Kanuro5: 6/7/24 -Finally got around to releasing this. Wanted to do it yesterday because of D-Day's 80th anniversary, but other obligations came up. I'm at least glad I got this chapter out. Honestly, I'm considering whether I should continue this story until the end of the war like I originally planned, or end this story where the campaign ended in the game after Chambois. I'm debating this just because of how infrequently I post chapters and those that are still invested do not drop this completely. It shouldn't be about one - two chapters published per year. Work and personal life takes so much time. At this rate, it probably won't be another five years until this story finishes (sarcasm). But I don't know, I'll keep trying to put these out as best and as fast as possible. Enjoy!

The Engineer III

August 15, D-Day + 70

"It's not a sin to get knocked down; it's a sin to stay down"

Engineer Adam Mercer had seen the worst of it. Or at least he thought he did, until he went up to Autry.

Baker Company was sent to attack the remnants of the Panzer Lehr Division. Due to the success of Operation Cobra, the German 7th Army was withdrawing from Normandy. This German unit, under command of Tiger Ace Captain Schultz, were there at Autry to prevent Allied forces from cutting off a major escape route for the 7th Army.

Technician Third Grade Mercer and his team were assigned to assist the armor of Baker Company; the unit was heading into a head-on-head fight with armor, Brutal Baker needed all the engineers the battalion could spare. He was, of course, accompanied by his second-in-command, Sergeant Birch. He had two replacement engineers, Privates Harry Smith, and Eugene McCarthy.

From what Mercer would recall, there were a litter of American tanks with Baker Company.

Everything started off well and good. Lieutenant Rodenhaver of Baker Company advanced in an even line with four Shermans and two Greyhounds at the wings and two Wolverines in the center. The engineers were tasked with keeping the Wolverines operational. They came upon small-arms fire, and a few Stugs and Panzers on the right flank. It wasn't too intense.

Then the left flank took a chateau. All hell broke loose.

Over by the left, murderous volumes of German fire erupted, followed by booming tank blast of medium and heavy tanks. It sounded like a Panther and a Tiger were lighting up a firestorm. Mercer remembered overhearing frantic cries of alarm over the radio about the units being outgunned by the heavier tanks who came out of nowhere.

Suddenly, scores of German riflemen and anti-tank soldiers emerged over an earth mound. They poured fire onto the engineer section.

Mercer saw it happen. Private Smith was yelling for assistance in helping a wounded man from Baker, and then he took a bullet between the eyes. Mercer had seen bodies fall backwards before, but Private Smith simply dropped to the ground like his legs suddenly gave out. The back of his head burst like a balloon.

A Panzer suddenly emerged and blasted the engineer and HQ section. These Germans counterattacked with everything they had, they were fiercely aggressive, the armor and infantry closed the distance amongst the American center, displacing them from their positions. The center of Baker never stood a chance.

The constant roars of exhaust from the tanks, men screaming, machine guns belching, along with the creaking of the weight of the gears, had all blurred together into a din of terror.

Sergeant Don Prest, an engineer of Baker Company, was right beside Mercer trying to patch up the disabled Wolverine as fast as he could. An MG42 ripped into the back of Prest, sending him to the ground. That engineer was writhing in the dirt. A pool of his own blood was forming underneath him.

Two Panzers emerged and blew the Wolverine to smithereens; fortunately, the crew managed to bug out before the tank blew. Mercer grabbed Prest and heaved him up, his innards were falling out from the exit holes made from his stomach.

Lieutenant Rodenhaver was shouting orders through his radio as his First Sergeant was barking at the men to regroup.

An explosion rocked the rear of the men. Mercer fell face first into the dirt.

Rodenhaver had been flung on his back; his helmet fleeing away on the ground. The officer cried out in a terrible moan.

The men of Brutal Baker were falling back, overwhelmed by the Kraut counterattack.

The young McCarthy scooped up the lieutenant over his shoulders while Birch assisted the wounded First Sergeant to his feet. The color was leaving the face of Sergeant Prest, who trembled mightily at the loss of his blood and organs.

"Wh-Why me? Why me, Adam?" he whimpered as a child to Adam Mercer.

Mercer could say nothing for his words were glued to his throat. He looked up and witnessed the onslaught of enemy steel heading his way with the intent to kill. He dropped his weapon and picked up the eviscerated Prest once more.

The engineers took the wounded men out of the area as the German tanks fired on the retreating ranks. Baker never even looked back.

Such occurred only one hour ago.

Now, Adam Mercer was sitting on a stool inside the room of the Able Company CP back in the rear. His uniform was stained with dirt and mud, his face had splatters of drying blood and dust. His hair was a mess and he had residue of blood between his fingernails. Cuts were on his face and minor burns were on the back of his hands. His head hung low, and his eyes were pasted to the floor.

The senior engineer was sitting before Conti and Peck; the two officers were resting against a desk.

Conti's crusty voice was soft, "What the hell happened, Merce?"

"It… we… we were… I…"

The engineer quieted. Conti exhaled through his nostrils.

The Company Commander took out a Chesterfield and handed it to him, "Here."

The despondent man looked up with the eyes of a child at the cigarette. His hands shook as his arm extended. He placed it between his lips and lit it up.

To Mercer, those puffs from that Chesterfield were more precious than gold.

His lungs opened once more, "They knocked the hell outta us, sir…" He exhaled a mighty plume of smoke.

"Go on," Conti told him gently. "What happened at Autry?"

Mercer closed his eyes…

Autry…

"They overwhelmed us. Lieutenant Roddy was trying to keep us extended in a line so we could encircle them, but we got encircled, or something like that. We got hit from the flank by Panzers and a buncha infantry. They pretty much surrounded us and shot us to pieces."

"What about the Shermans?"

"Didn't stand a chance. From what I overheard; they were overwhelmed, sir."

2nd Lieutenant Peck spoke up, "What did they have?"

"Stugs, Panzers, Panthers, and a Tiger."

Conti leaned forward, "A Tiger?"

"Yeah."

Mercer could see that Conti was prepared to ask another question, his mouth draping low, but he withheld his comment.

"I was near the rear, but from what I saw… Baker had advanced in a nice line, my team and I were smack-dab in the center, ya know? Took out a Stug or two, they did. They were advancin,' right? And next thing we know, the Krauts are everywhere. the heavier tanks hit us from the side, riflemen are comin' 'round us. The armor was charging us! They had more armor in the center and came down on us and overwhelmed the Wolverines. Once the Wolverines were done, the armor and infantry turned their attention on us… It was a shitshow…"

Conti and Peck exchanged a look with one another. The cigarette between Mercer's fingers was half-smoked.

The engineer continued, "We ain't hear no call for stretcher-bearers, then after we pushed into their onslaught, we heard nuthin' but that. My legs… they're raw, sir. Rawer than roadkill. We were raw from all that runnin'. Shit…"

"I'm still on the fact that you said the tanks were charging at your line without stopping," Peck said.

"These Krauts, they're… they're bold bastards… I'll give 'em that…"

Mercer looked up at the two officers, "How many men from Baker made it outta there?"

Peck rubbed his mouth with his hand, then he frowned, "Forty-two."

Mercer dragged on his smoke.

"Rodenhaver is fine, just banged up. But he's back with Baker."

Mercer's foot was lightly thumping against the ground. "What about Sergeant Prest?"

"Who's that?" Peck asked.

"An engineer with Baker. He got… his stomach was torn out; he was holding it in with his helmet."

Peck silently gagged. Conti didn't even blink.

"I don't know," Conti told Mercer.

Mercer closed his eyes. That image couldn't leave his thoughts.

Conti sighed. "Merce, Able's going in tomorrow to take Autry."

Mercer kept smoking.

"Take about an hour to calm down, then I'll need you to debrief me about the terrain and their approach."

Mercer kept smoking.

"Thank you, Merce. That'll be all."

Mercer stood up and gave a nod to his fellow Brooklynite.

He exited the CP with his legs feeling heavier.

"How did it go?" Birch asked him.

Mercer simply grunted.

The eyes of Birch looked vanquished. Sheer fatigue was weighing his body down. Only through will did he force his eyes awake.

"I could kill for a beer, man."

Mercer grunted again.

"A nice cold one, you know?"

"Nice and cold."

Both men sat together in silence, starring at the moving parts of the company go about their business.

"Where's McCarthy?"

Birch pointed backwards, "Last I saw, he was heaving up his guts behind an outhouse."

"Did you get Doc Conrad?"

"Not needed. It was McCarthy's first time, remember?"

"Right, it was?"

"You didn't remember?"

"Cut me some slack."

"It was also Smith's first time… McCarthy caught his ear in his lap… I saw his head explode, oh Jesus… Christ, how young was that kid? Seventeen?"

"If that."

Mercer had forgotten that this was McCarthy's first engagement… and to see all of this carnage, just like he had back on D-Day.

They looked back at the company once more. Birch broke the silence, "These guys, a lot of them don't know what the hell went on."

"Sure, they do. They ain't stupid."

"I can't with this, Adam."

"I know. But we're in it for tomorrow."

"So, we are attacking. Huh…" Birch lit himself a cigarette, "If one company fails, then the next one goes. We should be getting armor support tomorrow, right?"

"Yeah."

Birch dragged back on the smoke and exhaled a plume, "Yeah."

Mercer's eyes trailed the sky, "Brutal Baker also had armor…"

"I overheard that they lost seventeen tanks… what are you thinking, Adam?"

"We need something for our boys, something they can fight tanks with."

"We got bazookas."

"Yeah, and they weren't enough with Baker. What if our boys get too close to a tank? Remember what happened an hour ago?"

"I know, but…" Birch held on that last word, before letting it go with an exhale. He placed the cigarette in his mouth as he cracked his knuckles, "So, what you got in mind?" he asked, balancing the smoke between his lips.

The grizzled engineer stared into his dirt-caked hands. On his left palm was dry residue of blood from Prest who was gut-shot by that tank's machinegun. His nails were worn down to the nubs, but Mercer tried to scratch off the dried blood.

"Adam?"

"I don't know, Birchie."

Birch sighed. He dug in his pocket and pulled out another cigarette.

"Here."

"Thanks."

Mercer placed the smoke within his lips, Birch took out his lighter and Mercer leaned in.

A small flame emanated with an audible flick. Mercer's leanings ceased. He watched as the flame flickered and swayed to the side, as if it was a nervous dancer on a stage.

Mercer's eyes grew; Birch lit the cigarette.

"Sonuvabitch," Adam Mercer exhaled gravelly without taking a single drag on his newly-lit smoke.

"What?"

The head engineer bolted upwards and took off at a jog, leaving his assistant behind.

"Adam? Where you going, man?"

"Santiago, I got a job for you."

The Portuguese soldier looked up at the sergeant. The scrounger was by himself, resting his back against a low stone wall, washing the dried-up gunk of sweat and dirt off his foot with a damp rag.

Santiago chuckled, "Coming from you, Mercer? That's rare."

"I know. That's how you know it's serious."

"What do you need, Mercer?"

"You can get some hooch, right?"

Santiago smirked, "You too, huh? Sure can. It ain't going to be quick, but I can put my ear to the ground. What you want to wet the ol' whistle?"

"Get me something strong, like rum or whiskey. Get me the hard stuff. We need this today if preferable. Get me two cases or more."

He ceased in scrubbing his foot. "Jesus! Two cases of whiskey? Today? I-I can't, I c-can't," he stammered in disbelief.

"Santiago, you best beg, borrow, or steal to get what we need."

"Yeah, I know the urgency, but liquor is a hot commodity, I already got back-orders from a lot of the men in the company."

Mercer dug through his pockets frantically, "Here, take this. This is all the money I have on me."

Santiago recoiled as he was handed fifteen dollars.

"Seriously? You're giving me fifteen bucks?"

"I was serious when I said 'beg, borrow, or steal', hell, bribe someone if you have to. I need it now!"

"Uh, all right… it ain't going to be quick."

"Just get it."

"The hell is all this for, anyway?"

"Do you want to get chewed up like Baker tomorrow morning?"

Santiago didn't answer. The rag in his off-hand escaped his fingers. His expression began to lower.

"Then get that hooch."

Santiago placed his sock back on his foot, "Y-Yeah, I'm on it."

Mercer walked back to a still smoking Birch.

"What you want with Santiago?" Birch asked with a raised brow.

"I wanted him to get us two cases of liquor."

"You throwing a party or something?"

"We ain't drinkin nuthin'."

"What the hell are we going to do with a bunch of liquor if we ain't going to drink it?"

"We're making bottle bombs."

"What?"

"That's what the Brits call it, they learned it from the Finns or something, they called it a Molo-something, I can't remember right now. Anyway, you get a liquor bottle and stuff an oil-soaked or liquor-soaked rag in the neck of the bottle, toss it and whoosh, your target goes up in flames."

"The hell are we making them for?"

"Krauts."

"Seriously?"

"It can be used against tanks and emplacements."

"Is that in the field manual?"

"Yes, actually."

"Don't remember it."

"Whoever does during the times they need to?"

"Seems like you did."

Mercer planted his hands on his waist, he began murmuring to himself, "All right now, we got us some bottle bombs on the way… but how can we stop those damn tanks…"

"Uh, Adam? You good, man?"

The more seasoned sergeant turned around, "You know what we need to get?"

"I can only gue—"

"Sticky bombs. Where's McCarthy?"

"Still throwing up by that tree, I guess."

"Fetch him to help ya. Ya know what we need to get."

"All right, I'll get on it."

"Get cracking! Ten minutes or under."

Birch sighed as he moved out with a starting trot, "McCarthy better have stopped puking…" he said to himself.

Mercer made his way back to the HQ building, finding his company commander studying the map of Autry.

The engineer got his attention, "Sir, I need you to assemble the company."

Conti's crust-filled eyes didn't blink, "Wha'cha say? What for, Merce?"

"We're attacking tomorrow, right?"

"Yeah, yeah we ar— oh, this about what happened to Baker, huh?"

"In a way, yes sir."

Conti examined the engineer in momentary silence. He cleared his throat before speaking.

"Wha'cha gonna say to 'em, Mercer? Never figured you for a pep talker."

"I ain't got pep in me, ya know that sir. I got solutions."

"Yeah?"

"The Panzers, Panthers, and Tigers blasted Baker. Their boys got cut to pieces. What if our boys had equalizers?"

Conti's head tilted forward; his eyes narrowed in fascination, "Yeah?"

"Get the company assembled, sir. Everyone will want to hear this."

"You got it."

"Thank you, sir."

"Hey, Merce?"

"Yeah, sir?"

"Glad ta see ya got some solutions."

"Everyone, listen up!"

The senior engineer waited until most of the men were quiet. The men of Able were gathered before him. A claw of apprehension began to wrap around his chest.

"I got something, uh, to say… I uh…" finding the words were tough, "Y'all heard what happened to Baker, some of ya seen it with ya own eyes, the remnant of Baker. Yeah, that was… uh, that was tough…"

The men of Able were well-aware, news had crashed against them like a flood. They already knew they would the spearhead assault tomorrow.

"But I was there, and Birch, and McCarthy, we were there. The Krauts came in with Stugs, Panzers, Panthers, and a Tiger, everything includin' the goddamn kitchen sink. Baker had Shermans and Greyhounds, but it wasn't enough. And once our tanks got knocked out, the riflemen only had bazookas. The Stugs rushed them, the Baker boys had to scramble, and they got cut down by the rest of the armor and Kraut infantry.

"When we go in tomorrow, we'll get armor support, but not all of us may be fortunate enough to stay with the armor when engaging the Krauts. So, this is what we are doing today, a lesson on what to do if you encounter Kraut armor without our own support and you can't fall back."

He was digging through his inventory, Mercer had to add, "If you already know this, then shut up. This bears repeating again. And for you new guys that weren't trained as fast, this is especially for you."

He pulled out a bluish-gray looking explosive device and held it up high.

"This right here is a sticky bomb. This here can damage armor. It ain't going to destroy it in one blow, but it could put a dent in it, if you know where to throw it. Throw it at the treads; the vehicle is disabled. Throw it at an exposed part of the engine; the vehicle is disabled. Throw it at the hull; you softened up the vehicle for our tanks to take out."

He held out the long cord attached to the sticky bomb. He reached down the inventory and pulled out an identical cord that was not attached to the bomb. "This sucker right here is the fuse. Take your lighters and light from the edge," Mercer did so. The edge of the fuse caught fire and began to shrink. The engineer began to count, "One thousand - Two thousand - Three thousand - Four thousand - Five thousand - Six thousand - Seven thousand -Eig—" the fuse died out.

He looked back at the men, "That was approximately seven to eight inches, each second burns off an inch. Listen, new guys, I'm going to hammer this in for you all, do not make these four inches or shorter! Ya need to get the timing of this right. What you're going to be holding is going to be stronger than a stick of dynamite."

The new men were hooked on every word.

Mercer continued, "If ya close enough to plant it, then plant it. I doubt it though, sounds like the Krauts are going to be guarding their tanks with their lives. So, you need to know how to throw this thing. After this, I want us all to practice heaving this like we're throwing to the outfield."

"We already know how to do this, Merce," someone said.

"I don't give two shits if ya do or not. Practice makes perfect."

The engineer continued, "I cannot stress this enough, once you light it, you must throw it. Just like a grenade, once you unpin it, there is no re-pinning it. Use your judgment, do not throw if you are surrounded by infantry, only if you are alone with the tank. Aim for the treads, you have a better chance of doing some actual damage."

The honking horn of the jeep echoed off the homes. Santiago came driving through with three cases of liquor in the back. He pulled up by Mercer, who greeted the scrounger with a grin.

"Attaboy, Sandy! You're the cat's meow, ya know that?"

"Yeah, I know," Santiago wiped some sweat from his brow, "I almost got arrested hauling this out."

The men crowded around the jeep; their eyes instantly glued to the cases of alcohol.

"Where the hell did ya nab this, Santiago?!" Conti growled between his teeth.

"Uh, I uh— I had to… ya don't wanna… know? Sir." he said uneasily, refusing to look the lieutenant in the eye.

Mercer spoke up, "Lieutenant Conti, I ordered Santiago to grab me this."

"What the hell for? Why ya—" his expression suddenly softened. "Oh, this is Part Two, huh?"

"Yes, sir… Hey, all of ya back the hell up! This ain't for drinkin'!"

"Oh, come on, Mercer!" someone jeered.

"Just give us one damn bottle!" another one hissed.

"Shut up, this may save ya asses out there," the engineer retorted.

The officers and senior sergeants of the company helped to restore some semblance of order. The rowdy men began to quiet down until it was low enough for Mercer to be heard without him shouting.

"I ain't holding this to drink, dammit. All of you, listen up! Yo, Birchie, get me two full canteens on standby."

Mercer took out a rag and tape. He opened up the bottle and stuck the rag inside.

"There are different ways you can attack armor, even if you are short on sticky bombs. This bottle bomb is one of 'em. All you need to do is get a flammable rag, stuff it into a bottle… like so, the bottle can be filled with alcohol, or better yet, gasoline, kerosene, etc."

He took the soaked side of the rag and pulled it out, flipping the rag around to where the dry side was now in the bottle and the drenched side was hanging from the mouth. He then took the tape and tied it around the neck and mouth of the bottle. He held it up high for all to see.

"Some of y'all probably recognize this here, some of y'all probably don't. Some of y'all probably did this before back in the world, and some of y'all probably never did. Regardless—"

He lit the alcohol-soaked rag; the cloth sparked with fire. He looked at the company before him, "—Y'all gonna learn today."

He looked around and saw a bent streetlight. He held his arm back, feeling the weight of the bottle to take precious aim. He heaved it as hard as he could. The eyes of Able followed the flaming bottle, until it collided with the post with a high shatter, followed by a fireball seemingly transpiring out of the spot the bottle smashed. The flaming residue that landed past the streetlight was also burning on the pavement.

First time viewers recoiled with audible, "whoa's."

Birch and McCarthy took the canteens and immediately went to work to extinguish the flames.

Mercer pointed to the fire, "This won't do shit against the hull, but if you aim for any outside engines or exhaust, or preferably the driver's port, we can disable them from the inside… or, at the very least, slow them down."

Mercer began to walk through the men, "Just make sure you're confident in where you're aiming. Once shattered, a lot of people will notice the fireball. Also, be quick about it. Like a flamethrower, the human eye can spot flames rather quickly where there shouldn't be any flame. Don't be running out in the open with this, you will become a target."

Cavanaugh grunted and spoke openly, "If we're to be blasted, at least it'll be quick. No pain, right?"

"You're a ray of sunshine, Terry. Anyone ever tell ya that?" Saywell replied.

Duck raised his hand, Mercer called on him. The platoon sergeant of 2nd platoon turned to face the company, "If I can add something else for those new at this. Treat this fire bottle like a grenade, don't throw it if you're too close. You don't want to get splashed by this."

"Exactly," Mercer said with the wag of his pointed finger. "Also, don't throw directly over ya head, ya don't want it to pour over top of ya. I don't think ya came out to Europe to become a human cinder."

He could see the men murmuring about the demonstration, muttering on how effective this would be in certain scenarios.

Mercer continued, "Look, try to find any empty liquor bottles, be it rum, whiskey, or wine. We fill them up halfway with oil or gas, and there we go. We got tanks, bazookas, and now sticky and firebombs. Brutal Baker… they… Able won't end up like them. We got the piss punched out of us a buncha times, and we ain't hear no bell yet, huh?"

"Damn straight," Staff Sergeant Fischer said with a strong shout. Other men joined in with similar vocal agreements. Mercer caught the glance of Conti, who was nodding subtly in approval.

"Always Able," Mercer barked.

"Always Able!" the men echoed.

Crane started shouting at the men, "All right, ladies, we're drilling on throwing these things properly! I catch any man putting a bottle to his lips, and I will shove that bottle up his ass!"

The engineers were taking a break from making enough sticky bombs for the platoons. The were now moving on to filling the empty and discarded bottles with gasoline. The newest engineer, McCarthy, stared at the half-filled bottle, "So, Sarge, where did you first learn how to do this?"

Mercer looked back at him, "Field manual, McCarthy, field manual."

"Ooooh."

Birch playfully scoffed, "Don't be sniffing the bullshit, McCarthy. Tell him the real truth, Adam, where did you really get your rocks off with this?"

Mercer was smiling before he knew it. He was laughing before he knew it. He felt plain low today, yet somehow a pleasant memory snuck into his mind.

Mercer shook his head faintly, the side of his mouth was rising, "You boys got time for arithmetic? What you get when you have bored engineers, plus stateside leave, plus liquor, plus fire, plus blue balls from not scoring that night?"

Birch started laughing, "Couple of drunk jackasses trying to burn things down?"

Mercer roared with laughter, "Bingo! Ya just won the kewpie!"

"Damn, what did you burn down?" McCarthy asked him.

"Uh… a lamppost, a popcorn machine, a cop car, a ticket booth, a pi—"

"What?! A cop car?!"

"It was empty at the time."

Birch was holding his sides with laughter.

"How the hell did y'all not get booked?" McCarthy asked.

"I… don't remember, I just remember the fire."

The ground was beginning to shake with the creaking of metal rising up. The sound was coming from the rear, American tanks were inbound.

Birch's laughter subsided, "Guess that's our armor support for tomorrow."

"Yeah, guess so," Mercer replied.

A column of American tanks was driving down the road, five of them, two of which were Wolverines, and the other two were Shermans. But the lead tank was a different kind of tank, a tank that none of the infantrymen had ever bore witness.

This tank looked bigger than the norm. It looked bigger than a Panzer. But it had the distinct design of being made in the Home of the Brave. Its turret was larger than a Sherman, and at the same time it looked to be closer to the ground than a Sherman. Yet its cannon was long, longer than what any of these Americans have ever seen.

Whatever this tank was, these men of Able knew they were looking at an innovative gamechanger in the American armor doctrine.

"What kind of tank is that?" a man from Able asked.

"It sure as hell ain't a Sherman, nor a Wolverine."

"Yeah, no shit. Look at the size of that cannon."

"Hey, Jonesy, come look at this new tank!"

Many men of Able were scrambling from where they were to witness this new piece of armor. This heavier tank was spitting up clouds of dust in its path.

The tank lurched to a stop, as did the column.

The face of the tank commander of this new tank was clear after the dust passed. His face was familiar, "Please hold all of your applause," the commander said, "for the knights have returned to their duty."

Mercer was the first man to get it, "Wait… Wilcox? Hey, that you?"

The commander jutted from the hatch and pulled up his goggles.

"As you live and breathe, Merce," the Detroiter smirked broadly.

The driver, bow gunner, and the two riders removed their goggles as well. They were the former crew of the ill-fated Excalibur: Adrian Hartinallow, Grits, Russo, and "Shev" Olszewski—formally known as "Rook", now sporting a burn scar on the left-side of his face. The reveal elicited plenty of fraternal remarks and chuckles from the veterans.

Mercer was laughing now, he slapped the hull of the new tank, "Son of a bitch, what are you riding?"

The voice of Wilcox boomed as if he was a champion of an archaic tournament, "This here, gentlemen, is the M26 Pershing, the newest tank in Uncle Sam's arsenal! This beautiful, mean machine is a heavy tank, meant to go toe-to-toe with Panthers and Tigers. Jerry is going to soil their trousers; we got a super tank of our own now!" he ended with a laugh.

"My God, this thing is a beauty."

"Isn't it? Yes, she is!"

Birch whistled at the tank, "It's a match against a Tiger, huh? What's it got that a Tiger don't?"

"A Tiger has an 88mm cannon, this holy weapon has a 90mm cannon!" Wilcox whooped.

The tank commander stood out of the hatch and leapt onto the ground. He pulled the New Yorker into a hug, "Good to see you, man."

Mercer patted his back with a chuckle, "Same to ya, man! How the hell did you buncha chumps get this new tank?"

"Funny story, really. After our tank got blasted back in Hebecrevon, we were told to return back to our division for a little test. They said they wanted a crew to operate a new kind of tank, take a few weeks to get acclimated and have the honor of taking it out into the field. And guess which team got plucked?"

"So how many of these beauties are out and about?"

"Right now? A handful. Literally. You can probably only count on two hands. Tomorrow, will be one of the Pershing's first combat test."

"And against a Tiger, huh?"

"That was the purpose of its conception."

Mercer was unaware of how much he was smiling since he laid eyes on Wilcox, "Lot of pressure on ya, ain't it?"

"Knights don't buckle under pressure."

Mercer was chuckling, "Ya not a goddamn knight, ya mook."

"Spoken as a true pagan."

Lieutenant Conti was approaching the two with a warm smile on his face, "I heard we got a new weapon, wasn't expecting you to be driving it, Wilcox."

Wilcox gave a formal nod to Conti, "Lieutenant," he said with a polite smile.

"Hmm… 'lieutenant'? So, you heard, huh?"

"Yes, sir. We heard a few hours after it all went down…" the jovial nature of this knight vanished. "I speak for the crew… we… MacKay… if we hadn't—"

"Hey," Conti softly, yet firmly cut him off, "Y'all heard about Schultz?"

"The Tiger Ace? Yes, sir."

"Y'all want payback?"

Wilcox unleashed a smirk of subdued savagery, "Just give us that chance, sir. We won't let you down."

"So, what is this tank's name?"

The knight looked at his new weapon for a moment, then he returned to face the men, "Reliance."

Conti was smirking now with a nod of the head, "Welcome back, Wilcox."

Both tanker and officer shook hands.

"Get situated here, I'm going to talk to the other tanks."

"Yes, sir."

Once Conti left, Wilcox softly jabbed his finger into Mercer's chest, "You're going to be our lifeline. The men who gave this tank to me are breathing down my neck about its well-being."

"Jesus," Mercer sighed playfully, "One would think they never knew a tank was made to fight."

That elicited a laugh from the tanker. "I know. But seriously, for tomorrow, you're going to have to patch us up, whenever possible."

"Hey, ya got it. How ya feelin' about tomorrow, Wilcox?"

"Anxious. After what those bastards did to Excalibur… I'm ready. Oh, I'm ready, man."

His head nodded gingerly, "Good."

"And you?"

He was quiet for a moment.

"Merce?"

"It ain't gonna be pretty. After what happened with Brutal Baker… shit, I don't know."

"I heard."

"It ain't gonna be pretty…"

"You ready, though? You prepared yourself the best you could?"

"I want to believe so. I want to believe I did, for my men and for the rest of Able."

Wilcox patted his gloved hand against Mercer's shoulder, "Then there it is."

"Yeah, there it is."

The tanker wrapped his arm around the engineer's shoulder and extended his other arm out into the horizon, "You hear that sound, Mercer?"

"Idle engines?"

Wilcox was smiling, "No, not that. The beating of drums, that soft but heavy beat. Ba-Bum, Ba-Bum, Ba-Bum, Ba-Bum."

"What? What are ya talkin' 'bout?"

"The drums of war. Ba-Bum, Ba-Bum, Ba-Bum. They're beating loud, tomorrow is going to be a hell of a day."

Mercer made a snicker within his throat and shook his head, "Goddamn, ya crazy, Wilcox."

Now the fact that Wilcox and his team have a new tank in the form of the Pershing despite operating a Sherman a while ago is completely my own invention. I like Wilcox and his crew and I wanted to keep them in the story, so I gave them a possession of a new tank.

If you are still following this story, thanks as always!