Gary shook his head. His cigarette was finished. Time to get back to maintenance, he thought.
Sergeant Kurtzhals walked back over to where his tank was parked to find Corporal (T/5) Alex Spataro holding court with the rest of the tank crew. Spataro was a tall man, a bit heavyset for a soldier, with a strong Philadelphia accent and brown hair in an army crewcut. He was standing over two of the other tankers, who were conducting a functions check on a .30 caliber machine gun.
“No, you dumbass,” said Corporal Spataro. “That’s the wrong way to load that.”
“Sorry, Corporal,” said Private Eugene Matoi. “I, uh, I forgot.”
Matoi was much smaller—his tanker’s coveralls hung off him with room to spare, and the man’s features always reminded Kurtzhals of a small child. The young private was eager to please and prove his worth—good traits in a younger soldier, Kurtzhals thought, but the lack of extensive training prior to his deployment had some other issues. Kurtzhals was always concerned about undisciplined soldiers.
“How the fuck do you remember all those baseball stats and can’t remember the right order to load the damn machinegun?” asked Spataro.
Kurtzhals observed. Looks like Spataro is growing into his NCO role, Kurtzhals thought. Suits him. If we keep taking losses, he’ll be a tank commander sooner than later. It’s Matoi I’m worried about.
Private Matoi tried again. Spataro watched intently. This time, the young private got it right. Alex clapped, slowly.
“Hey, second time’s the charm, I guess,” said Alex. “But just remember, the Krauts won’t give you a second chance.”
“Are they as good as the newsreels say?” asked Matoi.
Kurtzhals groaned internally. The new recruits were all scared of the dreaded Blitzkrieg. The collapse of Britain had led to a flurry of press lionizing the Germans—Kurtzhals was tired of having to dispel those myths. Before the sergeant could open his mouth, Spataro solved the problem for him.
“Nah,” said Alex. “They die just like you and me. You put your crosshairs right on the side of their fancy fuckin’ Panzers, and they still buy it. Just because they’re not invincible don’t mean they ain’t tough.”
“I agree with Corporal Spataro,” said Kurtzhals. “The Jerries are still human. They’ve got good tanks, I’ll give the bastards that, but they leak and smoke and explode just like ours.”
“Oh, hey Sarge!” said Alex, turning around. “Didn’t see you there.”
“Don’t call me Sarge,” said Kurtzhals. “You know damn well it’s Sergeant.”
“Roger, Sergeant,” said Spataro. “We were just going over the .30 cal.”
“I heard. You did a good job teaching. Matoi, you used to it yet?”
Matoi nodded. “I think so, Sergeant.”
Kurtzhals nodded. “For a guy trained as infantry, you’re taking to more honest work real quick.”
The sergeant turned to face Alex.
“Where are Fritz and Herrera?”
“Went to go get water, Sergeant,” Alex said. “Should be back shortly.”
“Is Grizzly ready to go?”
Alex nodded enthusiastically. “Sure is. Got our extra fuel reserves, too, in case we get stuck again.”
Kurtzhals nodded once. “Yeah, we’ll see.”
The sergeant climbed up on the tank. Grizzly was an M4A2 Sherman, manufactured in July of 1943 at Lima Locomotive works. Painted in an olive green that didn’t match the desert environment and a bright white star that Kurtzhals privately thought made a great target reference point for the enemy, Grizzly was Kurtzhal’s home. The crew had put extra tracks on the side of the turret, to provide a bit more protection from enemy rounds, and Fritz, the driver, had painted a grizzly bear on the side of the hull. Kurtzhals and Spataro had taken Grizzly from the Persian Gulf all the way up to Egypt, and the tank was a bit banged up and in need of some depot time. There was blast damage on the front armor from where a Pz IV had smacked them head on, and dings and dents from fragments of artillery. Despite that, as Alex promised, Grizzly was ready to go, at least, once the loader and driver got back.
“Matoi,” Kurtzhals shouted from inside the tank.
“Sergeant?” Matoi’s voice came back.
“Pop quiz—what are the five crew roles on an M4 Sherman tank?”
“Commander, gunner, loader, driver, and assistant driver,” Matoi rattled off.
Kurtzhals popped his head out of the tank. “Yeah, you got the names right. What do they do? Start with yours.”
“Sergeant, I am Grizzly’s assistant driver. My primary responsibility is managing the radio, and my secondary responsibility is to man the forward-facing .30 caliber machinegun. In the event the driver is wounded or killed, I am supposed to take over.”
“Very good. Driver?”
“The driver is responsible for driving the tank,” said Matoi. “He keeps us moving, which Corproal Spataro says keeps us alive.”
“That’s because Corporal Spataro has seen enough wrecks to know what happens to tanks that stand still. How ‘bout the loader?”
“The loader is responsible for loading the 75mm gun, as well as choosing the correct shell to load.”
“What types of shells are there?”
“Umm…I’m not sure, Sergeant,” said Matoi.
“That’s a job you should be training for,” said Alex. “When Herrera gets back, ask him.”
“Yes, Sergeant,” Matoi said.
“Two more positions, Matoi,” Kurtzhals said.
“The gunner is responsible for engaging and destroying the enemy, and the commander is responsible for, as you said, Sergeant, keeping this whole shitshow rolling.”
“Not the doctrinal answer, but I won’t fault you for quoting me,” said Kurtzhals. “We’ll make a tanker out of you, yet, Matoi.”
As Kurtzhals finished, he saw Fritz and Herrera walking up. The two men were accompanied by Lieutenant Haskins, which meant orders were coming.
Private Nate Fritz was relatively new, but had experience on tanks, just not the right kind. He was the sole survivor from an earlier fight with the Germans—his M5 Stuart tank came out on the wrong end of a fight with a German 88. In a lot of respects, it was a miracle Fritz had survived unharmed. Fritz was a lithe, blonde Minnesotan with a friendly disposition and perpetually sunny attitude.
Private Johnny Herrera was an older hand. He wasn’t Kurtzhals’ original loader, who was killed shortly after landing during an enemy air raid, but he was a good replacement, and had been in every tank-on-tank fight Kurtzhals and Spataro had been in. Herrera stood tall with darker skin and greasy black hair that he had grown out beyond regulations. Kurtzhals tolerated Herrera.
1st Lieutenant Aaron Haskins was Kurtzhals’ platoon leader. Kurtzhals didn’t know Haskins that well—he was a replacement for Lieutenant McCord, who had been killed a week prior, but the man seemed pretty good, if a bit cocky.
“Sergeant Kurtzhals,” said Haskins. “We’re having a platoon meeting. Got some new orders. Bring Private Matoi.”
Kurtzhals acknowledged, but privately wondered. Matoi? The newest guy on the tank? Why? Did the infantry finally ask for him back? But a good NCO didn’t question orders unless the lives of his men were at stake, so Kurtzhals kept his concerns private as and called Matoi. The two men followed Haskins back to the center of the camp. The platoon’s four tanks were arranged in a rough diamond, and the commanders were all at the center. There had been a fifth tank, but it had been destroyed, all crewmen lost.
Kurtzhals walked up to see a few unfamiliar faces at the meeting—Japanese men in their tan fatigues. Each wore a tan cap as well, with an anchor on it. Their apparent leader stood slightly taller than the others, exuding pride. He carried an American weapon—an M1A1 Thompson submachinegun—but the rest of his kit was strange and foreign, and for some reason, the man had brought a sword. Kurtzhals eyed his brother tank commanders, wondering who was going to ask the question.
“Gents, we’ve got word from
Battalion. We’ve got a mission,” said Aaron. “I’m going to a larger briefing later, but wanted to pass on a warning order. Bottom line is that the entire 753rd Tank Battalion is going to be pieced out, platoon by platoon, to infantry elements as we get closer to Cairo.”
Haskins looked right at Kurtzhals.
“And, seeing as we have the only Japanese speaker in the entire battalion, we’ve been selected to help out the Japanese, hence why Ensign Nakamura is here.”
At the mention of his name, the Japanese man saluted, and rattled off a phrase in Japanese.
“Go ahead Matoi, translate,” said Haskins.
“He says he’s honored to be here, among our tanks,” Matoi said.
“Right,” said Haskins. “There’s more coordination to be done before we go in. I know the Krauts have Cairo sealed down tight, but as long as they’ve got forces there, we’re gonna have trouble holding the Suez. If we can’t hold the Suez, we have to go the long way to the Med, and with the German U-boat threat, higher ain’t keen about that. Besides, our friends from the Pacific aren’t wild about taking that route.”
A hand shot up. Staff Sergeant Borawski, one of the other tank commanders.
“Ski?” asked Haskins.
“Yes sir,” said Borawski. “Just have a question.”
“I’ve got a lot of questions myself, Ski,” said Haskins. “But sure, go ahead.”
“Are we getting a replacement tank? For the five tank?”
Haskins shook his head. “No replacements. We have to make do. With that, I’m gonna leave you guys to get acquainted with Ensign Nakamura. I’ve got to go see the CO and get whatever our orders are gonna be.”
The lieutenant jogged off, leaving the American NCOs staring uneasily at the Japanese SNLF contingent.
“So Matoi,” said Kurtzhals. “Guess you’re our translator. Tell the ensign we’re happy he’s here.”
Nakamura nodded as he translated.
“I’m Sergeant First Class Gary Kurtzhals,” Kurtzhals said as he stuck out his hand. Nakamura gripped it, a strong grip. Kurtzhals could respect that. “I’m this platoon’s platoon sergeant. Means I’m responsible for these guys.”
“I thought the officer was in charge?” asked Nakamura through Matoi.
Kurtzhals shrugged. “Lieutenant Haskins gets the orders and keeps Captain Ramsey happy, but the care and feeding of soldiers, and looking after these tanks, that’s all me.”
Nakamura nodded once. “I see,” he said.
“So you’re Japanese army?” asked Kurtzhals.
“No,” said Nakamura, tensing up a bit. “Special Naval Landing Force, Sasebo.”
He repeated Sasebo, and his men shouted it after him, raising rifles in the air.
“We are Naval Infantry,” explained Nakamura. “Japan’s finest.”
“I see,” said Kurtzhals. “Well, we’re America’s best tankers, so I think we’ll get along just fine. What should we call you? Marines?”
Matoi and Nakamura exchanged some words.
“Not Marines. Sailors. Infantry Sailors.”
Matoi translated, and Nakamura smiled broadly. Kurtzhals suppressed the urge to raise an eyebrow. Sailors in the desert, he thought. Funny way these guys organize their military.
“You guys got any combat experience?” asked Borawksi.
“Yes,” said Nakamura. “Two tours on Formosa. One in the Philippines. One in Indochina.”
“No tanks in those fights,” muttered Borawski.
“And all small, counter-rebel affairs,” added Altshue.
“You guys know much about tanks?” asked Kurtzhals. Nakamura nodded once.
“A bit, yes. Your Marine Corps advised us how to work with them. We have some at Sasebo, but they are not assigned to our unit.”
“So you don’t have any tanks?”
Nakamura shook his head.
“Have you ever fought alongside tanks, or was this just in training?” asked Borawski.
Nakamura paused. A man behind him tensed up. Kurtzhals realized they were ashamed of admitting ignorance, but these guys had no idea how to use armored support.
“We know how to fight,” came the terse reply.
“Right,” said Kurtzhals. “Matoi, keep our guests entertained. Show ‘em you know how to load a .30 cal, it’ll blow their mind. Borawski, Altshue, we need to have a chat.”
The two tank commanders walked over with Kurtzhals.
“Now,” Kurtzhals said. “I get that higher wants us to work with these guys, but they don’t seem to have any fuckin’ clue what the fuck is going on.”
“Right?” asked Borawski. “If these crunchies can’t keep their shit straight, we’re gonna get wrecked out there. Hard enough to fight panzers in the open with maneuver. Harder still to fight worrying about running over our own guys, and now we’re finding out, most of ‘our own guys’ in this case don’t speak English. How the hell are we gonna give them orders?”
“Hurts me to say this, but I agree with Borawski,” said Altshue.
“We can’t teach them how to work with tanks overnight,” continued Borawski. “And—”
“No, we can’t,” injected Kurtzhals. “But we can do something about this. We’ve got Matoi, and I’ll bet some of their guys have been trained in at least basic English. I’d wager it’s not much harder to teach Japanese infantry about tanks than it is Americans, just got to figure out the right words. Remember those 1st Infantry Division guys we were working with back near Amman? They didn’t know dick about tanks, either. We all know it’s our responsibility to keep those knuckle-draggers alive. Besides, since we thrashed the Krauts up in the Sinai, they shouldn’t have a lot of armor left. What they do have probably won’t be any good.”
“Unless it’s a Tiger,” said Altshue.
The men went silent for a beat.
“Tigers can be killed,” said Kurtzhals. “Just gotta be tactical about it and not a bonehead. Flank armor is flank armor.”
“Do these crunchies even have any anti-tank?” asked Borawski. “Looked like they were mostly carrying bolt-action rifles and Johnson light machineguns.”
“It’s what we’re stuck with,” said Kurtzhals. “Uncle Sam doesn’t pay us to bitch, he pays us to figure it out.”
“Speak for yourself, Lifer,” said Altshue. “I’m paid because a letter in the mail said I had to be here.”
Kurtzhals fixed Altshue with his best quit-fuckin’-around gaze, and the younger NCO immediately clammed up.
“That’s what I thought,” said Kurtzhals. “Now, c’mon, let’s go make nice with the Japanese.”
The sergeants returned to their tanks, and the Japanese followed. As the hours wore on, Lieutenant Haskins returned, bringing with him the rest of the Japanese SNLF platoon that was supposed to be with them. Matoi hustled from tank to tank, hurriedly translating, trying his best to teach the infantry the basics of how to talk to tanks.
As the sun was setting, Lieutenant Haskins called everyone together again.
“Alright boys,” he said. “We’ve got our orders. I can read you the general’s speech if you want, but I think we’re here for the particulars, so I’ll start there. First, practical matter—Matoi can speak Japanese. The SNLF have two troops who can speak English. So, here’s how we’re gonna parse out the tanks. Until we get into urban areas, I’ll be with Altshue, and Borawski, you’ll be with Kurtzhals. Once we get too cannibalized to keep our wingmen, we’ll split off. Sergeant Kurtzhals, you’ll be with Petty Officer Shimada.”
Kurtzhals looked over at the Japanese. The biggest man they had, he stood easily as tall as Kurtzhals, but nearly twice as wide, and all muscle, nodded.
Haskins read out the rest of the assignments.
“Now, our objective is simple—there’s a BBC radio station on the north side of town. We think the Krauts are using it as a forward command post or maybe a signal relay station. One way or another, it’s got to go. Our company team has been assigned to seize it. Between our tank platoon, the Japa
nese infantry, and a platoon of troops from the 45th, we have enough manpower. Earlier units should be clearing out most of the paths on the way, but it’s possible they’ve missed something.”
“Sir,” asked Sergeant Borawski. “Am I correct in saying that higher wants to send tanks…into the largest city in Egypt?”
Haskins shrugged. “We’ve got an easier mission than some others, Borawski. At least we’re in the northern outskirts. We won’t be downtown. The Marines drew that straw.”
Ensign Nakamura bolted off a rapid sentence in Japanese.
“We have experience in city fighting,” Matoi translated. “Manila. Seoul.”
“Yeah, but not against tanks,” said Borawski, rolling his eyes. “Just because it’s dangerous for tanks in a city doesn’t mean they’re not dangerous against infantry.”
Matoi grimaced.
“Don’t translate that, Matoi,” said Lieutenant Haskins.
“Two of them speak English, anyway,” grumbled Altshue.
“Look,” Kurtzhals said. “We’re not paid to bitch and give up—we’re not Italians, for Christ’s sake. We’ve got our orders, they make sense, seize is about as simple of a mission as we can get assigned. So how ‘bout we let the lieutenant finish this briefing, then we roll out and crush some Germans?”
The lieutenant smiled and continued the order.
* * *
As Haskins briefed the rest of the order, Spataro was supervising Grizzly’s crew conducting maintenance.
Private Herrera stopped adjusting one of the tank’s roadwheels to observe the Japanese. They were broken off into teams of four, conducting drills.
“Hey, Corporal,” asked Herrera. “What’s your read on the Japs?”
“It’s Japanese,” said Spataro. “Matoi says they don’t like the abbreviation, says it’s a slur, ain’t that right, Matoi?”
“Yes, Corporal,” said Matoi.
Trouble in the Wind Page 27