Over Slim’s head André had seen the first tank’s turret. Then the second tank tottered over the first. And like a huge apple peel, a tremendous snakelike steel tread whipped through the air.
“Good,” snapped Captain Dobie. “Second one’s piled up on the first. Shoot overhead, once.”
When the firing from the house stopped, there came a shout of “Kamerad!”
The captain poked his weapon farther out the window and shouted, “Get out and put your hands up fast. You’re all covered. Okay, Slim, get your prisoners.”
Cimino stacked the bazooka against the sill, and whipped out his .45 automatic. Slim swept up a carbine and strode outside.
The crews were already out of the tanks.
“All right. Hands on your heads!” Slim shouted.
As his captives moved toward him, Cimino lifted their side arms from holsters, pushing the prisoners swiftly toward the house.
“Get in there, quick,” Slim commanded.
He had only just herded them into the hall when his voice was drowned out by the explosion of the gas tanks in one of the wrecked vehicles.