The Right Fight

by Chris Lynch

  I get nothing.

  Check that. I get furious.

  I grab sweet Pacifico with both of my hands and heave him, like a butcher with a dead carcass, out of his seat and over onto my side. I can feel him crash and crumple as I jam him into my seat and force him onto the controls. Right now I don’t have the time or the humanity for niceties as I apply myself to the task of killing.

  “Switch!” I roar, just to be sure he gets my point.

  He doesn’t need to hear it three times, fortunately. He stares straight ahead, holding the steering levers like they are his life. I am at the machine gun, sighting through my scope, locating the right plane and riddling it, murdering it beyond dead, then turning to the two valiant monsters who are right beside it, each down on one knee, taking aim at me that I can see so, so clearly in their eyes. I kill them, two of them, and I know it, and they know it, and when they fall I am looking into them just as they are looking into me and I keep on firing. Take that with you, I say, as they go all the way down and I shoot them even further, down into the next world. Take that with you, if you don’t mind.

  Pacifico pats my shoulder, just like I do when he’s in this seat. I turn to him, and I mouth more than vocalize.

  “That’s one,” I say, holding up an index finger between us. “I don’t expect there to be a two.”

  He just shakes his head, no, no, no and sad, sad, sad, and right now he seems more scared of me than he does of the bad guys.

  We’re not Navy — thank goodness — but waters seem to dictate our movements. First it’s coastline, now this river. We receive our orders to follow it, once we get across, follow it south, even though Tunis is not south, and the mountain range that must be crossed is not south. But there is something like a vision emerging, that we need to spread this line of ours a bit. And so we do, and we do so, if I may say so, fairly successfully.

  We make fairly steady progress running parallel with the river, keeping the infamous mountain range to our left. Operating almost like an independent army, our three tank units and two artillery platoons are well matched for most configurations we run into. We have more firepower than the light tank and infantry units we come across. We have more versatility, options, and, frankly, speed than the heavily armored outfits. We have managed to avoid direct confrontations with any of the more legendary elements of the armored Afrika Korps, with their panzers and antitank high velocity 88-mm cannons.

  Then, as we near Christmas, we get a present. Or possibly become one.

  In a situation not unlike when we rolled right on top of the unguarded airfield, we reach another lightly wooded rise at just about the southernmost point of what is our established line of defense. The run south from here is going to be a long stretch of fairly unknown territory all the way down to Kasserine, about two hundred miles away.

  With this already on everyone’s minds, we are maybe a little bit distracted when we all but run into the flank of a showdown already in progress.

  An American light tank company, frighteningly isolated somehow out here where they don’t belong, have been confronted by a group of eight panzers, each fitted with a monster 88-mm cannon. Our Shermans carry only 75s, and our light tanks — like I drove in the Carolina Maneuvers — are equipped with only these stubby 37-mm pop guns, meaning this figures to get real ugly, real fast.

  As the panzers approach across the field, I am aware once again that stealth and geography are the most potent weapons in the whole war business. We are shaded, on a low rise so that while unseen, we still have a good shot.

  Commander Cowens gets the word in his ear and this time there is no setup.

  “Fire!”

  We unload, the tanks pounding down the 75s, the 81-mm mortars doing their bit, and the other artillery platoon unveiling their latest greatest, the British-made twenty-five-pound shells, which are every bit as bruising as they sound.

  We surely catch the panzers by surprise, because the confusion is written all over their moves. Big turrets turn like petrified elephants with arthritis, and they can’t seem to decide who’s going to shoot up at us and who’s going to clobber the little M-3s. Three of them, then four, apparently decide that we are the bigger problem, and then a fifth joins in as we continue to hit them with our best. We’ve scored a number of hits already, and the retaliation is coming. Because we are doing damage down there. One twenty-five-pounder has hammered right into the side of one panzer, just above the sprocket. It’s penetrated, and there is fire. Fire in a tank of any size is lethal, and crew are bailing right out onto the field.

  Puuuh-whooosh-ppooom!

  Holy moly. One of those 88s sails no more than three feet over our heads, and blasts a tree behind us. The tree is gone. The air is gone; we could feel it leave before the thing even hit.

  Those guns are as advertised.

  But we have the leverage, and it’s working. We’re rocking them, holding and pressing and winning.

  Puuuuwhooom-boom.

  It’s a total crater that’s created, in the earth on the downslope just ahead of my tank and we are now mud-sledding forward.

  “Bucyk!” Cowens yells.

  I’m already on it. I am pulling back hard, and the Sherman’s engine is grinding it out with me. But the tracks are having no luck getting a purchase in the muddy earth as it floods away from us and we move forward, down into that valley of death. I hear the guys gasping, trying not to, yelling me encouragement, but the more I try to make the tank maneuver, the more it gets away, and we are going down.

  The light tanks, which have been offering the panzers little more than annoyance and distraction, now move like a crack, coordinated veteran unit. They charge as one toward the big beasts, who catch on a tick too late and struggle to swing back their way.

  I notice, now, the only negative I can see in these creatures. They have so much top-heavy power that rotating the turret is a ponderous machination. Their machine guns rattle the smaller tanks, but it’s not enough. Half the light tanks hold back, while the other half make a bold run around the left flank, opposite us, pulling panzer fire along with them. The light tanks, crazy courageous as they are, have come dangerously close before running wide.

  The panzers look like they are swinging bats, but the bats are telephone poles.

  They are open now, vulnerable, caught between the medium tanks up high and the light tanks below. And to my thrilled amazement, I watch while we slide forward down that muddy slope, and all the inferior machines lay it all in there, throwing every ton of ordnance at them, relentless as a pack of hyenas and just as deadly.

  We take down the great beasts, destroying two, and watch the rest retreat across the field into their safe territory, backing up all the way with their 88s in our faces but their tails between their legs.

  We may just know what we’re doing here.

  My Dearest Dope,

  Of course we can have them over to dinner. I’ll start preparing for them right away. Should it be in the dining room, with the good china and crystal, or maybe something more informal on the patio? They sound more like a patio bunch, I think. That way, you can be out there barbecuing, with the dogs and Little Roman scurrying about in the sunshine while you and your pals tell all your old war stories.

  I’m playing with you, of course. I’m not sure how much time there is for playing over there but no matter how much time there is it’s not enough. Your friends sound like a grand group of guys, and I have been picturing them in my head already. I think it might be fun if I sketch them for you before you come home, and then we can see how close I got when we can finally compare. My drawing is not very good, but we’ll all get a great laugh out of it, I’m sure. I’m thinking Commander Cowens looks like Gary Cooper. Or maybe Alan Ladd. Am I in the ballpark? Gosh, I hope so. (Just kidding. Mostly.)

  Speaking of Hollywood, I went out to the pictures twice last month, which I haven’t done at all since you left. But since two of the big new features were called Road to Morocco and Casablanca, I thou
ght I should have a look at what you’ve been up to. From here it appears that it’s either very silly, or very romantic over there. Which certainly contradicted the newsreels that ran just before the films.

  I have to apologize for the briefness of my last letter. I was a bit emotional. I meant what I said, though.

  I hope the enclosed clipping makes up for it. I think it’s wonderful that the Eastern Shore Sportswriters Association continues to hold their annual banquet, don’t you? And that players the likes of Jimmie Foxx and Bill Nicholson make the time to appear at someplace as glamorous as the Easton Firehouse. But that’s Maryland folk for you. (I underlined the part where they mentioned your name. Knowing your newfound modesty, I wasn’t sure you would locate it on your own. I was shamelessly proud on your behalf, however.)

  My experience with the WAAC has been about as thrilling and fulfilling as it could be, short of my actually being the pilot I wanted to be. Roman, I am an air traffic controller now, at the Newcastle, Delaware airfield. It is demanding and important work, and I am deeply involved in the WAFS program that I signed up for to begin with. Guiding those pilots safely in and out of this busy airstrip every day makes me feel a part of both teams (the Auxiliary Ferrying Squad as well as the Army Auxiliary Corps). I wish I had time to describe everybody here, but I’m sure you already get what I mean.

  One’s team. We appreciate true teamwork, you and I.

  We are great team players, are we not?

  We’ll be a great team ourselves, when the dust finally settles on all this.

  All my love,

  Corporal Hannah

  P.S. Don’t worry about those stripes of mine. There is no rank between us.

  MY DEAR HANNAH,

  THINGS ARE GOING VERY WELL HERE. CONSTANT PROGRESS, AND I AM COMFORTED BY MY SCAPULAR, AND THOUGHTS OF WHO GAVE IT TO ME, ON A DAILY BASIS.

  AS YOU KNOW, I CANNOT SAY TOO MUCH ABOUT WHAT WE ARE UP TO RIGHT NOW. YOU KNOW IN GENERAL TERMS ABOUT WHERE I AM, BUT I CAN’T BE MORE SPECIFIC THAN THAT RIGHT NOW. LET’S JUST SAY THAT I CAN SEE THE GOALS, AND I CAN SEE OUR CLEAR AND STEADY PROGRESS TOWARD THEM. I THINK IF A SOLDIER HAS THOSE TWO THINGS THEN HE SHOULD BE ABLE TO DO HIS JOB EFFECTIVELY, AND IF HE CAN’T THEN IT’S HIS OWN FAULT.

  MY CREW CONTINUES TO BE A TOP-NOTCH BUNCH, DEDICATED TO THE RIGHT FIGHT. WE ARE ALL DETERMINED THAT WE WILL SEE IT THROUGH TO THE LIBERATION OF THE WORLD FROM THE MESS THAT IT’S IN. COMMANDER COWENS FOUGHT WITH THE ABRAHAM LINCOLN BRIGADE ON THE REPUBLICAN SIDE OF THE SPANISH CIVIL WAR. HE SAYS THAT WHENEVER HE CATCHES A FASCIST HE BITES THEIR HEAD OFF LIKE CATS DO WITH BIRDS. I KNOW IT SOUNDS UNPLEASANT, BUT THE REST OF US HAVE AGREED THAT WE ARE LOOKING FORWARD TO SEEING IT. ONCE, ANYWAY.

  I WILL ADMIT, THOUGH, THAT THE ROAD IS LONG, AND IT WILL TEST A MAN. BUT AS LONG AS I KNOW THAT YOU ARE AT THE END OF THAT ROAD (WITH A FEW SIGNIFICANT STOPS ALONG THE WAY FOR ME TO SEE TO SOME OVERDUE BUSINESS WITH A CERTAIN BUNCH OF MUGS WHO’VE HAD IT COMING TO THEM), THEN I WILL STEP LIGHTLY ALONG IT.

  I HOPE IT IS ALL RIGHT THAT I TAKE THIS AS MY TURN TO BE BRIEF. JUST THINK OF ALL THE STORIES I’M HOLDING BACK RIGHT NOW, THAT I CAN THRILL YOU WITH SOMEDAY SOON.

  I HAD NOT HEARD ABOUT BILL THOMAS, SO I AM GLAD YOU LET ME KNOW. BILL WAS A GOOD MAN, AND A GOOD HITTER.

  I’M EXTREMELY PROUD OF YOU JOINING THE WAACS. IF THERE’S ONE PERSON WHO COULD WIN THIS THING FROM THE EASTERN SHORE, IT’S YOU. WAAC ’EM GOOD FOR ME, SOLDIER.

  HUMBLY YOURS (HOW’M I DOIN’?),

  ROMAN

  I would never lie to Hannah. Unless I felt it was for the best.

  I didn’t lie when I told her it was steady progress. It was, at the time.

  But as of right now, it’s more like the old joke: It’s not a lie, it’s just a truth that hasn’t happened yet.

  We have gotten bogged down. In the unreliable weather, and in the ever-shifting arrangements and alignments that seem to be standard operating procedure when it comes to multination warfare in the north of the African continent. If such a thing as standard operating procedure existed here, which it seems not to.

  “This is how it’s going to go on forever, if somebody doesn’t take this thing by the reins,” Commander Cowens howls as we hump along yet another uneven, crater-holed track, on the way to another Tunisian outpost that’s supposed to be important but turns out to be just as indifferent to us and the global situation as the last one. My driving skills are getting sharper all the time, but I’m not sure anything else about the team is at the moment. There is a frustrating, repetitive futility to the days now, which are stretching way beyond what we expected the Tunisian campaign to entail. Stuff that we had gotten used to being accomplished within days is now taking us months.

  Months.

  Geographically, we’ve moved a lot since we crossed into the country in November. We are well onto the eastern side of the Atlas Mountains, which was one of our primary objectives. But it seems the farther we get, the more II Corps gets watered down by higher command trying to cover and hold more and more positions with the same numbers of troops, artillery, and armor.

  “Leave it to Lloyd,” Logan chirps, launching one of our new and dangerous games for killing time — provoking Cowens.

  “Oh, General Ward, too,” Cowens says. “Don’t forget Ward. He’s in charge of the division, remember. And the only thing worse than being a know-nothing numbskull like Fredendall, is being the guy who stands there nodding at everything he’s told to do by a know-nothing numbskull like Fredendall. Those guys won’t be satisfied until every little peak and outcropping in this whole region is occupied by one infantryman, one vehicle, and a cat.”

  The crew roars. We do love Cowens’s increasingly frequent fireworks displays. And they do pass the time.

  “Maybe we should send Lloyd a postcard,” Pacifico pipes up, leaning his good ear hard into the action. “Tell him what a fascinating country this is, and invite him to visit sometime.”

  I lean over and punch his shoulder. Give him the approval nod. We’re very into visual communications down here on the lower level these days. I point at my eyes, then his, then mine again. I’m watching you, is one of the intended messages. The other is, use your eyes for ears if need be. He smiles goofy and repeats my eyes-eyes-eyes maneuver.

  “Great idea,” Wyatt says.

  “Nah,” I say. “The postage would be astronomical.”

  “I wish General GSP was here!” bellows Logan.

  “GSP!” we chant. “G! S! P! …”

  But in the middle of a freezing February night, we get an order that sounds right away like it means something. We are to haul it to a place called Djebel Hamra, which doesn’t mean much to anybody, but is about fifteen miles to the west of a town called Sidi Bouzid.

  There seems to have been a big problem in Sidi Bouzid.

  Two whole panzer divisions with about 140 tanks have basically spent the day slapping the daylights out of big sections of II Corps. The result at the end of the day was a retreat — I have trouble even getting that word out — of our guys to Djebel Hamra. But not before suffering whopping losses of men and artillery. And more than forty tanks.

  And they left behind several companies of infantry, stranded on high ground scattered at spots around the town. Stranded without armor.

  “Well,” Commander Cowens says with grim and humorless purpose, “I don’t suppose we’re ever going to feel more needed than we feel right now, huh, fellas?”

  “Hold on, troops, we’re coming!” Logan shouts. “Guns a blazin’!”

  “Guns a blazin’!” we echo one at a time, each guy a little louder than the one before. A mighty column of words.

  When we reach Djebel Hamra, handsome little plateau that it is, it seems clear that nature built it mostly as a viewing station for the serious action of Sidi Bouzid.

  Turns out it is a long, flat fifteen miles between the two towns.

  It’s probably good that we barely have time to think about it before the combined mechanized forces are sent into t
he counterattack.

  It begins almost instantly.

  The air is filled with fighters and bombers flaunting the German control of these skies. We are mercilessly strafed and dive-bombed as we hurtle across the field toward Sidi Bouzid. We defend ourselves as much as we can, as much as we can get away with, really, but we know as well as they do that this is just to slow us down from getting to the real punch-up.

  Still, it is hauntingly similar to all the lethal harassment we have endured along the road to getting this far. Logan is screaming murder in every direction, firing rounds just to keep them honest while saving his shells for the big game. Pacifico has gone back to his scary singing, but if that’s helping him then I have nothing to say about it. The noise everywhere is, again, a battle all its own, and I am aware how much I have come to despise the part of warfare that rains from the sky.

  “Is this it, commander?” Wyatt calls out, sounding like a scared-of-the-dark kid asking his dad to make everything right.

  “This is it, kid. You good?”

  Pause. Even with all the insanity of sound, we can hear him take his deep, brave breath.

  “I’m good, sir.”

  “Good! Here we go!”

  We go before we even know it.

  While we are bearing straight ahead, looking straight ahead, boring into the heart of Sidi Bouzid and the first tanks there we can see straight ahead, all the thunder in the universe suddenly cracks open on either side of us.

  It looks like the entire bulk of a whole panzer division has materialized on each flank, and opened up on us with those monstrous 88-mm cannons. We were expecting to overcome their bigger, higher-powered machines with our numbers, but we look to be wrong on that score. We are coming with around a hundred light and medium tanks total, but the Germans have brought at least fifty percent more, and bigger, and there is a belly-of-the-beast feeling to this already that will make a man either sick to death or make him more man than he ever thought he could be. Like a sweaty giant cooling himself on both cheeks, they have circled around and fanned out so breezily that we are almost surrounded before we start. We penetrated deep before they even began to fire, and that mainly served to cut us off from much of the force almost instantly. We did just what they wanted us to, and they were probably waving at us as we sailed past.