The Rising Tide: A Novel of World War II Read Online Free PDF Page B

tactic. But what isn’t stupid out here? Sitting in a fat tin can, armed with a two-pound pop gun, hoping like hell we see him before he sees us.
    There was a loud squawk from the wireless.
    “Dammit, at least turn that thing down!”
    “Sir, I think it’s Captain Digby. He’s upset about something.”
    Digby. He stared at the horizon, clear, distinct, thought of the officer who sat sucking on that idiotic pipe. His tank smells like a Turkish whorehouse. And he’s upset. Good. Bloody fool. Carries fat rolls of maps so he can find his way. In a place with no landmarks, no signposts. Stuffs the damned maps into his ammo holders, and so, he runs out of ammo. Begs the rest of us for help. Just look at the sun, Captain. All the signpost you need.
    The radio squawked again, and he heard the voice now. Yep. Digby.
    “Rec report…enemy in motion… zzzzzzzzz …two hundred… zzzzzzzz. ” The wireless seemed to go dead, and he looked to the north, could see the British tanks in a ragged line. The crews had climbed into their vehicles, and most of the tank commanders were standing up, searching for something across the vast emptiness. He still looked to the north, thought, yep, there’s Digby. The sixth tank over. Brew yourself a cup of tea, Captain. There’s nothing out here but us Rats.
    He glanced down through the hatch, could see little, the tank dark. He knew each man well, more experienced than most, but so very young. They were better than the tank they pushed, the A9. She was fast, maybe faster than anything the Germans had, could maneuver easily over the rocky ground, spin around like a top. In training they had been told that the two-pounder was an effective antitank weapon, firing a solid-steel projectile, supposed to pierce anything the enemy had. It had certainly worked against the Italians, who had come at them with machines that were worn-out in 1918. The armor battles had been one-sided affairs, British tanks and artillery decimating the primitive weapons of their enemy. He remembered the first Italian tanks that had actually put up a good fight, something called an M13. But even that machine was small, and far too light, padded by a sad pile of sandbags around the turret. He could see it in his mind, the direct hit on an M13 that made it seem like an exploding sack of flour. And no one inside survived, ever. Bloody awful, that one. Target practice. Brave men sent to die in broken-down toys.
    But then the Germans came, and they brought the real thing, heavier, faster tanks, bigger guns, and suddenly the A9 crews were no longer as fond of their machines. There was something else the Germans had, a particular genius for weaponry. They had an eighty-eight millimeter antiaircraft cannon, long barrel, that threw a shell high enough to churn any pilot’s guts. But the Germans figured out that lowering the barrel and pointing it horizontally made for an antitank weapon like no other. Most of the larger artillery on both sides was like the basic howitzers, firing their shells in an arc. You could hear them coming and might even have a brief second to prepare for impact, time enough perhaps to dive into a slit trench. But the long barrel of the eighty-eight blew a shell right through you in a straight line. No high-screaming wail, no warning. And there wasn’t a single British machine that the eighty-eight wouldn’t blow to pieces.
    He lowered himself into the hatch, tried to see the wireless operator, Batchelor, the man who doubled as the gun loader.
    “Batch. Did Digby say anything else?”
    “I’m trying to raise him, sir. He said something about the rec, then I lost him.”
    He pulled himself up, stared out again, mulled over the word: rec. Reconnaissance. Hell of a job, flitting all over the place in light armored cars. They run right up to the Jerries, see what’s what, then run like hell to get away. Nothing but machine guns for protection. Ballsy chaps, those fellows.
    Below the gun barrel in front of