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“Targets,” he said into the intercom, voice steady as a metronome. “Leon, angle us behind that ruined barn. Cal, ready armor-piercing. Ray, radio the others—spread out, crossfire.”
Leon drove like he’d been born inside the tank. Lullaby slid behind cover, treads grinding through icy mud. The barn was half-collapsed, timber ribs jutting out like broken fingers.
Eli swung the turret. Through the sight, the world narrowed into lines and movement and distance.
A German armored car rolled into view, machine gun flashing. Eli tracked it, breath controlled.
“On my mark,” he said.
Cal’s hands were already on the shell. “Up!”
Leon held the tank steady, even as bullets pinged off their armor like angry hail.
Eli waited a half-second longer than panic wanted him to—long enough for the armored car to commit to its path, long enough for the shot to matter.
“Mark.”
Cal slammed the shell home. Eli fired.
The tank jerked. The shell tore through smoke and struck the German vehicle. It lurched, spun, and slammed into a stone post. Flames crawled out of it like bright, hungry insects.
Leon whooped once, then cut it off, because war didn’t reward celebration.
Eli didn’t smile. He swung the sight again.
Another target. Another calculation.
The Midnight Eight fanned out, each tank taking a position that made the junction a trap. They didn’t charge forward like movie heroes. They did something harder.
They held.
They let the enemy come into their web.
Over the radio, Eli heard the voices of the other tank commanders—Black men, steady, calling out bearings and distances with the calm professionalism of men who’d been waiting too long to be allowed to do what they were trained to do.
“Midnight Two, I got eyes on a half-track by the orchard.”
“Midnight Four, taking fire from the ridge—adjusting.”
“Midnight Seven, infantry pinned down near the wall—I’m laying smoke.”
Smoke shells bloomed, white clouds rolling across the field, giving the infantry a chance to move. It wasn’t glamorous. It was life-saving.