He dealt with the other half-track in much the same way, then dragged two dead Germans from the cab and clambered in.
Although the outlying feldgrau would have had their attention firmly elsewhere, some must have noticed the explosions in the rear of the half-tracks, and be feeling serious concern. Almost surely one or more were crawling toward him on elbows and knees, Mauser or Schmeisser in hand.
He started the engine. His own people would have seen the grenade flashes and know that something was going on. Hurriedly he opened his first-aid kit, drew out the white triangular bandage, tied it to the muzzle of his BAR, slid back out of the cab and waved his flag of truce above the engine hood. Almost at once the American fire decreased, and he yelled at the top of his lungs: “YEEE-HAAA! SAN ANTONE! HOLD YOUR FIRE! IT’S MACURDY, COMING IN!”
Then he scrambled back into the cab, German bullets striking the inside of the door as he pulled it shut. The German gearshift worked more smoothly than that in American half-tracks. He turned the vehicle toward the American line, while bullets banged the armor. Within a minute he had a trooper on the seat beside him and four in back, while others sprinted to take the other half-track, still others providing covering fire.
He put on the late driver’s coalscuttle helmet, raised the cab’s steel shutter to see and be seen, and started down the road to the bridge, which he crossed without being fired on. The Italian machine gunners were gone, dead or fled.
At the top of the slope were two low pillboxes, eighty yards apart on opposite sides of the road. Getting out, he spoke to the men in back. “Cover me,” he said, then to assure the Italians, shouted in German: “Ich bin gleich wieder da, warte auf die Amerikaner! ” and without activating his cloak, trotted toward a pillbox, depending on the German helmet to fool the Italians. One large hand concealed a grenade, its pin pulled. Almost at the pillbox, he released the charging lever, counted silently to three, and tossed it through a gunport, then dropped. The renade exploded, and someone inside began screaming, so e tossed in another, then cloaked himself and ran toward the halftrack. From the other pillbox, a heavy machine gun began to hammer. A terrific blow on his right arm spun Macurdy around and dropped him.
He almost blacked out, then rolled onto his back, fumbling for his knife. Lefthandedly, and shaking from shock, he cut and tore his right sleeve off. The wound was massive, bleeding heavily, and gathering himself as best he could, he wove and willed its occlusion. At once the bleeding slowed, then stopped. He was aware that the other pillbox had stopped firing. Forcing himself to stand, he staggered toward the half-track. A trooper hopped out of the rear, rifle in hand, and Macurdy dropped his cloak. The trooper’s head jerked toward him.
“Jesus, Barge! You startled me.” Then his eyes widened. “You’re hit!”
“You got that right,” Macurdy said, and feeling his knees giving way, sat down on the ground.
The trooper knelt by him. “Oh shit! That’s a bad one.” Taking the large airborne aid-kit from his belt, he pulled out sulfanilamide, bandage, and tape. Within a minute the wound was medicated and wrapped, then using the big triangular bandage, he immobilized the arm against Macurdy’s body. Shakily and with the trooper’s help, Macurdy got to his feet, climbed into the cab on the off side, and collapsed again. He could hear the trooper outside, shouting to the others. “Let’s go! Let’s go! We’re done here. The sarge got hit; a bad one.”
Someone else told off others to hold the pillboxes, then the man who’d bandaged him climbed in behind the wheel. Another got in on Macurdy’s side and sat him up to make room. The driver turned the half-track and they headed back to the American position.
When they got there, the troopers still lay more or less dug in along the rim of the ravine. Most of them weren’t his; there had to be forty or fifty now. The driver stopped, and the lieutenant called to them. “More krauts have arrived. Don’t get careless.”