Blood Alone Read Online Free PDF Page A

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