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Forty Miles of Bad Road
Near Tebessa, Algeria
February 24, 1942
"It's about twenty miles southeast of here," said the staff major -- McNeal, according to his name tag. His clean fatigues, shined boots and fresh-scrubbed face were in sharp contrast to the men of Baker Company, 2nd Platoon, who had seen neither a laundry nor a shower for the better part of two weeks. The major shuffled from foot to foot and waited, as if expecting Captain Slim to hop down from where he sat at the back of the truck bed, legs dangling over the edge.
Slim bumped his heels on the metal tailgate and said nothing.
McNeal made an impatient noise and handed Slim a roughly sketched map. "Down the Feriana highway about ten miles, then via the south road and an unimproved road for another ten miles or so. You can be there in a couple of hours." He took out a clean white handkerchief and patted his forehead.
Captain Slim resisted an impulse to knock the polished helmet liner off the buffoon's empty head. "A couple hours? The Krauts might have something to say about that." He paid attention to the map. It was all part of the charade. At first the lines didn't make any sense. Then he began to fit his own inner map of this part of Algeria and Tunisia with the major's scribbling. He snorted. The 'unimproved' road was almost certainly a goat track -- if it existed at all. "You sure this goes all the way to this Djebel Doha place?" Slim rotated the map and ran a finger along the purported road. He thought of a fitting comment. "What drunk drew this thing?"
The major managed a grim look, in spite of his pink face. "I drew it, captain. A fuel truck will be coming up shortly, along with ammunition and rations."
Slim smoothed the map and folded it. "What about enemy forces along the route, major? For that matter, what about friendly forces? Someone at HQ must have a glimmering of an idea where our own people are."
McNeal flushed a deeper red. "Things are a little confused, captain. You'll have to be careful." He glanced at his watch. "I'll expect you to be moving within the hour."
Slim spat into the dust. "Right, sir." Engine noises swelled behind him.
"Some of ours," said Corporal Infanteer from his position at the .50 caliber machine gun mounted in the truck bed. Four P-40s roared overhead and disappeared to the east. When Slim turned back McNeal was nowhere in sight.
Sergeant Franko coughed. He was perched on a large boulder cradling a Thompson. "Under the truck, sir." He pointed with a grimy paw.
Slim jumped down and peered under the mud-encrusted truck. "Is it all clear?" asked the now pale and sweating staff major.
"Sure. Come on out. I don't think they saw us, sir." Obviously, the idiot thought the planes were German.
"I thought we were goners!" A smear of axle grease adorned one side of McNeal's helmet and his creased fatigues were splotched with mud.
Corporal Infanteer hopped down beside Slim as the major climbed into his jeep and drove away. "I think he pissed his pants."
"Yeah." Franko laughed. "That'll be good enough for a silver star."
"Nah." Slim shook his head. "He ain't Air Corp. Probably only get a bronze with V."
Private Baker, Slim's driver, joined the group. "What's up, boss?" The other men sidled away from the rotund private. He was not known as Rocketman because of an interest in science.
Slim motioned Franko off his rock and spread a Guide Michelin map on it. "The brass hats want us in Djebel Doha in the next few hours. Rumor, often referred to as 'Intelligence' has it that Jerry has a fuel dump there. We're to blow it up."
"A fuel dump?" Infanteer chuckled. "The Germans are short of fuel. That's the only reason we're not swimming back to New York right now."
"Why would the Krauts have a dump in a dump like that?" asked Baker. No one laughed. They knew from painful experience that it just encouraged him.
Slim folded the map and stuffed it in his case. "You can ask them when we get there. There'll be a gas truck along shortly. Top off all the vehicles and fill every extra can."
"We better take plenty of water, too," said Franko. "It looks dry in that direction."
Infanteer lit a cigar and tossed the match to one side. "It looks dry in every direction. Except where the mud is axle deep."
The arrival of a fuel tanker ended the discussion.
A few minutes later four more vehicles rolled up the road from the direction of Tebessa. Colonel Bobbit led the way in his jeep, followed by a truck, a Stuart tank and a half-track. The colonel stopped next to Slim's jeep. They exchanged salutes.
Bobbit handed over a fresh cigar. "There's ammunition and rations in the truck. The cigar is compliments of a French officer back in Algiers."
Slim inhaled the aroma. "I hope you brought more than one."
"There are a couple boxes for you and your men. I liberated a dozen from the villa."
"Liberated? I take it the French officer was dead?"
The colonel shrugged. "Dead or a prisoner somewhere. He didn't need the cigars."
The Stuart tank turned off the road and rolled to a stop in a shallow wadi. Slim eyed the colonel. "Is that an escort for you or reinforcement for me?"
"Just like the cigars, Slim, the tank and half-track are for you. I figured you might need some help getting to Djebel Doha."
A short, dark-haired man jumped off the tank and waved the half-track into position a short distance down the road. Slim approved. Whoever this new tanker was, he'd been shot at enough to appreciate such cover as there was and he knew how to place his vehicles for defense. Men dismounted from the half-track and tank. One lookout remained on each unit, on watch behind a .50 caliber machine gun.
The tank commander saluted as he approached. Colonel Bobbit returned the salute and tossed him a cigar. "Captain Slim, meet Lieutenant Fusilier, formerly of the 1st Armored Division."
"Still of the 1st Armored," replied Fusilier. "Your pet major won't let me go back." He shook hands with Slim. "He volunteered me for your little jog down to Doha."
"I leave you in the captain's capable hands," said Bobbit. His driver piled three boxes of cigars on the hood of Slim's jeep. The colonel waved and started for his jeep. "Our Major McNeal is pretty good at pushing paper -- and he's not really an asshole -- he just comes across that way."
"Well," said Slim. He lit his cigar and offered his lighter to Fusilier. "What did you do to earn the enmity of the asshole major?"
The lieutenant declined the lighter. He tucked the cigar away. "I was standing in the wrong place."
"And where was this wrong place? Tebessa?"
"Algeria. And before that, Tunisia and Morocco. Major McNeal types are everywhere."
Slim grinned and exhaled a stream of fragrant smoke. "Man, that's good. So how did you get sprung loose from the 1st?"
"Just lucky, I guess. We were on the prowl, north of Sbeitla, looking for Germans. Perhaps you've heard of it? Lovely place. Full of exotic blown-up buildings and robed natives, some of whom are alleged to be female."
"Sounds nice. Just like every other desert town I've motored through lately. So you were in Sbeitla when the balloon went up?"
"Not only was I there, I may have fired the first wild shot of the affair," said Fusilier. "We were on the lookout for the famed Africa Corps, as I mentioned."
Slim liked the brash lieutenant already. He fell into the spirit of the exchange. "Indeed you did. You were seeking Germans, specifically."
"Found them, too. Our opposite numbers, in fact. A scouting formation, wandering the African night, looking for Americans."
"So what happened?"
"We fired. They fired. The shooting became general, as the generals like to say. It was exciting and even fun for all of ten seconds. Then Jerry rolled out a couple of Mark Vs and we had to leave the ball early." Fusilier stopped abruptly. The boyish grin faded.
Neither man spoke for a moment. Slim broke the silence. "How many did you lose?"
"Almost all of them." Fusilier spoke in a near whisper. "Half the time we didn't even know where we were. I remember being out of gas twice." He looked back at his tank. "That's my third tank in nine days. Belonged to my platoon sergeant. Shell from an 88 cut him in half three--four days ago, in the hills above Kasserine. We haven't had time to clean up all the dried blood." The words trickled to a stop.
"Jesus," muttered Slim. "That's worse than what happened to us."
Fusilier rubbed at his eyes, as if erasing something. "What -- what have you been doing?"
"Nothing like that. Not at first." Slim motioned toward the south. "I was out that way. We were to check out a couple of alleged water sources and look for Germans. I had half the platoon. The rest were probably up at Kasserine, with you, if they're still alive."
"This isn't half a platoon," said Fusilier.
"No, it isn't. We were ordered east, toward Feriana, then they decided we ought to go to Dernia. We ran out of fuel and sat for two days. Why the Germans didn't find us I'll never know. Then the brass sent us back to the Feriana-Tebessa road and we rolled west. Twice we shot up German supply trucks. We ended up here after a running gun battle with a mixed force of armored cars and tanks." He looked around at his vehicles and at the men working to refuel and rearm them. "This is what's left. Two tanks, two jeeps and one gun truck. Sixteen men."
"Twenty-five men," said Fusilier. "I've got nine."
"Well, hell. I'll bet the Germans will crap their pants when they hear the news. Baker company has been reinforced! Three light tanks and twenty-five men! Shit!"
(to be continued)
Near Tebessa, Algeria
February 24, 1942
"It's about twenty miles southeast of here," said the staff major -- McNeal, according to his name tag. His clean fatigues, shined boots and fresh-scrubbed face were in sharp contrast to the men of Baker Company, 2nd Platoon, who had seen neither a laundry nor a shower for the better part of two weeks. The major shuffled from foot to foot and waited, as if expecting Captain Slim to hop down from where he sat at the back of the truck bed, legs dangling over the edge.
Slim bumped his heels on the metal tailgate and said nothing.
McNeal made an impatient noise and handed Slim a roughly sketched map. "Down the Feriana highway about ten miles, then via the south road and an unimproved road for another ten miles or so. You can be there in a couple of hours." He took out a clean white handkerchief and patted his forehead.
Captain Slim resisted an impulse to knock the polished helmet liner off the buffoon's empty head. "A couple hours? The Krauts might have something to say about that." He paid attention to the map. It was all part of the charade. At first the lines didn't make any sense. Then he began to fit his own inner map of this part of Algeria and Tunisia with the major's scribbling. He snorted. The 'unimproved' road was almost certainly a goat track -- if it existed at all. "You sure this goes all the way to this Djebel Doha place?" Slim rotated the map and ran a finger along the purported road. He thought of a fitting comment. "What drunk drew this thing?"
The major managed a grim look, in spite of his pink face. "I drew it, captain. A fuel truck will be coming up shortly, along with ammunition and rations."
Slim smoothed the map and folded it. "What about enemy forces along the route, major? For that matter, what about friendly forces? Someone at HQ must have a glimmering of an idea where our own people are."
McNeal flushed a deeper red. "Things are a little confused, captain. You'll have to be careful." He glanced at his watch. "I'll expect you to be moving within the hour."
Slim spat into the dust. "Right, sir." Engine noises swelled behind him.
"Some of ours," said Corporal Infanteer from his position at the .50 caliber machine gun mounted in the truck bed. Four P-40s roared overhead and disappeared to the east. When Slim turned back McNeal was nowhere in sight.
Sergeant Franko coughed. He was perched on a large boulder cradling a Thompson. "Under the truck, sir." He pointed with a grimy paw.
Slim jumped down and peered under the mud-encrusted truck. "Is it all clear?" asked the now pale and sweating staff major.
"Sure. Come on out. I don't think they saw us, sir." Obviously, the idiot thought the planes were German.
"I thought we were goners!" A smear of axle grease adorned one side of McNeal's helmet and his creased fatigues were splotched with mud.
Corporal Infanteer hopped down beside Slim as the major climbed into his jeep and drove away. "I think he pissed his pants."
"Yeah." Franko laughed. "That'll be good enough for a silver star."
"Nah." Slim shook his head. "He ain't Air Corp. Probably only get a bronze with V."
Private Baker, Slim's driver, joined the group. "What's up, boss?" The other men sidled away from the rotund private. He was not known as Rocketman because of an interest in science.
Slim motioned Franko off his rock and spread a Guide Michelin map on it. "The brass hats want us in Djebel Doha in the next few hours. Rumor, often referred to as 'Intelligence' has it that Jerry has a fuel dump there. We're to blow it up."
"A fuel dump?" Infanteer chuckled. "The Germans are short of fuel. That's the only reason we're not swimming back to New York right now."
"Why would the Krauts have a dump in a dump like that?" asked Baker. No one laughed. They knew from painful experience that it just encouraged him.
Slim folded the map and stuffed it in his case. "You can ask them when we get there. There'll be a gas truck along shortly. Top off all the vehicles and fill every extra can."
"We better take plenty of water, too," said Franko. "It looks dry in that direction."
Infanteer lit a cigar and tossed the match to one side. "It looks dry in every direction. Except where the mud is axle deep."
The arrival of a fuel tanker ended the discussion.
A few minutes later four more vehicles rolled up the road from the direction of Tebessa. Colonel Bobbit led the way in his jeep, followed by a truck, a Stuart tank and a half-track. The colonel stopped next to Slim's jeep. They exchanged salutes.
Bobbit handed over a fresh cigar. "There's ammunition and rations in the truck. The cigar is compliments of a French officer back in Algiers."
Slim inhaled the aroma. "I hope you brought more than one."
"There are a couple boxes for you and your men. I liberated a dozen from the villa."
"Liberated? I take it the French officer was dead?"
The colonel shrugged. "Dead or a prisoner somewhere. He didn't need the cigars."
The Stuart tank turned off the road and rolled to a stop in a shallow wadi. Slim eyed the colonel. "Is that an escort for you or reinforcement for me?"
"Just like the cigars, Slim, the tank and half-track are for you. I figured you might need some help getting to Djebel Doha."
A short, dark-haired man jumped off the tank and waved the half-track into position a short distance down the road. Slim approved. Whoever this new tanker was, he'd been shot at enough to appreciate such cover as there was and he knew how to place his vehicles for defense. Men dismounted from the half-track and tank. One lookout remained on each unit, on watch behind a .50 caliber machine gun.
The tank commander saluted as he approached. Colonel Bobbit returned the salute and tossed him a cigar. "Captain Slim, meet Lieutenant Fusilier, formerly of the 1st Armored Division."
"Still of the 1st Armored," replied Fusilier. "Your pet major won't let me go back." He shook hands with Slim. "He volunteered me for your little jog down to Doha."
"I leave you in the captain's capable hands," said Bobbit. His driver piled three boxes of cigars on the hood of Slim's jeep. The colonel waved and started for his jeep. "Our Major McNeal is pretty good at pushing paper -- and he's not really an asshole -- he just comes across that way."
"Well," said Slim. He lit his cigar and offered his lighter to Fusilier. "What did you do to earn the enmity of the asshole major?"
The lieutenant declined the lighter. He tucked the cigar away. "I was standing in the wrong place."
"And where was this wrong place? Tebessa?"
"Algeria. And before that, Tunisia and Morocco. Major McNeal types are everywhere."
Slim grinned and exhaled a stream of fragrant smoke. "Man, that's good. So how did you get sprung loose from the 1st?"
"Just lucky, I guess. We were on the prowl, north of Sbeitla, looking for Germans. Perhaps you've heard of it? Lovely place. Full of exotic blown-up buildings and robed natives, some of whom are alleged to be female."
"Sounds nice. Just like every other desert town I've motored through lately. So you were in Sbeitla when the balloon went up?"
"Not only was I there, I may have fired the first wild shot of the affair," said Fusilier. "We were on the lookout for the famed Africa Corps, as I mentioned."
Slim liked the brash lieutenant already. He fell into the spirit of the exchange. "Indeed you did. You were seeking Germans, specifically."
"Found them, too. Our opposite numbers, in fact. A scouting formation, wandering the African night, looking for Americans."
"So what happened?"
"We fired. They fired. The shooting became general, as the generals like to say. It was exciting and even fun for all of ten seconds. Then Jerry rolled out a couple of Mark Vs and we had to leave the ball early." Fusilier stopped abruptly. The boyish grin faded.
Neither man spoke for a moment. Slim broke the silence. "How many did you lose?"
"Almost all of them." Fusilier spoke in a near whisper. "Half the time we didn't even know where we were. I remember being out of gas twice." He looked back at his tank. "That's my third tank in nine days. Belonged to my platoon sergeant. Shell from an 88 cut him in half three--four days ago, in the hills above Kasserine. We haven't had time to clean up all the dried blood." The words trickled to a stop.
"Jesus," muttered Slim. "That's worse than what happened to us."
Fusilier rubbed at his eyes, as if erasing something. "What -- what have you been doing?"
"Nothing like that. Not at first." Slim motioned toward the south. "I was out that way. We were to check out a couple of alleged water sources and look for Germans. I had half the platoon. The rest were probably up at Kasserine, with you, if they're still alive."
"This isn't half a platoon," said Fusilier.
"No, it isn't. We were ordered east, toward Feriana, then they decided we ought to go to Dernia. We ran out of fuel and sat for two days. Why the Germans didn't find us I'll never know. Then the brass sent us back to the Feriana-Tebessa road and we rolled west. Twice we shot up German supply trucks. We ended up here after a running gun battle with a mixed force of armored cars and tanks." He looked around at his vehicles and at the men working to refuel and rearm them. "This is what's left. Two tanks, two jeeps and one gun truck. Sixteen men."
"Twenty-five men," said Fusilier. "I've got nine."
"Well, hell. I'll bet the Germans will crap their pants when they hear the news. Baker company has been reinforced! Three light tanks and twenty-five men! Shit!"
(to be continued)