Thunder Run by David Zucchino Read Free Book Online

crippled tank so that his crewman could hook up the tow bar. Gruneisen thought they were almost out of the predicament. It wasn’t so bad. Even while towing another tank, his own tank could still fire, so they wouldn’t be out of the fight. But as soon as the tow bar was connected, the fire erupted again.
    While the crew unhooked the tow bar, Hernandez got into the fight. He had left his 9mm pistol on his tank, so he picked up an M-4 rifle someone had left on top of Charlie One Two. He fired at the distant bunker, emptying the clip. He yelled at a sergeant who had just pulled up in an armored personnel carrier to assist with the evacuation: “You got another mag?” The sergeant offered Hernandez an ammunition magazine, but first he demanded Hernandez’s empty magazine—for “accountability.” They were supposed to account for their used magazines and turn them in.
    â€œI can’t fucking believe you asked me that!” Hernandez screamed. They were in the brigade’s worst firefight of the whole war, an Abrams was on fire, and this guy was worried about turning in a used ammo magazine. But the sergeant insisted. Hernandez had to climb down into the turret, where he’d tossed the empty magazine, and fish it out. He handed it over, slammed in the new magazine, and went back to shooting.
    On top of the burning tank, Diaz was out of fire extinguishers. He had pumped about two dozen of them onto the fire, which was stubbornly refusing to die out for more than a few seconds at a time. Then the order went out for the tank crews to give up their five-gallon water jugs, so the crewmen ran through the firefight again, lugging the heavy jugs toward Charlie One Two.
    Diaz knew they had reached the point of desperation now. If the Halon and the fire extinguishers couldn’t kill the fire, why would water be any more successful? It was getting preposterous now. The battalion’s executive officer, Major Rick Nussio, was up on Diaz’s tank, trying to help. Nussio was the number two man in the whole battalion, behind Lieutenant Colonel Schwartz. Yet here he was, getting his eyebrows burned off while helping to pull out the smoking VEE packs, dumping a five-gallon jug on a raging fuel fire, standing on a burning tank in the middle of a firefight.
    The company commander, Captain Conroy, was worried that the situation was getting out of control. When he gave the order for water jugs, for instance, he had not meant for the crews to remain on the ground after delivering the water. He had to order them to get back inside the tanks for cover. Conroy’s tank was in front of the burning tank, providing cover fire while giving Lieutenant Colonel Schwartz a blow-by-blow account over the radio. Schwartz was under pressure from Colonel Perkins to resolve the situation, and that pressure was bearing down now on Conroy. He was a smooth-faced twenty-nine-year-old veteran from upstate New York, an energetic and enthusiastic commander. Despite the pressure, he played for time. He knew they couldn’t keep the column waiting much longer, but he wanted to give the crew every opportunity to save the tank.
    But Conroy was getting conflicting reports from Lieutenant Gruneisen. First the fire was out. Then it was back. Then it was out again. At one point, Conroy had just told Rogue Six—Schwartz—that the fire had been extinguished and they were hooking up the tow bar. Then Gruneisen radioed and told Conroy, “It’s on fire again.”
    â€œWhat do you mean it’s on fire? I thought you were putting it out!”
    â€œI know,” Gruneisen said, “but it caught back on fire.”
    Conroy felt a little ridiculous, updating Schwartz with a situation report that reversed itself every other minute. Gruneisen was getting frustrated, too. He felt the captain was sharpshooting him, trying to instruct him on how to fight a tank fire even though he was following the drill to the