Whittaker and Sampler hammered in the recalcitrant tank's bowels and shouted ribald remarks to any one nearby, until they emerged the third day, grease-stained and perspiring, to announce that "She's ready to roll her g—— d—— cleats off."
Whittaker had been nursing the tank's radio transreceiver beside the forward hatch this grey afternoon, when his wild yell brought Hague erect. The officer carefully handed Bormann's skin bird back to the gunner, swung down from the city wall's edge, and ran to Whittaker's side. Clark was already there when Hague reached the tank.
"Listen! I've got 'em!" Whittaker yelped and extended the crackling earphones to Clark.
A tinny voice penetrated the interference.
"Base.... Peter One.... Do you hear ... to George Easy Peter One ... hear me ... out."
Whittaker snapped on his throat microphone.
"George Easy Peter One To Base. George Easy Peter One To Base. We hear you. We hear you. Rocket crashed. Rocket crashed. Returning overland. Returning overland. Present strength sixteen men. Can you drop us supplies? Can you drop us supplies?"
The earphones sputtered, but no more voices came through. Clark's excited face fell into tired lines.
"We've lost them. Keep trying, Whittaker. Hague, we'll march-order tomorrow at dawn. You'll take the rear again."