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A group of American soldiers—mostly white, faces smeared with grime—ran from the ditch to behind Lullaby’s cover. One of them looked up, startled, as if he’d expected salvation to be a different color.
Eli met his gaze through the hatch.
The soldier didn’t say anything at first. Then he blurted, “Didn’t know they had y’all in tanks.”
Leon, overhearing, called from below, “Surprise.”
The soldier swallowed, then nodded toward the enemy line. “We’re outgunned,” he said.
Eli pointed with a gloved hand. “No,” he replied. “They’re just louder.”
Then he dropped back into the turret and kept firing.
The Germans pushed hard. They were trying to crack the junction before American reinforcements could arrive. They sent infantry through the trees, then armor down the road, probing for weakness.
But the Midnight Eight had been forced to learn something the hard way long before they reached France: how to fight while being watched by people who wanted you to slip.
So they didn’t slip.
They worked like a machine with a shared heartbeat.
Leon repositioned with a driver’s intuition, sliding Lullaby into angles that denied the enemy clean shots. Cal loaded until his shoulders trembled, sweat freezing at his hairline. Ray kept the radio alive, feeding information like oxygen. Eli fired until the barrel heat made the air shimmer.
At one point, a German shell slammed into the barn’s remains, showering them with splinters. The tank rocked. For a split second, Eli tasted fear—raw, metallic.
Then he tasted something else.
Resolve.
“Still good?” he barked.
Leon’s voice came back fast. “I’m good.”
Cal: “Good.”
Ray: “Good.”
Eli exhaled. “Then keep singing.”
They fired again.