The Captains by W. E. B. Griffin

fucking road, Lieutenant?” the driver asked, as the tank began to move.
    â€œRight up the fucking road,” Parker replied.
    Another half a mile further forward, they came across six M24 light tanks. Five were facing forward, one toward the rear. They formed a half-circle.
    â€œMaybe they’re booby-trapped,” the driver said, putting Parker’s thoughts into words.
    â€œYeah, and maybe they’re not,” Parker replied. “Maybe they were just left here.” He thought for a moment. He touched his throat microphone again. “If anybody shoots at me, return the fire,” he said. “I’m going to go see.”
    He hoisted himself out of the turret, climbed down the tracks, and ran to the nearest M24, the one facing to the rear. The hatches were open, but there was no sign of damage at all. He climbed onto the hull, looked down into the driver’s seat, and then stood on the hull and looked into the turret. Finally, he climbed into the turret. There was ammunition for the tube, and the machine guns were cocked and ready to fire. Just to be sure, he dropped into the driver’s seat and tried to start the engine. It cranked but wouldn’t start, and for a moment, Parker thought it was out of fuel. But the gauge showed half full. Perhaps a fuel line stoppage. He wondered if he remembered enough from watching mechanics to clear a fuel line stoppage.
    And then the engine caught. It ran roughly for a moment or two and then smoothed out. He put it in gear and drove it to where his M4A3 sat and climbed out.
    He ordered the gunner and the loader from his tank. He installed the gunner in the M24 and told him to go back to where the rest of the platoon was in place and to tell Sergeant Woodrow to send four crewmen back, anyone who thinks he can drive an M24.
    â€œYou always wanted to be a tank commander,” he said to the loader, the junior man in a tank crew’s hierarchy. “You go get one of those M24s, and its yours…as commander.”
    â€œJesus Christ, Lieutenant!” the loader said, unnerved.
    â€œGo on,” Parker said. “I don’t see why we should give our tanks to the enemy, do you?”
    â€œNo, sir,” the loader said, and he ran toward the parked tanks.
    Parker climbed into the M4A3 and took the gunner’s position. He strapped on the throat microphone.
    â€œYou’re the commander,” he said to the driver. “Until we get some people back up here, I’ll have to fire the tube.”
    He put his eyes to the rubber eyepieces of the gunsight. He moved the turret from side to side. There was nothing out there but a bright summer Korean day.
    In fifteen minutes, crewmen from his M4A3 showed up, clinging to the hull of the M24 he had taken over. Five minutes after that, the last of the M24s had driven past him on the way to the defensive positions. He watched the last one depart, and then took a final look through the sight.
    He saw movement, and then quite clearly saw crouching figures coming onto the road at a right angle from the left, and then following the road in his direction, in the ditches on either side.
    He touched the throat microphone.
    â€œI’m going to fire one round in this thing,” he said. “The minute I do, turn it around and shag ass.”
    â€œGotcha, Lieutenant,” the driver said. Parker aimed the cannon. HEAT rounds were High Explosive, Anti-Tank, not very effective against personnel. What he needed was a cannister round. But he didn’t have a cannister round.
    He took aim at a concrete drain abutment and pressed the trigger. The round went whistling over it, to explode harmlessly five hundred yards away. Immediately, the driver spun the tank around on one track and hightailed it for the rear.
    Furious, Parker climbed awkwardly into the turret of the lurching tank, skinning his hands and knees. He stood on the seat, grabbed the handles of the .50 caliber machine gun, and spun