To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [337]
They climbed a low hill, followed the tracks, the hill cresting, still bathed in fog. The roar from the tanks seemed scattered now, the air punched by cannon fire, most of it distant, the direction masked by the fog. Out to the right, there was machine-gun fire, a short burst, another, the men beside him crouching low. He pointed the stick forward, the silent order, the men responding. He stared out toward the sound, thought, Hell, they aren’t shooting at us. Don’t even know we’re here. Those could be our boys, or, hell, who knows? Damned fog.
They were moving downhill now, the road turning sharply to the left, toward the river. The tank tracks continued onward, off the road now, and Patton pointed with the stick, stepped down into a muddy ditch, climbed up into a field of wet grass. He looked back, saw the men scrambling to keep up, the runners helping the men who labored to carry their gear. He would not wait for them, followed the tracks, the crushed grass, heard a harsh whisper. He turned, saw one of the runners pointing to a rough wood sign, words in German.
He moved that way, said in a whisper, “What is it? What’s it say?”
“Sir, this says there’s danger. I think it means . . . a minefield.”
He could see more signs, several yards apart, a long row extending into the fog, parallel to the route the tanks had taken. The men had gathered close to him, and he laughed, moved close to the officer, Knowles, said, “Seems they didn’t want their people to make a wrong turn. Damned nice of ’em. Probably kept a few of our boys in one piece. I guarantee there’s a damned German colonel somewhere who’d be knocking heads if he knew his boys had left these signs up. Guess they weren’t expecting us.”
He followed the tracks again, heard another burst of machine-gun fire, the men moving quickly behind him. He didn’t have the patience to calm them down, thought, Those are our guns, dammit. And if they’re not, what the hell difference does it make? We’re in the fog. They moved farther into the grassy field, the sound of rifle fire now meeting them, a sharp clap of thunder impacting the ground a hundred yards behind them. That’s better, he thought. We’re getting to where we need to be. He glanced up, saw sunlight slicing through the mist, the fog opening up in front of him. The machine guns began again, and he heard the roar of a tank out to one side, could hear the tank’s cannon fire. He clenched his fists, pumped his hand in the air. That’s what I want to hear, dammit! He pointed the stick toward the sound of the tank, was still following the tracks, and the men scrambled to follow. The air was still thick with mist, but the fog was breaking up now, the ground opening up, a row of trees in the distance, the field now more dirt than grass. There were ridges and low hills, and he lost sight of the tank tracks, thought, No matter. We’re close. We’ll see them pretty quick. They crested a low hill, and he expected to see the battle opening up in front of him, but the rifle fire was still distant, muffled. He saw them now, a half dozen tanks, pushing forward across the muddy ground. The tanks were on a road, a narrow farm lane, and he waved the men forward, began to run, waving his walking stick. The tanks were a hundred yards in front of him, and he climbed up onto the road, ran as quickly as he could, reached the first tank, his breathing in hard gasps. He rapped the stick on the turret, then moved up toward the front, tapped the slits where the driver would be. The tank abruptly stopped, and Patton moved out in front, tried to speak, bent over, breathing heavily, saw the eyes of the driver staring at him through the narrow opening. The hatch opened now, and Patton saw a familiar face, a sergeant, couldn’t remember the man’s name, one of Compton’s men.
“Sir? You okay?”
Patton saw the other men moving up behind the tank, Angelo coming up beside him, the nervous young man scanning the ridges in front of them.
“I’m just fine, Sergeant. You’re Compton’s battalion, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Any idea