Final impact

“What about armor? What happens if a shell gets through the cage? Those slats will stop shoulder-fired rockets-I saw that a lot in the Middle East-but I’m guessing they don’t stand up real well to an eighty-eight-millimeter round or worse.” She couldn’t help wondering what it’d be like, trapped in a big iron coffin with a shell bouncing around at the speed of sound, chopping everyone up into loose meat.

Prather patted the glacis plate at the front. “Whole hull’s been revamped with appliquй armor,” he said proudly. “There’s a more sharply angled forward slope, side skirts to defend against RPGs, and some composite shielding beneath that and at the rear-which was a real problem area. We switched over to a diesel engine, too. Much safer. Doesn’t brew up the same way.”

“I guess,” Julia conceded as they started walking again.

They reached the end of a long street formed by the row of dormant tanks, and Prather took them around to the left. A small clutch of tents lay ahead. Battalion headquarters. Prather narrowed his eyes and smiled gently.

“You don’t seem to be reassured, Ms. Duffy. What’s the matter? You’ve seen a lot more combat than me, after all. Doesn’t seem as if a ride in a tank would bother you at all.”

“Yeah,” she said, “but usually I go out with the infantry. I’ve never been in an armored battle before. Not a fair one, anyway. They just didn’t happen where I came from.”

Prather nodded. “Oh well, if you don’t want to go…”

“No-no, it’ll be cool. Can’t be a wuss, after all. So when do we head out?”

“Tonight. Twenty-two hundred hours.”

She’d been expecting a silver helmet and six-shooters, but Patton was dressed for the front. His fatigues were filthy, and he’d managed to acquire a prominent bloodstain on one trouser leg. Not his, though, apparently.

He moved around on the makeshift stage like a prizefighter in the opening seconds of a long bout. Cocky, full of energy, ready for a brawl. He was taller than she’d imagined, and much more tightly wrapped. He seemed almost like a nineteenth-century figure to Julia. His voice, higher than George C. Scott’s and not nearly as gruff, still carried out over the hundreds of men gathered before him. A sea of black faces, with a solitary moon-white exception here and there. Their eyes all stayed fixed on the general.

“Men, you’re the first Negro tankers ever to fight in the American army,” he said, his voice booming out. “I would never have asked for you if I didn’t think you were good. I will have nothing but the best in my army. I don’t care what color you are, as long as you go up there and kill those kraut sons-a-bitches.

“Everyone has their eyes on you, and they’re expecting great things from you. Most of all, your people are looking to you-and by that I mean the American people, people of all colors. Don’t let them down and damn you, don’t let me down!”

“We won’t, General!” somebody called out.

“That’s the goddamn spirit!” Patton cried back. “Give ’em hell, boys!”

Julia was sure she saw the walls of the giant tent billow out as the assembly roared back. All that muscle mass and testosterone squeezed into a confined space. The heady brew of confidence, tribal bonding, and barely contained bloodlust. She might as well have been on the vehicle deck of the Kandahar again. No matter how much you leavened the mix with female personnel, there was something inherently masculine about the business of war. As fucked up and wasteful and pathetic as it was, men secretly loved it. And so did she.

As Patton left the stage to the cheers of the 761st, Prather steered her over in his direction. She was well past her giggling-girl phase, and, having interviewed so many of the top players for the Times these last two years, she wasn’t at all intimidated by the general. But she wanted to grab a quick interview. He was a sure bet to give her a couple of profanely colorful quotes for the feature she was working up.

Patton seemed to notice her as he was descending the stairs, brushing off the hand of his intelligence chief, a Colonel Black-reminding her of Dan again. He flashed a smile, sizing her up like a dangerous mount, and extended a gloved hand. He had no trouble speaking over the noise of the crowd.

“I’ve read your work, Duffy. I like it,” he growled. “You get close to the fighting man and you tell his story like it is. Prather says you want to ride out with my boys tonight.”

“If you’re okay with that, sir.”

“Don’t sir me, girlie. I know you don’t mean it. And you’re a civilian, despite your uniform, which you’ll have to get scrubbed if you’re going to ‘embed’ with my army. Can’t have any sloppiness. Understand?”

“Uh-huh,” she smirked. “I’ll be sure to touch up my lip gloss when I’m doing my camouflage paint.”

“Excellent!” Patton cried. “Now you come with me, young lady, and I’ll make sure Colonel Black here briefs you in on tonight’s operation.”

“You are cleared, aren’t you?” Black asked anxiously.