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“Incoming!” the boy yelled, breath ragged. “German armor broke through near the supply corridor! They hit the road junction at Saint-Laurent!”
Eli’s crew was already moving before the private finished the sentence. Tanks didn’t start quickly in cold weather; you had to coax them like stubborn mules. Leon hopped into the driver’s seat, hands flying. Ray tuned the radio. Cal hauled open the ammo rack and counted shells with the love of a man counting prayers.
Outside, engines across the detachment coughed to life one by one—eight separate growls becoming a chorus.
A moment later, Captain Whitaker arrived again, face pale, jaw tight.
“Orders,” he snapped, holding a paper like it might explode. “You are to move out immediately. Proceed to Saint-Laurent, block the enemy advance, and hold the junction until relieved.”
Cal blinked. “Relieved by who?”
Whitaker didn’t answer that. He couldn’t. Or he wouldn’t.
Eli climbed halfway out of the turret hatch, cold air slapping his face. “Captain,” he called, “who signed the order?”
Whitaker hesitated. Then, like a man swallowing a thorn, he said, “General Patton.”
A low whistle came from somewhere behind Lullaby.
Leon grinned without humor. “Guess the General found his appetite.”
Whitaker leaned close to Eli’s hatch. His voice dropped. “Listen,” he said, eyes darting. “Do your job. Keep your men alive. And for God’s sake, don’t give anyone a reason to—”
“To what?” Eli asked, hard.
Whitaker’s mouth pressed into a line. “Just…do your job,” he repeated, then backed away, waving his arm.
The Midnight Eight rolled out.
As Lullaby lurched forward, Eli felt something strange in his chest—not triumph, not fear exactly, but a tight, focused clarity.
They weren’t being sent because the Army believed in them.
They were being sent because the Army had run out of excuses.
The road to Saint-Laurent was a ribbon of ice and ruts. French fields stretched on either side, bare and stiff with winter, dotted with the skeletons of trees.
As they neared the junction, smoke thickened. The air smelled like burned oil and snapped pine. The distant crack of gunfire grew into a steady roar.