behind us. Bad for morale.
'I'm with the Signals Company,' he said, eyes front. 'Guess because I worked for the telephone company back home. I like to work with radios too. Built my own from a kit. When I was a kid, that is.'
Hutton was still a kid, but old enough to need to let me know he didn't play with kits anymore.
'But Rocko's Quartermaster Company. What are you doing with him?'
'Rocko does favors for people. When he needs something, they do favors for him. What's that?' He pointed to a clump of low green shrubs, and I saw a flicker of movement. We both opened up, emptying a full clip each to no visible effect. Tracers from the machine gun behind us sprayed the bushes too. Nothing moved.
Beyond the small rise in front of us the ground was dotted with swaying stalks of knee-high grass. Or was that wheat? The stalks were topped by seeds or grains or something. Guess I didn't grow up on a farm. Yellow wildflowers gathered in clumps all the way down to a dirt road that snaked around the ridge. The road to Gela. The road to Rocko's riches. The road we couldn't let the Germans pass.
I laughed. A memory had popped up and it seemed funny. Hutton noticed I was smiling and gave me a look.
'I remember why you should wear a helmet with netting,' I said, raising my voice over the machine-gun chatter.
'Why?'
'Because a plain helmet gets shiny when it rains. Gives you away.' I lay my face down on the warm ground and laughed as the bullets flew overhead. It felt like everything was wired wrong inside my head. The things I could remember were useless. Or terrible, like lining up a man in my sights and feeling the thrill of it. Yeah, now I was all set if it rained. Lucky me.
The Tiger moved. It backed out of the ravine and started up the slope. Lines of Germans came forward at a steady trot, rising up from behind what cover they had. I saw a Kraut, pistol in one hand, waving his men on with the other. The pistol marked him as an officer and within seconds he was cut down, a dozen guys zeroing in on him. Red sprayed from his chest as he toppled backward. Slim Jim was pretty smart to carry a rifle.
I raised my M1 and filled the sight. I fired, and fired again. A figure dropped and I was glad. I looked up again. It was important not to get tunnel vision, to remember to look up from the sight.
Finally, a useful memory. I searched for the closest Germans and fired at a group of them clumped together. Stupid, they were being stupid. I cursed them as they dropped. I could only see them from the waist up with that rise in the way, but it was enough. Turned out I was a good shot. They kept coming, trotting through the yellow flowers, stopping to fire while trying not to get out in front of the Tiger. I heard bullets ricocheting off it as it drew fire like a corpse draws flies. Its machine-gun muzzle swiveled and bright sparkling bursts sought out our firing positions as it tried to protect the infantry around it.
I let loose my last round and the stripper clip ejected, hitting the ground with a metallic ping. As I grabbed another eight-round clip and slid it in, I remembered someone saying that was what he didn't like about the M1. That sound could give you away, and you couldn't reload until you were all out of ammo. Same guy who told me about wet helmets. Some guy who played every percentage. Who?
I aimed again. Germans filled up more of the sight as they got closer to the rise in front of us. I heard our machine gun and watched as men went down, hit or seeking cover. Yellow flowers were clipped by flying lead, scattering bouquets over the dead and dying. The Tiger was almost to the rise. It halted in front of it, raking the ground as its turret swung and fired in the direction of our machine gun. A loud explosion hit behind us and the MG went silent. I heard the hydraulic whir of the turret, as if the dark machine were thinking, calculating. Gears ground and it lurched forward, tilting back as it began to mount the rise. In a second it would be over the top and free to kill us all. It made no sense, but I began firing at it. I should have been scared, but there was no time. I should have run. I don't know why I didn't.
The paratroopers next to me sprang up, and I saw two more come from the other direction. Two bazooka teams. Then I knew why we were positioned here. The German infantry was down, waiting for the Tiger to get over the rise and finish us off, none of them wanting to risk getting killed when the Tiger was a sure bet. Each bazooka man knelt while his partner fed a rocket in, tapped his helmet, and ducked. They waited for the tank to reach the maximum angle, its front up in the air and its unarmored belly showing. They fired, bright orange flashes blossoming out from the metal tubes. One missed. The other hit square between the treads, a white flash followed by a searing explosion that blew the hatches off. Flames roared out of the tank as it lurched forward, falling hard, nose down, silent except for the roar of contained flames. Roiling black smoke from burning fuel and flesh filled the sky, and I cheered. I clapped Hutton on the shoulder. He didn't move. His head rolled toward me and his helmet tilted off. There was a hole in it dead center that matched the one high on his forehead. One hand lay flat on the ground, the long fingers splayed out as if he'd tried to ward off the shot that got him. His nails were still clean.
Some of the paratroopers crawled to the rise and began firing at the retreating Germans. I didn't know what to do about Hutton. Aloysius Hutton. A good solid name. A bit old-fashioned, but he'd said it like he didn't mind. I took his ammo bandolier and went forward. I saw Germans, more distant now, giving us their backs. I shot two and wondered what their names were.
I slumped against the rise, drank half the water in my canteen, and wished I had enough to wash my face. I couldn't have moved if my life depended on it, and it damn well might. My legs felt weak and I thought the water I'd swallowed was going to come right back up. I lay at the bottom of the rise, Hutton dead behind me, the enemy in front. I tried to get up, but the ground was spinning and I couldn't. I closed my eyes and felt the sun beating on my eyelids. Through a haze I heard medics moving the wounded out and felt someone start to grab my legs until one of the bazooka guys said to let me be, I was alive, I just didn't look it.
I woke to the sound of tank treads. I grabbed my rifle and looked around to get my bearings. The Tiger was smoldering, and Hutton was gone. One of the bazooka team raised his hand, palm up, as if to calm me.
'Don't worry, buddy. Those are ours. We got six Shermans coming up.'
'Finally,' his loader said, and tried to spit. It looked like his mouth was too dry and dusty to work anything up. I crawled over and gave him my canteen. He nodded his thanks and took a careful mouthful, then handed it back.
'How long was I out?' I asked.
'Couple hours,' the loader answered. 'You looked pretty banged up to start with, so we left you alone. Nothing much happened here since Joe popped that Tiger.'
'What outfit you with?' Joe asked, eyeing me.
'Headquarters Company,' I said, a plausible lie that might even be true.
'Jesus,' the loader said. 'They got everybody up here. Truck drivers, cooks, clerks, even some navy guys from the shore party.'
'You shoot pretty good for a straight leg,' Joe said. 'Calm, not all shaky like some of these other guys.'
'Straight leg?'
'He means everyone but paratroopers,' the loader said. 'After we qualify we stuff our pant legs into our jump boots.'
'Straight leg. I get it,' I said. 'And straight legs can't shoot straight?'
'Some do,' Joe agreed. 'Some hunker down and don't do anyone no good. Some fire at anything. You took your time with aimed shots. Makes a difference.'
I could hear someone else telling me about aimed fire. The helmet guy. He thought the same way. Like a professional. Who was he?
'Thanks,' I said. The blurred image of a face swam through my mind. I could almost hear him. Aimed fire.
'Name's Clancy,' the loader said, his hand extended. 'This here's Joe.'
I shook their hands. Joe lit a cigarette and they both looked at me, waiting.
'Aloysius Hutton,' I said, my mind blank, as if that were the only name in the world.
'Pleasure,' Clancy said after a moment. Joe drew on his cigarette and gave it to his buddy. We watched and listened. The Shermans clanked into position about fifty yards away on our left. Firing broke out intermittently along the line. Nothing as ferocious as before, only a rattle of rifles and short machine-gun bursts. We waited as the sun dipped down behind us and more GIs and paratroopers came up from the direction of Gela.
At six o'clock the Shermans roared forward and we got the signal to advance. I followed Clancy and Joe down the slope, jumping over dead Germans and wilting yellow flowers. Gunfire was heavy to our left, but in front of us all
