“An’ you sure can lay ’em down in the groove,” said Bud, who was from the Kentucky mountains. “You’re the gunshootinest feller I most ever seen.”
“Sure I am,” Pete agreed. “Now look! This is the way it is. The ground is level about half a mile farther up. They’re waitin’ up there to blast us. We’ll climb right up the next ridge behind these little low trees and we’ll give them the surprise of their lives.”
“I’ll leave it to you, Pete. Let’s ramble.” Bud agreed.
So with the red rose still in his cap, Pete again mounted the tank and directed its course.
When they started up the bank the treads began to slip but increased power drove them forward until at last they stood at the crest. There Pete squinted through low trees for a space of seconds. Then tumbling down into the tank he dropped the door softly, swung his turret about, squinted down the gun, moved the turret just a little, squinted again, then exclaimed:
“Here’s something for you, Tojo!” At that his gun roared.
The smoke had not cleared before a second shot rang out, and after that a third.
“Now! Let’s see!” Shoving back the door, Pete climbed to the turret top.
“Running like blazes,” he exclaimed. “We got ’em all right. Now, Tojo! Count your men! Count your men!” He sent a hail of machine-gun fire after the fleeing Japs.
“We’ve got to move fast!” Pete exclaimed, once more popping out of the tank’s top. “I can’t see the next one. Slide her up a bit.” The General Sherman rumbled forward.