Matt's War

By Bruce Frazer

Eli jenkins and Matt Jenkins, father and son. World War II and Vietnam, both served, both saw combat, but one came home with wounds that wouldn't heal. Matt Jenkins returned from Vietnam a wounded and reluctant hero. While his physical wounds heal his psychological wounds linger for years. As Matt battles his demons we are taken on an incredible journey, while Eli struggles to hold his family together.

From the days of prohibition to the modern era we follow the Jenkins family, as Matt overcomes a near fatal car wreck and is reunited with the young girl he saved from certain death, during a night mission while serving in Vietnam.

In a twist of fate, Matt's burgeoning new career restoring antique autos takes him to Houston, Texas, where his first commissioned work, a 1939 Cadillac is in the running for best of show. Injured while preventing a mugging in the show's parking lot, Matt is rushed to the hospital unconscious. A day later he wakes up to see the red hair of a woman he has secretly loved, ever since he first saw her while being treated for his combat wounds in Vietnam.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bruce Frazer
• Release date: Jan 8, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393289609

Bruce Frazer

Bruce Frazer and his wife live in beautiful western Virginia. A diverse career doing many things, from farming to woodcarving has given him an abundance of experiences. His inspiration for writing comes from the beauty of his surroundings, and his enjoyment of creating a story from a singel idea.

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Matt’s War

A NOVEL

BRUCE FRAZER

To my wife, Marsha, who stuck by and worked with me to make this novel the best it could be.

To my daughter, Rebecca, who dared me to write.

The Loving Tree

The tree stood prominent on a hilltop, a lone sentinel over the ages of time. It knew that its time had come, its life energy diminished by several centuries of being. It was a living, breathing life-form, albeit on a different plane than the human form. It had been given its life force by the same creator, but the energy that gave it life existed in a different spectrum of being. The tree could not speak, see, or reason, but felt the energy that was the world. The tree could sense the being of man; the energy emanating from man’s life force. It counted the years by the passage of the sun, the seasons of change flowing into each other, as the earth traveled on its lonely path around the light of life. If only the tree could speak, the stories it could tell.

One

Eli Jenkins

Eli was born and raised in the mountain country of southwest Virginia, opposite Harlan County, Kentucky. As a young boy growing up during the depression, Eli had known hard times; his family doing whatever it took to survive in the tough mountain towns of Wise County.

When prohibition became the law of the land, mountain folk found a new cottage industry, which helped to supplement the hard-scrabble farms they owned. Then with the 18th amendment to the Constitution came the era of the bootlegger. During this time the tradition of having one’s own still for the production of spirits began to show promise, as a means of income for these tough mountain people.

Eli grew up with a knack for mechanical things, as his ma liked to call anything with gears or a motor. Most mountain farms still used horses for work in the fields, the machinery the horses pulled needed repair, as well as the other devices being used to make life easier on the mountain homesteads. On rare occasions, a tractor made an appearance, but the tractors of the late twenties and early thirties were not well suited to work on the dangerous hill sides.

***

With prohibition, the need for fast transport of illegal whiskey over treacherous back roads and the constant repair of those vehicles prompted the need, for competent mechanics to maintain the bootleggers’ vehicles. Eli, only twelve years old, and a graduate of sixth grade, helped his dad repair and refit the cars and trucks used by the bootleggers in the county. Soon, word spread about the fine work being done by the Jenkins. A notorious element of bootleggers started showing up, wanting their vehicles modified for the transport of illegal whiskey.

In 1933, by the time of the 21st amendment and the repeal of prohibition, the little mountain garage was well known for its unique work within the criminal community. With prohibition a thing of the past, the speakeasies, as well as underground liquor stores, no longer had to hide there activities. Unfortunately, the criminal element which had profited from the sale and transport of moonshine remained. They continued to produce and transport liquor; only now, their intent was to avoid the new government taxes, which were levied on all alcoholic beverages sold in the country. The illegal sale of untaxed alcoholic beverages in the country grew into a large criminal enterprise, pulling the Jenkins’ deeper into its clutches. The money they made retrofitting the vehicles used for hauling illegal liquor was a king’s ransom, compared to the meager life the family could eek out of the soil. But along with this way of living, came the perils associated with a life of criminal doing. The Jenkins’s always had one or two runners on the garage floor, their tanks full of untaxed liquor. The cars were in need of constant repair, due to the heavy loads and high speeds at which they were driven. Most of the back roads were little more than gravel paths, carved through the mountain passes. The stills and production plants were hidden in the most inaccessible locations, way back in the woods. As the work got more dangerous, Eli’s father began to grow very concerned about his son’s future. He knew that to stay in the mountains and continue in the family trade would eventually lead to prison, or worse. Two of Eli’s cousins had been caught in gun battles, one with federal agents and the other, between two rival mobs. Both, now occupied spaces in the Jenkins Family plot. On a warm spring day in late April, Clem and Eli were busy tearing out a hidden tank, from under the floor of a black ’35 Ford Coupe, as the driver, Finch, stood near the open garage doors. With a smoke in one hand, and a cup of coffee in the other, he watched as Clem and Eli worked on the car. Eli, now a young man of 18, was busy at the garage workbench working on one of the tank’s valves, when an exploding sound suddenly ripped through the garage. Recognizing the chattering staccato of a 45 caliber machine gun, he dove in front of the coupe, putting the engine block between him and the deadly rain of bullets. It was over in a matter of seconds, the gunman’s car, sending up a cloud of dust and gravel, as it sped away from the garage. Eli shouted to his father.

Pa, are you alright?

Spitting a mouthful of dust and tobacco juice on the floor, Clem made his way out from under the coupe and looked over at the door, a cloud of dust and burnt gun powder, fouling the air. I’m okay, but it looks like old Finch has had his last smoke, how about you, boy?

I caught a big chunk of wood in my arm, from what used to be the bench, but otherwise, I’m fine.

Later that day, after burying Finch’s remains up on the mountain, Clem and Eli sat down next to the fresh mound of earth covering Finch’s body. Clem grabbed a jug of white lightening, took a long pull and handed it to his son. Eli tipped the jug to his lips and let the clear liquid run into his mouth, burning a white heat all the way to his stomach. They sat in silence for the longest time, knowing they were lucky to be alive. It was only by pure chance that the hail of bullets from the Tommy gun had missed them both. There had been dust ups between rival gangs before. Usually the hits were staged along lonely mountain roads late at night by enforcers, lying in ambush. This time the attack had come in broad daylight and had endangered Clem’s family and home. He knew that the turf wars were only going to get worse, as the different mob factions fought for control over the very profitable bootlegging empires. Clem didn’t want his son to be a part of that life any longer. He wanted a better future for Eli, a way out of the poverty that he had grown up with. He reasoned that sooner or later the law would catch up with him, for aiding the bootleggers or one of the gangs would try to take over his business, as a means of controlling the transport of contraband whiskey.

After the events of that April day, Clem felt the time had come to sit down with his wife and son, and find a way to give Eli a chance for a better life.

***

Eli, Clem looked at his son; This way of life isn’t going to do you any good. You need to get away from here, and get better educated, make something of yourself. You don’t want to wind up in jail, or worse yet, buried out in the woods like the bootlegger Flint, in an unmarked grave. Your mother and I want to see you leave these mountains, and become a better person. You need to finish school and get an honest job. Without more schooling, there ain’t no one going to give you a chance at anything decent. You’re a smart boy, real gifted at mechanical things, but you need to know more on what makes them tick. Your ma and I have been talking and we know that Cousin Harvey’s boy, Frank, learned an awful lot, and finished his schooling, after he got into the army. We think that would be best for you too.

At first Eli was shocked and dismayed at the thought of leaving the only place he had ever known. He sat in silence for a while, staring out the kitchen window, a sudden fear creeping into his mind. Thoughts cascaded as though an avalanche were roaring down a mountain. To leave his home, family, and friends was something he had never imagined. Deep down in his gut, he knew that his parents were right. He had often wondered of the world beyond the mountains, away from the bootlegging trade. Even more, he wanted to learn, to be able to understand his mechanical ability, that was largely self taught. He could figure out how an engine worked, but didn’t really know why it worked. As the first wave of fear subsided, he turned and faced his parents.

You know I don’t want to leave, this is all I know, but maybe it’s time I left the nest and flew on my own.

***

It was hard to believe that ten years had gone by since that young boy had stepped off the bus at Fort Benning. Eli remembered that first call to toe the line, with his ma’s old cowhide suitcase by his side, and the drill instructor, sizing up the sorry lot that had been assigned to his care. Eli remembered Sergeant Ira Wendell stopping in front of him, nose to nose, looking him right in the eye, with a sly smile on his face, as he announced for all within hearing, that recruit Jenkins, from now on nicknamed hillbilly, was going to be a special project of his.

Were going to burn them bib overalls, boy, and dress you up to look like a real soldier!

Boot camp had been a real test of Eli’s will to survive. He was more than capable in the basic requirements of training. Growing up in the mountains on a hard scrabble farm had given him the ruggedness and physical strength which was the envy of the city fellas. Working on bootlegger’s vehicles, always on the alert for trouble, had gifted him with the vigilance and cool- headed demeanor that was necessary in the art of war. The real test of his will had come from the constant taunting by his barracks mates, regarding his hillbilly background. When Sergeant Wendell had singled Eli out as a hillbilly in front of everyone on the line, Eli knew that doing so would cause him much grief with his new bunkmates.

Because of Eli’s background and past experience with others like him, Sergeant Wendell knew that Eli would have to be strong mentally if he were going to survive basic training. By singling him out, he had challenged Eli to get past the hazing that was sure to be a major part of his life in the army. Eli remembered the day when he had looked up at the list of duty assignments posted after graduation from basic training.

The army had discovered thru various testing, that Eli was indeed very talented when it came to mechanical aptitude. Despite his lack of a high school education Sergeant Wendell had seen this ability in him early on. With Eli’s uncanny knack of being able to field strip, and reassemble his rifle faster than anyone else in his platoon, he gradually won over his bunkmates by offering to help them with this important task. The handling and maintenance of other essential equipment also came easier to Eli, than to the rest in the platoon. Sergeant Wendell had taken heed of these attributes in Eli, noting in his reports, that the only thing holding recruit Jenkins from advancement, was his lack of education and his weak reading skills.

The sergeant felt that Eli was a diamond in-the-rough, and ordered some of the other recruits to tutor him in reading, with the hope that after basic training Eli would be able to continue his education, taking part in some of the basic courses offered on the base.

It had proved to be a worthwhile effort, as Eli eventually obtained a high school degree.

He was overjoyed to see that he had been assigned to the motor pool. The first time he walked into that large fully equipped garage, he told himself that he had died and gone to heaven! Eli had never known the luxury of having more tools at his disposable than one could possibly imagine. The motor pool was equipped with all the latest testing equipment, gadgets, lifts and supplies that Uncle Sam could provide. It was a far cry from laying on the dirt floor in his father’s poorly lit single-bay barn, working with worn out tools cobbing together bootlegger’s cars out of old junk parts, bailing wire, bubble-gum, and tin.

Private Jenkins, I’m Sergeant Ron Doyle, welcome to my motor pool. Now give me a hand with this gear assembly while I fill you in on your duties here. Jenkins, you have only one duty, they break it, and we fix it! You got that?

Yes sir!

Jenkins, call me Sarge, in here we all get dirty together!

At that moment, Eli knew that he had found a place in the Army. He learned more from Sergeant Doyle in the next year, than he would have ever learned by attending a mechanics school outside of the military. Ron Doyle became Eli’s mentor, teaching him all of the necessary skills to become the best motor pool mechanic at Fort Benning. Ron took Eli completely under his wing, even having him over to his house for dinner, where, they would talk about engines, for hours on end.

As time moved on Eli worked his way up to sergeant, becoming known for his innovations in preventive maintenance, and the inception of a mobile repair unit, a half-track truck which was outfitted as a mobile shop. It was complete with every tool necessary for, in the field repairs. The Motor Pool Medic contained a full line of scaled down shop tools, from a small lathe, milling machine, welder, and self contained generator, to a tank trailer, containing both gas, and diesel fuel. Just about every breakdown contingency was accounted for, and if necessary a vehicle might be temporarily jury-rigged so that it could continue its mission, or towed to a motor pool facility for proper repair.

The forming of the 82nd Armored Recon Battalion at Fort Benning in July of 1940, proved to play a major part in Eli’s remaining years with the Army. After the attack on Pearl Harbor in December of 1941, the mission and purpose of the 82nd was a key factor in the march of the allied troops across Europe. As the forward eyes and ears of the 2nd Armored Division, the 82nd depended on the mobility of its war machines to advance ahead of the 2nd Armored while also providing flanking cover.

Eli’s unit of tanks and light armor went where the need for speed was of a more critical nature. They were involved in campaigns in Italy, and also Belgium. Eli’s motor pool medics followed behind the action, repairing and servicing any and all types of equipment that was not able to continue on the march.

It was during an R&R break shortly after the unit’s campaign in Belgium, that Eli received a field promotion to Master Sergeant, in recognition of his leadership during the past year and the fine work his unit had done in keeping the mechanized recon on the move.

In early April of 1945 the 82nd was ordered to race thru enemy lines in advance of the main assault force, in order to clear the way for the push into Berlin. The 82nd advanced across two hundred fifty miles of enemy territory and secured a crossing at the Elbe River, a key to the invasion of Berlin. The mobile medics were vital in keeping the tanks and mobile armor moving. Following behind the main column, just out of enemy range, Eli’s crew would respond to any emergency call that was radioed in. It was during one such call that Eli and his crew would face their greatest test.

***

Sarge,

Yeah Curly, what’s up? Eli turned to look at his corporal who was manning the radio.

We just got a radio call from an M4 Sherman Tank about five miles up the road; he thinks the fuel pump is clogged. He can’t get her fired up, so the column pushed him off to the side, and told him to catch up at check point Zebra", if he gets back under way.

Okay, tell the rest of the boys to saddle up, we’re done with this jeep anyway. Advise the tank’s commander we should reach his position in about twenty minutes.

The mobile medic along with its’ support vehicles, a jeep with a mounted 50 caliber machine gun, a two ton supply truck stocked with spare parts, and a heavy tow rig, headed in the direction of the disabled tank. Travel was precarious at best, due to a recent rain and the damage done to the roadbed by the passing of the main column, earlier in the day. By the time the motor pool crew got under way, the road was a quagmire of mud, and deep ruts, slowing their arrival at the M4’s location by another twenty-five minutes. During the transit Eli could hear the sounds of cannon fire, as well as the occasional rapid staccato of machine gun fire, in the distance.

The noise of machine gun fire always brought back the memory of that time in his father’s garage, when the bootlegger Flint bought the farm. Eli well remembered that close call, as he still bore the scar from the 3 inch long shard of wood that had been removed from his arm following Flint’s assassination.

Sergeant Jenkins, the radio in the half track brought Eli back to the present, Jenkins here, what’s your status?

Curly here, we have the M4 in sight, about four hundred yards ahead, over.  Corporal Curly Leroy Williams was the gunner in the jeep with the mounted 50 caliber.

The vehicles were spaced out at approximately one hundred yard intervals, for security. There were still enemy forces scattered about, as well as the possibility of stray enemy fighter aircraft passing overhead. So far, Eli’s little convoy had gone about its work without any fear of enemy engagement. They had worked on seven or eight vehicles since 5:00 am that morning, always within a couple of miles of the main column. or near the slower trailing support convoy.

This time however, the mobile repair team found themselves ten miles ahead of the trailing support convoy, while the fast moving main attack force was now twelve miles forward of their position.

Curly

Yeah boss

Keep your eyes open for snipers or enemy patrols; I don’t like being this far from the support convoy or the attack column. We’re like ‘sitting ducks’ in the middle of a very small pond!

I’ll keep my head on a swivel boss, this situation has my antenna up and my finger on the trigger, Curly out.

As the mobile medic closed within view of the tank, Eli saw that the jeep had set up a flanking position on the road next to the tank. He could see Curly standing at the heavy machine gun, binoculars in hand, keeping a lookout for any signs of danger. Eli had his driver, Jerry, pull up about twenty-five yards behind the disabled tank, keeping a safe distance as a precaution, just in case of trouble. The heavy tow vehicle and supply truck were ordered to stand off approximately two hundred yards back, minimizing their risk in case of an ambush.

Eli dismounted and walked over to the jeep, How does it look Curly?

So far okay, boss. Nothing suspicious in the field across the way, but I’ll keep my eyes glued to those hedge rows. You never know when a varmint will sneak up on you and take a bite when your back is turned!  As Eli turned to look at the M4A3 he asked, Where’s the crew? 

Curly pointed over at the back side of the tank, They’re on the port side, away from the road, taking in some chow. Eli turned and walked to the opposite side of the tank.

Who’s the commander of this unit?

That would be me sir, Sergeant Sam Pike. Would you care for a cup of coffee?

Yeah, sounds good. Let’s have a couple of your men take up a watch on this side of the road about fifty yards north and south of our position. We have the other side covered from the jeep, and my boys are standing off down the road. I don’t like the feel of this place, it’s too quiet!

With sentries established, Eli spoke to a couple of his men back at the half track, telling them to bring a filter kit and the necessary tools to do the job. Private Willis went over and undid the engine hatch while Eli and Sam Pike discussed the symptoms that led to the breakdown.

Sounds like you pretty much have the problem diagnosed Eli said, as he pointed over to a rather grungy looking filter lying on the back hatch.

Yeah, I think we sucked the bottom of the fueler’s tank, at our last checkpoint. We have a schedule to keep, and the higher ups aren’t worried if they lose one or two machines in the process.

Boss, do you want to flush the tank? This one has about fifteen gallons left in it, we can pump that off and flush out the remaining gunk before we hook the fuel line back up.

That’s a good idea, Willis. Eli liked the young private. Willis always seemed to be one step ahead of the rest. The private reminded Eli of himself, those many years ago, always trying to get the edge on a problem and finding a better way.

Willis, as long as you have the fuel line disconnected, I’m going inside and turn the engine over a couple of times. This should clear the fuel pump of any remaining debris, but hold the line off to the side so we don’t spray gas all over the engine compartment. Eli popped down into the tank, and hit the starter a couple of times. How’s that, Willis?" Eli climbed up to the top of the hatch so he could hear the Private speak.

That’s good, boss. Crank it one more time for good measure.

Eli slid back into the tank, and hit the starter once more, Willis watched as clean fuel shot out of the line, spraying the road side with the volatile liquid.

That did it, Willis hollered out.

Good, he heard Eli holler, from inside the tank. I’m going to get out of this compartment a minute and let the fumes clear. They’re giving me a headache!

Eli was halfway out of the hatch when he heard a muffled pop, like that of a firecracker exploding in a tin can. Looking towards the field on the opposite side of the road, he caught the blur of a dark object hurtling in his direction. In the next instant he heard a sharp metallic clang as the object landed a foot away from where he was standing. In that second of recognition, Eli’s brain worked like a modern day super computer, processing raw data, evaluating what his eyes perceived as a deadly threat. Cylindrical object emitting a thin trace of smoke...- grenade!

Grenade, take cover! In that one split second Eli evaluated his options, hopped out of the hatch, and grabbed the deadly hunk of steel with his left hand. With a fluid motion he chucked the grenade into the tank and slammed down the hatch, at the same time rolling off the side of the M4 onto the ground. Just as he hit the ground, the grenade exploded like a thunderbolt, in a great steel coffin. The noise was deafening, reverberating thru the core of his body. On top of the tank, the hatch blew back with such a force that it twisted it like a pretzel, being held on by only one hinge pin. Eli, slowly gained back his senses, his hearing still muffled from the blast. At that time he realized how fortunate they all were, as the grenade’s arming safety must not have released properly upon being launched. Otherwise, it would have exploded on impact, igniting the fumes emanating from the gasoline saturated ground, resulting in a giant fireball, consuming everyone in the area.

Just as Eli called out for a head count, the air was filled with the sound of bullets ripping over the tank, pinning everyone in place.

Willis!

Yeah, I’m alright Sarge, everyone else is okay. We’re still dizzy from the blast, but that sniper has us pinned down. I can’t reach my rifle without getting hit. Eli crawled to the side of the tank and peered thru the under carriage to see if Curly was okay.

Curly?

Off to the side of the jeep Eli saw Curly laying on his back not a muscle moving. There was no evidence of blood on the Corporal and he figured that the shock from the blast must have knocked him right out of the jeep. The hatch had swung open to that side, probably dazing him, like a good right hook to the jaw.

Just then Sergeant Pike tapped Eli on the shoulder, Eli, why don’t you take this carbine, and try to draw their fire. I’ll get up on the tank and see if the 30 is still in one piece. Sam Pike nodded at the 30 caliber coaxial machine gun mounted up on the turret.

Eli looked at Pike, noting that his right hand was cocked over at an absurd angle, indicating at the least, a badly broken wrist. 

How did that happen, Eli asked, pointing at Sam’s mangled wrist. When you yelled the warning, I dove behind the tree over here. I jammed it hard against the trunk. Eli saw that Pike was holding the M1 with his left hand, pointing at a line of trees five yards behind their position. Pike was obviously in great pain, but at that moment he was oblivious to anything but the situation at hand.

How about your men, Eli, are any of them hurt?

"No, they’re all taking cover behind the half track with your guys. They were helping

carry the equipment back when this ruckus started.

Well Sam, there’s no way in hell you’re going to be able to climb up on the tank, and operate the 30 with that busted up hand. We don’t even know if it still works!

Just then, several more bursts of fire ricocheted off the side of the M4, one bullet glancing off the bogie wheel next to Eli’s arm.

They’re starting to get the range on us, Eli noted, as he took a quick peek over the front

end of the tank.

Boss, hey boss, what the hell is going on? Eli looked thru the undercarriage to see Curly lying on his belly, hard up against the side of the jeep.

Welcome back, Corporal, let’s just say, between the grenade and sniper fire, we’re in a bit of a situation! Is the 50 still operational?

Curly lifted his head above the seat of the jeep and was greeted by a sudden burst of automatic weapons fire. Hugging the ground, he could feel the air sizzle over his head, as a stream of hot lead swept the length of the jeep. Curly arched his neck over the side, high enough to see that a round had caught the gun square in the breech assembly, rendering it a useless piece of scrap.

Not any more Sarge.  How many do you figure are in that Hedgerow?

Eli took a chance, belly crawling to the front end of the tank, field glasses in hand. Raising his head just enough to get a clear view, he scanned the area where the fire was coming from. Not seeing anything out of the ordinary, he was about to pull back behind the tank’s port side track when suddenly, he caught a glint of reflection from the hedgerow about one hundred fifty yards across the road. He had barely ducked behind the front bogie wheel, when a slug ricocheted off the nose of the tank, where his head had been a mere second before.

That was too damn close.

Eli crawled over to where Sam Pike had taken cover. He noted the pain in Sam’s face, and that his wrist was starting to swell, turning an ugly shade of purple.

We have to do something for that wrist, before I try for that 30 up top. Eli looked over at the halftrack parked about 25 yards to the rear of the M4, where Private Willis and the tank crew were taking cover.

Willis, can you reach that roll of friction tape I left on the front seat?

If I’m real quick, but the door on the passenger side is open. I’ll try to reach the rifle leaning against the dash, but it sure would help if you could get the shooter’s attention while I’m exposed to his fire. The last time I tried to open the door, they blew out the window. Eli took the rifle from Pike and sighted in on a clump of trees, where he had last seen muzzle flashes.

Go on my count Private, one-two-three!  Eli pulled the trigger in three shot bursts, spacing the fire over a 25 yard section of the hedgerow.

At the same time, Willis reached up and threw open the driver’s door, crawling in on his belly, he grabbed the tape. Throwing the tape out to one of Sergeant Pike’s men, he then extended a little further into the cab to grab the carbine. Just then, a bullet ripped thru the stock of the rifle and caught him in the upper arm, knocking him backwards out of the truck. Nick Jones, one of the tank crew, immediately went to the Willis’s aid, tearing open a field dressing, and applying it to the wound.

Sam Pike yelled to his man, How bad is he hit? 

Deep flesh wound Sir, the bullet missed the bone, he should be alright. We’ve got the bleeding stopped.

How about the rifle, Pike asked, hopeful that it was okay.

No good sir. The slug took out he trigger assembly. Eli had been listening to the conversation, while using a couple of broken branches and the friction tape to immobilize Sam Pike’s wrist.

How does that feel Sam?

Much better, thanks. At least I can move my arm without that damn stabbing pain. Now maybe we can do something about this mess. 

At that point, they heard fire coming from back down the road where the other two vehicles were parked. 

What’s your assessment of the situation? Eli turned to the tank commander, knowing he had a far better feel for front line combat than a rear guard motor pool sergeant.

What we’ve been seeing are small patrols, maybe one, two, or three man teams, deployed as a delaying tactic. The Germans know their back is up against the wall, and they’re doing everything possible to disrupt our columns, as we move toward Berlin. They’ve been sending out a lot of kids, and second line personnel, with a minimum amount of ammo, keeping all of their best people at the front. These units are made up of old guys and kids, high school or younger, forced into duty for the Father Land! Probably the reason we only saw one grenade launched at us is that they only had one! These guys are given a rifle, sometimes an old automatic weapon, all the small arms ammo they can carry in their pockets, and told they must delay the enemy, or die trying. It looks like we have two snipers. Probably one has a scoped rifle, his fire is too accurate for open sights. Your men up the road are likely in the same boat, probably they had their tires shot out so they can’t move up to help us. I’d say two sniper teams working together, with a senior man in command, one who knows tactics, probably a reservist, or retired officer.

Speaking of the grenade, Eli tapped the side of the tank, why didn’t the whole damn thing blow, with all that 75mm ammo for the cannon?  Sergeant Pike ducked, as another two- round burst glanced off the side of the tank, the deadly hunks of steel careening wildly off onto the countryside.

There is no ammo. If we breakdown, we hand off our supply to another unit in the column, and wait for an ammo truck to catch up from the rear of the column. We only keep one shell, locked and loaded in the breech of the cannon, just in case we run into anything larger than a German patrol car, or smaller than a Panzer Tank! The 75’s in a Sherman don’t have much effect on their armor, it takes one of the newer Pershing’s to measure up to them.

Eli thought a moment, Do you think the blast would have damaged the breech or the cannon inside the turret?

No, I doubt it, you know how heavy that steel is, it’s built to stand the firing of the 75mm tank shell, so the grenade only destroyed everything else, the controls, radio, and instruments. We even removed the ammo from the 30 caliber mounted inside the turret. They want to keep the forward units stocked with everything they can use to take that bridge over the Elbe. That means moving fast, and scavenging any vehicle that breaks down. The only thing they left us with was our M1s and the top mounted 30 caliber with three belts of ammo, in the can next to the mount.

Eli pointed up at the machine gun, by the twisted hatch, Do you think it still works?

It looks okay to me, slamming the cover over the hatch saved it from any concussion blast; the hatch blew back opposite of the gun.

Eli’s mind began to take stock of the available resources at their disposable. Willis was over at the mobile medic, a bullet hole in his arm, with four of the tank crew and no workable weapons. The rest of Eli’s team had stayed with the supply truck, keeping their rifles with them. Sam and Eli had one carbine with three clips of ammo; the tank crew had not removed their rifles from the tank before the attack.

Being so far to the rear of the attack column, no one had expected an ambush or even any enemy contact. Then there was Curly, he was still dazed from the concussion, resting behind the jeep, with its worthless 50 caliber. A plan began to form in Eli’s mind, if in fact the cannon could be fired somehow, whether it be manually, or by jury-rigging it. He saw that the turret was pointed to the rear, and had to be moved a few degrees to the open side of the road, so it could be fired in the direction of the enemy snipers who were holding his other two vehicles at bay. To rotate the massive turret two feet in that direction would be a real challenge.

Eli looked up and studied the turret for a minute, a sudden glint appeared in his eye. With a crack of a smile on his face, a plan of action was about to be set in motion. He thought it felt just like the old days, working on bootlegger’s cars, using whatever was available to keep them going. If only he had some bubblegum! He looked back at the half-track, Hey Willis how’s the arm?

It aches pretty bad, but I can still use it, what do you have in mind?

If I give you some cover fire, Can you unhook the winch cable from the front of the medic, and pull enough slack to get it over to me?

Sure, boss, I’ll have Nick give me a hand.

Eli slapped a new clip into the rifle and took aim across the road at the hedgerow where the snipers were hold up.

Are you ready?

Willis looked at Nick who nodded his head, Okay, Now!

Eli spaced single shots along a hundred yard stretch of the hedgerow, while Willis and Nick played out the free end of the winch cable, allowing enough slack to reach the tank. Just as Eli emptied the clip, return fire from the hedgerow peppered the two vehicles. This time a salvo of small auto fire from a light machine gun peppered the side of the tank.

They’re still holding position, so I guess we’ll have to commence operation kick ass." Eli winked at Sam Pike, as he grabbed the loose end of the cable, dragging it along the side of the tank. 

Here’s my idea, Sam. We hook the cable onto the D ring that’s welded to the turret on the opposite side of the cannon mount. If Willis can reach the control for the winch, up in the truck cab, we’ll try pulling the turret a couple of feet to line up with the position of the sniper team holding down the other two vehicles. The barrel is pretty much level with the position of that other sniper team. The cannon fire should totally confuse both sniper teams long enough for my guys down at the supply truck to make a try for their weapons. While you fire the remaining two clips across the road, I’ll hop up on the turret and hope that the 30 is still working. The only thing we have to do is get Nick over here, and in the cockpit, to see if we can fire that cannon some how. Now, I’m going to hook this end of the cable to the ring, relay the plan to Willis, and tell Nick that I’ll fire a couple of rounds at the bad guys when he’s ready to come across.

Eli squeezed off one round then waited 3 seconds and fired again. The moment he heard the first shot, Nick dashed across the opening between the two vehicles, a short burst of enemy fire dusted the ground right behind his heels.

Master Sergeant, how’s your day been?! Eli smiled and playfully slapped Nick on his back.

There’s always one wise guy! If you can get that cannon to fire, I’ll make sure you get extra R&R and my beer ration, for the next month!

Hey, for your beer, I’ll throw the cannon at them!

Eli pointed up at the turret, "I think you should be able to get into the turret without drawing fire, with the hatch blown back, toward the field, it will act like a shield.

Nick nodded and climbed up the turret making sure to keep the twisted hatch between him and the line of fire. Snaking his way up to the opening, he drew himself headfirst into the gutted interior of the M4 Sherman.

What’s the damage in there Sam asked, looking up at the hatch opening.

Nick stuck his head up thru the entrance making sure to keep the hatch cover between him and the field.

Well everything is pretty much toast. The heat from the blast, fried or melted all the control systems, contained as it was, things got real warm in here. The cannon looks okay, it would take a lot more than that little firecracker to hurt it. I’m sure it can be fired manually. I’ll check in the breech and make sure the one round we have is okay. The one good thing is that they left us with an HE (high explosive) shell, so that will draw some attention when we let her go! 

Just then Sam heard Eli hammering on some piece of machinery outside. The noise was deafening, especially to Nick who popped out of the turret holding his ears, in obvious pain! Eli came around the side of the tank with a sheepish smile on his face.

Sorry, I should have told you I’d be making some racket, but I think we’ll be able to pull the turret into position, now that I’ve made a minor adjustment!

Neither one bothered to ask, Sam and Nick had a mutual feeling that the Master Sergeant knew exactly what he was doing.

I think were ready to give this a try, Eli gave a thumbs up to Willis back at the half-track. Willis cautiously opened the door and pressed the button activating the winch that was attached to the front of the mobile medic.

The groan of steel against steel could be heard, as the cable snapped taught, following the curvature of the turret, from the d- ring on the backside of the turret, around to the winch on the bumper of the half-track.

The plan was simple in design, utilizing the curve of the turret as a fulcrum point, the d-ring at one end of a C and the winch at the other. The cable would slide around the curve of the turret, using it as a lever. As the winch cable was taken up, it would have additional leverage while being drawn around the curve, rotating the cannon into the approximate position of the second sniper team. Eli and Sam crossed their fingers as the cable was stretched to its limit, drawn tight like a violin string, vibrating with a high pitch. Slowly the turret began to move, inching its way around toward the field on the opposite side of the road. The sniper team, stunned by the movement of the cannon finally realized what was taking place. They opened fire on the half-track, aiming at the winch and cab, hoping to take out either the winch or the controls. They did not know that the battery powering the winch was safely tucked under the framing of the vehicle. Eli had designed the winch system so it would not be dependent on the battery that also powered the half-track. The winch had been placed in a protective steel box, to keep it from possible damage while crossing rough terrain. It was also bullet proof up to fifty caliber ammo, which the snipers did not have. Finally, after a few torturous seconds the turret stopped moving, as the cable stretched to its breaking point, and was pulled straight across the side of the curve. Eli yelled at Willis to stop the winch before the cable parted with a force that would surely cut a man in half if it snapped.

Willis, let some tension off the cable, and when the shooting starts, get over here and take over from Sergeant Pike. He can’t fire his carbine with a busted wrist. As soon as the cannon fires, you get your butt over here, take the rifle, and cover me while I get to the 30 on the turret. Hopefully, the cannon will distract them long enough for all of us to get into position. I’m sick of this little game we’ve been playing for the last hour, besides I’m really pissed at the damage they’ve done to the mobile medic", and you know how I feel about my vehicle!"

Hey Curly, have you returned to the land of the living yet?

Yeah, boss, one hell of a headache, but I’m good to go.

Will the jeep still run, Eli asked a hopeful look in his eyes.

It’s pretty shot up, but I should be able to start it, lots of extra ventilation holes, but they haven’t hit the engine.

Good, Eli looked over at Curly thru the undercarriage of the tank.

As soon as we fire the cannon, you hop in the jeep, and drive it around behind us, because things are going to heat up real quick, once that cannon goes off. Nick, are you set to shoot?

Yes, Sir, if you can toss up that hammer you rung my bell with, one good whack, and the old girl will fire her last round!

Hey Nick, Sam looked up at Nick in the turret. If the cannon does shoot, you can have my beer ration too!

Nick laughed, Hell, if I have to, I’ll hold the shell in my hand, and hit the primer with this hammer, if it means taking the beer from two non-coms!

Eli went over the plan one more time, making sure everyone knew their part and the timing necessary to carry out their assignments.

Alright gentlemen, let’s end this thing now; on my count, three-two-one, fire! At that moment hands covered ears in anticipation of the roar from the cannon.

There was a deafening silence, no explosion came from the barrel of the 75mm cannon. Then, from inside the tank, a torrent of curses could clearly be heard by anyone within two hundred yards of the dead war machine. A loud smack of the hammer on steel reverberated thru the side of the M4, followed by the shout, Fire in the Hole. Just in the nick of time hands flew up to cover ears, as flames and smoke belched from the end of the cannon’s barrel. Willis ran across the gap between the two machines grabbing the rifle from Sergeant Pike, while Pike followed behind carrying the remaining ammo clips. Willis then took aim in the direction of the hedgerow, searching for a target. Eli jumped onto the tank using the twisted hatch as cover, stopping behind it for a second, to judge the condition of the 30 caliber coaxial machine gun. Information was processed instantly, ammo belt locked in breech, ammo can with at least two more belts, gun needs to be cocked.

Okay, Willis Now, Eli yelled!

Willis began to lay down a pattern of two shot bursts toward the enemy position, at the same time Eli was pulling the cocking lever on the machine gun. It did not take long for the sniper team to realize what was happening, as they laid down a stream of fire, bullets ricocheting off the armor of the M4, flying in all directions. The high-pitched scream of a round careening off the hatch beside Eli’s leg sent a chill up his spine as he brought the machine gun into play. Eli swallowed hard, as the deadly projectiles whistled past him with frightening speed. Now, the years of training and practice pushed aside his fear, as his brain analyzed the situation, and told his body what needed to be done. Quickly he began to sweep the enemy position with deadly fire, allowing for the weapon’s tendency to kick the barrel in an upward motion. Holding down the trigger lever, Eli risked overheating the gun’s barrel, as he walked a line of fire into the enemy position. A shot from the sniper’s position glanced off the steel pot helmet on Eli’s head, causing his ears to ring.

As the first belt of ammo played out, Eli reached into the can attached to the side of the gun mount and laid in the next belt. He thought to himself, a motor pool Sergeant was not supposed to be caught in such a predicament. He and the men under his command were supposed to repair the damage done by battle, not inflict it! So much for being part of the rear guard, he thought to himself, as he cocked the gun and once again walked the invisible line of death into the sniper’s position. Across the road in the hedgerow, branches snapped, rock fragments flew like shrapnel, and great clods of dirt exploded in the air like tiny bombs, as the bullets impacted at the rate of six hundred per minute. Eli noticed that the return fire from the automatic weapon had ceased, but the timed shots from the rifle still rang out, trying to take his life. 

"Hey Curly, let’s go for a little ride in that jeep of yours. What do you think about a

cavalry charge?"

Curly looked up at Eli, now taking cover behind the twisted hatch. There was a tiny smile on Eli’s face, which always indicated the birth of some type of Rube Goldberg scheme! 

What is it this time, boss?

Eli pointed at the damaged 50 caliber gun on the jeep mount.

Pull the pin on that, and toss it, Willis can use up the few rounds he has left and cover me while I pull the 30" off it’s mount. We’re going to take a ride over to the hedgerow and end this little tea party, while I’m still in a good mood!"

A bullet glanced off the turret just as Eli lifted the machine gun, and handed it to Nick, who was standing in the hatch entry. Nick lowered the weapon down the side of the tank to Curly, while Eli retrieved the remaining ammo belt from the can attached to the gun mount. Eli slid down the side of the M4, followed by Nick, his hand wrapped in an old rag, soaked in blood.

What happened to you? Sam asked, as he pointed at Nick’s bloody hand.

Hell, I got so excited, I missed with the hammer on the first try, I managed to smash up my knuckles pretty good, but when there’s beer at stake!!

Eli just shook his head, you’re near as crazy, as I am, if you want to quit driving a steel coffin, you can work for me anytime!