good intelligence. I picked it up from somebody who was hanging close to Colonel Stack. There’s some pissed-off people at Division, lots of finger-pointing. We got our butts tossed in a hog trough today. What we shoulda done…”

Parnell’s voice was digging into Logan, probing the angry place, annoyance growing into fury, rising up like a long, low, thundering wave, a bolt of lightning in his brain. He lunged forward, grabbed Parnell’s throat, rolled him backward.

“Shut up! Shut up! What the hell do you know?”

The Texan made a hard choking sound, and Logan kept squeezing, his eyes clamped shut, his fury surging into his hands, fingers digging hard into the man’s throat. He ignored the pulling on his shoulders, his mind erasing the loud voices around him.

“Hey!”

“Stop it!”

“Get off him!”

He kept his grip tight on Parnell’s throat, the man writhing, twisting frantically beneath him, Logan’s eyes still closed, blind to the man’s wide-eyed terror. Hands gripped his arms now, pulling him back, and he felt a jab of steel punched against his temple.

“Let him go or I’ll blow your brains out!”

Logan froze, his hands loosening, hanging in the air. Parnell fell back, limp, choking, coughing violently, and Logan felt the hard steel pushing against him, felt himself pulled back to his knees, hard fingers still gripping his arms. The steel stayed against his head, and now the voice of Gregg:

“I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you dead.”

Low voices came through the darkness.

“It’s okay, Captain.”

“Captain…it’s over.”

Gregg stepped back, slid the pistol into his belt, stood over Logan for a long silent moment. “Get hold of yourself, soldier. You hear me?”

Logan stayed on his knees, felt himself shaking, fear, sadness, fought the urge to cry. He watched as the others helped Parnell to his feet. He felt the guilt now, the sadness overwhelming, was suddenly sorry for Parnell, just a loudmouthed Texan, so completely helpless…like Hutchinson.

“I’m sorry. Lost my head, Captain. Won’t happen again.”

Gregg said something, moved away, the others scattering as well. They were alone again, and Parnell sat slowly, kept his distance from Logan. Logan watched him, felt drained, weak, rubbed his temple, where Gregg had pressed the .45. He would have killed me, he thought. He would have. What the hell’s the matter with us?

He watched Parnell, the man still gasping for air. “I’m sorry, Skip. You okay?”

Parnell took a raspy breath. “What’d I say, Jack? Didn’t mean to rile you.”

Baxter said, “It was nothing you said, Skip.” He leaned close to Logan, put a hand on his shoulder. “Jack’s just mad, is all. The captain’s mad. We’re all mad. Best we save it for the morning.”

T he American commanders had drawn the obvious conclusion that, since the enemy had not continued their pursuit of the battered American armor, the enemy’s immediate goal would be the mopping up of the American infantry, hundreds of men stranded high up on the djebels, the islands of tall rock in the wide valleys now firmly controlled by German armor and increasing numbers of infantry. In the Allied command centers, what Parnell had heard was finger-pointing, the passing of blame, evolving into urgency, to stop whatever thrust the Germans intended to make. West of Sidi Bou Zid, the good roads led straight to key supply dumps and airfields, critical positions spaced far apart, causing the American defenses to be stretched thin, protecting the different routes the Germans might strike. To counter their vulnerability, the Americans intended to push hard toward recapturing the area around Sidi Bou Zid, hoping to rescue the infantry, as well as to drive the German armor back through the mountain passes to the east.

At dawn, the armor rolled forward again, this time in a different formation, a more narrow column, the pointed shape of a V. The tanks led the way, followed closely by antitank guns, half-tracks, armored trucks heavy with fresh troops. The land between Sbeïtla and Sidi Bou Zid was more cut up than the billiard table flatness they had experienced farther east, steep-sided wadis that ran thick with muddy water, soft boggy holes that could trap anyone trying to cross. The tight formations allowed the tanks to approach the uneven ground on a narrow front, saving them time as they moved toward the roughest ground, where the scouts and engineers had found the good crossings. If they moved quickly, they could cover the ten miles toward Sidi Bou Zid and surprise the enemy forces, the enemy who might still be reveling in their complete victory from the day before.

T he Sherman was larger, a crew of five, the fifth man serving as loader for the seventy-five. His name was Hapner, a familiar face from the battalion, the only man from Gregg’s crew who had not been wounded. There had been no conversation, no time that morning for anything but a quick handshake, a brief polite greeting, silent acknowledgment that they shared the searing sadness, the loss of a friend.

Logan had little time to enjoy the luxury of the larger tank, focused mostly on the gunsight, not so different from what he was accustomed to in the Stuart. He had watched Baxter, the man settling himself forward in the hull, running his hands over the heavy seventy-five-millimeter shells, stacked in every nook of the hull. Baxter had looked back at him, tapping the shells, a silent nod, both men feeling that, finally, they might have something to say about the German armor.

The tank rocked in a slower rhythm, and Logan could feel the weight, a thicker, more massive machine, none of the quick, sharp bounce of the Stuart. Above him, perched on the turret, was a fifty-caliber machine gun, one more bit of power the Stuart didn’t have. He fingered his own machine gun, a thirty that pointed out through the turret, parallel to the big gun, peered out through the periscope, the Sherman’s scope rotating more freely than the Stuart’s, giving him more visibility, a clearer field of fire. He ran his hand over the ammunition belt, the guns all loaded, as they had been the morning before. He tried not to remember yesterday, but the images wouldn’t leave him, too many hours spent in the tight spaces in the Stuart. He felt utterly foolish now for ever believing that they had been so powerful, rolling into battle with so much pride in their machine. He was angry and embarrassed at himself for his moronic glee at the adventure of it all, eager to fire his popgun at an enemy who understood what power really meant.

As they climbed up into the tank, he had tried to avoid Captain Gregg, and Gregg had seemed to do the same with him. The captain was behind him, up in the turret, as Hutchinson had been, guiding Parnell through difficult ground, leading the formation of tanks forward to find targets. Gregg had said nothing about the night before, his explosive response to the fight, not really a fight at all. After a short hour of sleep, they had gathered to find the coffee and cold rations, and there had been none of the excitement, no big talkers from the morning before. Even Parnell had been quiet, no chatter, nothing at all. Logan still felt the guilt of that, that he had really hurt the man, the big mouth who was only annoying, and certainly harmless. But he realized now, there was nothing harmless about Captain Gregg. Logan could not forget the feel of the .45 pushed against his temple, the cold steel in the man’s words, I’ll kill you dead. Officers didn’t do that sort of thing, but that was a rule that came from above, from books, some vague code of conduct. Logan had always seen Gregg as the perfect soldier, the broad-chested portrait of the brave warrior on the recruiting poster, the man with no fear, inspiring his men to conquer any foe. Logan glanced to one side, saw the man’s boot, the khaki pants, did not look up to the open turret. What happens now? He’s probably embarrassed too, knows he crossed the line. Hell, I’m not going to say anything about it, not to anybody. If he’d have killed me…well, I guess someone would have done something about that. He bent low, looked at Parnell’s back. And if I’d have killed you. Jesus, they’d probably hang me.

Logan stared out through the periscope now, saw a low thicket of brush, tall rocks beyond, the near ground falling away. Gregg’s voice came, the first words the man had said in long minutes.

“Driver, follow that trail to the left. The maps show a crossing. Slow it down.”

Parnell responded, “Yes, sir.”

Logan expected more, well, no, not now. No jabbering to the captain. We’re not a damned cozy little family anymore.

The tank slowed to a crawl, and Gregg said, “Move down. Follow those tracks. The others will follow.” He spoke into the radio, and Logan tried to see behind them, knew better than to turn the turret without the captain expecting it. The tank eased into soft sand, the wadi no more than fifty yards wide, a shallow bank on the far side. Parnell guided the tank to the incline, gunned the engine, the tank now lurching up, flattening out on hard ground again.

They pushed through the brush, and Gregg shouted into the intercom, “Krauts! Button up!”

Parnell and Baxter shut their hatches, and Logan expected Gregg to drop down close behind him, but the main hatch stayed open, and Logan stared up, felt a cold chill cutting through him. Outside the turret the fifty-caliber began to fire, and Logan thought, what the hell? He stared ahead, searched the flat ground for targets, saw nothing. The fifty fired again, hard chatter right above him, and Logan searched frantically, still nothing. What the hell is he shooting at? The tank jumped now, dust blowing past, the fifty firing again, flickers and flashes of light, the muzzle fire from more machine guns, more fifties firing from behind them. There were heavy thumps, clouds of sand, and he saw now, black shapes, moving fast, just above the ground, disappearing quickly to one side. Bombers.

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.