Five Past Midnight - James Thayer [91]
Blood rolled down the gunner's arm and through the hatch and onto the driver's beret. The gunner was breathing shallowly, his eyes fixed on Cray. Perhaps he had decided Cray had done to him all he was going to do. His breath whistling, he said, "Goddamn Americans. You just had to come into the war, didn't you?"
Cray looked at him. "Don't talk to me. Just sit there and bleed."
Orders had apparently been given to sacrifice the Panzerkampfwagen III's crewmen, because a shell—perhaps from an armored car—banged against the turret, but it had hit it at an angle, and it bounced off. The sound was of being inside a bell when it is rung.
"You don't look as tough as in the posters," the gunner sneered. "Where's your knife, killer?"
Cray held up a finger like a schoolteacher. "Let me explain a little of my philosophy: Shut the hell up."
He shot the gunner again, this time his other arm, clean through it. The bullet smacked against the steel turret wall and slid to the deck. Cray picked up the flattened bullet and slipped it into the gunner's tunic pocket. "Here's a little souvenir of the war. Now just sit there quietly and don't try my patience again."
Gasping, the gunner slipped sideways.
The back of the tank rose as it climbed a tree, then leveled off as the tree toppled under the tank's weight. Then it did so again. Cray gripped the handle of the MG-34 and loosed a long string of bullets, the spent casings falling into a canvas bag below the breach, which prevented them from ricocheting around the compartment. The shots were warnings not to get close to the tank.
Cray's ears rang. He yelled down at the driver, "Turn us around and head south across Tiergarten Street."
The tank stopped, then wheeled about and took off again.
Cray shouted down into the driver's compartment. "I've got a problem, driver."
The driver braved a look up at the American.
"When I climb out of this tank, you are undoubtedly going to try to run me over or shoot me through. So I've got a problem letting you live."
"Sounds more like my problem, frankly," the driver replied. Cray shoved aside the injured gunner to peer through his sighting telescope. He couldn't see anything but night. "Where are we, driver?"
"Crossing Tiergarten Street Buildings straight ahead. Which way do I turn, east or west? Better tell me quickly or we'll tarn the buildings."
The tank tilted off the curb, and the fighting compartment filled with the sharper sounds of treads on concrete. The turret interior smelled of grease, exhaust, spent powder, and old sweat.
"Bombed-out buildings ahead." The driver's voice rose "If you're the new goddamn commander, give me directions."
Cray wet his lips. He knew soldiers would be following the runaway tank, but probably at a respectful distance. He also knew that in a battle the tank crew should avoid leaving their vehicle if at all possible because tanks draw fire, and that a crewman is never more vulnerable than when trying to climb out of the turret.
The American leaned back against a bag containing a 150-pound belt of machine ammunition that hung from the turret. The loader stared at him with glassy eyes. Cray ordered, "Straight ahead. Ram one of the buildings."
"What, for Christ's sake?"
"Put your tank through one of those shattered buildings." Perhaps Cray's plan was immediately apparent to the driver, who saw a reprieve for himself and his crew, because he only nodded and said, "Here we go."
The tank ground forward, up the curb, then up two steps to the apartment building's door, knocking aside two cement planters. The building had been partly destroyed in a bombing run. The door was off its hinges and lying on the porch. The upper story had tumbled out over the street, leaving bricks and masonry about. The windows had been blown out and fire had charred the building's brick façade.
The tank charged through the wall, rising and plowing forward, bulldozing bricks and wood inward. Remnants