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His gaze moved from tank to tank, lingering on the crescent moons, the improvised markings, the soot-blackened armor.
Then his eyes landed on Eli.
Eli stood at attention, chin level, hands still, the way he’d stood in front of officers who’d called him “boy” and expected gratitude.
Patton stopped a few feet away.
For a moment, the world narrowed again—no scope this time, no crosshair—just a stare and what it meant.
“Staff Sergeant,” Patton said.
“Sir,” Eli replied.
Patton’s eyes flicked to the infantry regrouping behind them, to the road still open, to the smoke still rising.
“Who commanded the defense of this junction?” Patton asked.
Eli held his ground. “I coordinated Midnight One through Eight, sir. Other commanders executed positions.”
Patton studied him, then said, “You held against armor.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Understrength,” Patton added, like he was testing the reality.
“Yes, sir.”
Patton’s mouth tightened. He looked at Whitaker, who stood off to the side, nervous as a man holding a live grenade.
Then Patton looked back at Eli.
“Good,” he said.
Just that. One word. But it landed like a stamp.
Patton turned and began to walk away, as if the moment were already filed in his mind under useful. Then he stopped and spoke again without turning.
“I don’t care what color a man is,” Patton said, voice loud enough for nearby officers to hear, “as long as he can fight.”