Chapter Thirteen
Renault FT17s, moving up.
344th Tank Battalion, France
As he ground-guided tanks off of railway cars and into the battalion’s assembly area, Hank knew one thing for certain. He was damned glad his company was comprised of Renault FT-17s instead of those enormous land-battleship jobs like the Brit Mark IV or the French Schneider. The little two-man contraptions were still finicky and required constant maintenance, but they really weren’t all that more mechanically complicated than his Uncle Jim’s Model-T. Furthermore, they were less likely to get stuck in the late fall mud of the French countryside, and when they did get stuck, they were a hell of a lot easier to break loose.
Actually, two things he was sure of, come to think of it; Hank was also grateful he wasn’t expected to actually crew a tank in combat. True to his word, Patton had gotten Hank up to speed on tanks in a matter of days. Days that had been more packed with study than he’d experienced since West Point, but mere days, nonetheless.
Standing well over six feet, Hank had contorted himself into the driver’s compartment and the gunner’s turret in turn just long enough to get an appreciation for how his men did their job. Then he emulated his superiors and led his men either on foot, or riding crouched on the back deck of one of the tanks. With a maximum speed of only four miles per hour, Hank had no trouble keeping up with the tanks even over rough terrain.
The tanks’ engines combined with din of battle made verbal orders impractical, nigh on impossible from anywhere but right next to the crewman’s head, so he’d been practicing directing them with hand and arm signals. It was a frenetic method of leadership, having to run back and forth amongst the tanks, pounding on their hatches with the butt of his pistol or a handy rock to get crews’ attention, but at least he always had somewhere to take cover.
Once all sixteen of his tanks were lined up and ready, his battalion commander, Major Brett, approached. Brett was a young man, Hank guessed he wasn’t yet thirty, with thick brown hair with a slight widow’s peak and strong, regular features. He wore his normal, calm, unassuming expression. Hank found Brett’s quiet, professional aplomb a relief in contrast to Patton’s bombast. He was glad Brett was between him and Patton in the chain of command.
Hank saluted.
“Sir, Company B is assembled. All personnel accounted for.”
Brett returned the salute, looked over the assembled company and nodded.
“Gasoline trucks will be up soon; we’ve got a longer road march than I’d like to the line of departure so tell the boys to pay attention to their fuel levels. The brigade commander went up to the 42nd Division headquarters to try and get more smoke and artillery support for us a few hours ago, he should be back soon for the final mission brief.”
As if summoned by the mention, a truck lumbered around a corner mere minutes later, stopped on the road behind their assembled tanks and deposited their brigade commander on the field. Hank and Brett snapped to and saluted as Patton approached. He returned the gesture sharply.
“Sereno, Hank,” Patton said. “Your boys and tanks ready?”
“Company C is falling in now, sir,” Brett answered. “What did the 42nd say about the augmented artillery and smoke request?”
Patton snorted in disgust.
“That dumb sonofabitch Major Murphy won’t allocate any more assets because, according to him, ‘there’s no time to make new stencils.’ I swear, our own laziness and incompetence is more dangerous than a German division.”
Hank recoiled a bit at the language. Oh, he was inured to the troops’ profanity, but Patton’s willingness to throw such epithets at a senior officer in front of juniors still shocked him. If Patton noticed Hank’s discomfiture, he gave no indication of it. Hank retrieved his canteen and took a swig of water to cover his momentary lapse.
“Sereno, your battalion is going to be supporting the 84th Brigade,” Patton continued. “The French and Compton’s heavies are going with the 83rd. Since the 84th is the main effort, I’ll accompany you, at least for the first phase of the operation.”
Hank choked as a bit of water slipped down the wrong pipe. MacArthur was commanding the 84th now. Patton turned a knowing smirk on the younger man.
“Not eager to see your old boss, Thornton?”
“Well, sir, I didn’t exactly get a chance to tell General MacArthur that I’d been reassigned . . .”
Patton laughed. “You’re worried MacArthur will have taken your defection to the Tank Corps personally? Heh, well, he probably will.”
Hank frowned. “Thank you, sir, that’s very comforting.”
“Not my job to be comforting, Thornton, and you better get used to the idea that you can’t do this job without pissing off a few people. Isn’t that right, Major Brett?”
“Well, sir, not all of us are quite as efficient as pissing people off as others,” Brett answered in a lighter tone. “No sense worrying anyhow, Hank, the Boche might send you West, and then General MacArthur won’t be able to touch your career.”
1st Battalion, 69th (165th) Infantry Regiment, France
The blackness of night coruscated with sheets of rain and the glow of headlights. The heavy precipitation drummed on Sigi’s Brodie helmet and soaked through his uniform, making the early French autumn much colder than the mercury would indicate. The mud caked his boots and weighed down his every step, making the art of dodging mule cart and motor truck alike that much more perilous. The constant low drumming of the rain was accompanied by a thunderous chorus of artillery. Their preparatory fires had already begun. American and French artillery screamed overhead to rain steel and fire on the German positions to their front.
A cocktail of adrenaline from the near misses with vehicles, anticipation of the upcoming battle, and exhaustion from the long slog mingled in Sigi’s bloodstream as he peered through the rain-soaked night. The 1st Battalion led the 69th in order of march, which led the division, which led the attack. But even as the vanguard of the 42nd Division’s attack into the St. Mihiel salient, they were relegated to the side paths off the road.
While the doughboys trudged through the mud of the forests and swamps framing the road, the road itself was choked with supply wagons and trucks, artillery caissons, and tanks. Irritated beasts and finicky engines brayed over the sound of the pouring rain.
As Colonel Donovan’s adjutant, Sigi ranged up and down the column, such as it was, helping his commander make sure all his companies were still on track, not having gotten lost in the woods or delayed down the wrong path. Despite the relatively straight direction of travel and the large road nearby, the pitch-black conditions of night and severe weather made getting lost a real threat.
For hours they continued the march. The rain didn’t slow in tempo until the gray predawn, when it finally subsided into a lighter drizzle. In contrast to the chaotic forward lurch through inclement weather and seemingly endless caravans of mismatched vehicles, the 1st of the 69th arrived to find their pre-assault trenches neatly taped off and marked by the engineers down to the platoon level.
Sigi consulted his pocket watch; it was not quite 0400, still more than an hour until their step-off. Sigi counted the last platoon of Company D into position then jogged to find Colonel Donovan who’d been, naturally, marching near the front of the column. He found him between Company A and Company B’s sections of the line.
“All units in position, sir,” Sigi reported, forcing himself not to shiver.
“Good, let’s troop the line,” Donovan said. “Does the men good to see their officers calm and relaxed before the fight.”
Calm. Relaxed. Right.
Sigi trailed Donovan, taking mental notes—any attempt at writing things down would’ve been a mess amidst the deluge—and trying to look unconcerned vis-à-vis the impending battle.
“Don’t worry boys, won’t even be as tough as a cross-country run back at Blooey,” Donovan said as he slapped shoulders and grinned at the lads in 1st Platoon of Company C. “The Germans know they’re done, sooner or later. Let’s finish them off sooner.”
The shelling continued as Donovan and Sigi walked the battalion line, bolstering the troops for the big plunge. Sigi mostly hovered in the background. The company commanders and platoon leaders either acknowledged his presence with a polite nod or ignored him. The enlisted troops were too busy talking with their much beloved battalion commander to pay any attention to the diminutive lieutenant trotting along at his heels. It wasn’t racial bigotry; the handful of Jewish boys in the battalion were just as oblivious to his presence as the gentiles.
At least not for the most part. The redheaded corporal who had made the smartass remarks about Jews the day he’d transferred to the battalion gave Sigi a look only a hair’s breadth away from, “Silent Insolence,” as defined by the Manual for Courts Martial. By and large, though, the New Yorkers of the 69th were used to their “Irish Jew” comrades, and neither Donovan nor, just as importantly, Father Duffy, accepted open antisemitism in the ranks.
Maybe if I learn a few of the songs, thought Sigi.
With mere minutes to go before the attack, twenty-four French Schneider tanks painted in swirling camouflage patterns lumbered off the road and churned their way to the front of the infantry. The Schneider resembled nothing so much as a great metal box on tractor treads, with one side of the box sharpened to a knife edge prow with a 75 mm cannon protruding from it.
According to the Operations Order, the French tanks would precede the 83rd Brigade in the advance, providing mobile cover and fire support as well as tearing gaps through enemy wire. Hank’s unit, the American 344th Tank Battalion, was supporting the 84th Brigade. Sigi hoped there would be a chance to say hello after this operation.
Donovan’s meat hook of a hand on his shoulder interrupted Sigi’s reverie.
“Ready, Sigi?” Donovan said. “It’s almost time.”
Sigi removed his M1911 pistol, checked that a round was chambered, and gave his commander a firm nod.
“Yes, sir.”
Donovan put his right foot on the first rung of the ladder out of the trench. All about them, eager young privates and stone-faced veterans alike gathered, bayonets fixed, ready to go Over the Top. Donovan consulted his pocket watch, his eyes visibly tracking the path of the second hand. He snapped it shut.
“Time.” Donovan secured his whistle and gave a long, high blast that was echoed by the company commanders’ whistles all up and down the line.
Sigi followed Donovan up and out of the trench. The artillery continued to shriek overhead whilst the French tanks lumbered out ahead, mechanical heirs to the ancient world’s war elephants. Low in the sky, a formation of biplanes bearing the hat-in-the-ring insignia of the famous 94th zoomed over the advancing armies, noses pointed at enemy observation balloons, only to be intercepted by German triplanes. Sigi paused, fascinated, as a flaming warplane plummeted into the trees less than a hundred yards away.
A shove sent him stumbling a few steps forward. Ryan, one of the company commanders, looked over his shoulder.
“Keep moving, Lieutenant, sightseeing will get you killed.”
Sigi shook himself out of the awe the spectacle of the battle had struck, reacquired Donovan, and ran to catch up, focused on his part again rather than the terror and majesty of the whole affair.