Free Thunder Run by David Zucchino

none of his guys was going to die in this godforsaken country if he could help it. He had heard a lot of soldiers debating the real purpose of the war in Iraq—to make sure Saddam didn’t use weapons of mass destruction, to kill terrorists responsible for 9/11, to liberate the Iraqi people, to secure Middle East oil supplies. Whatever the purpose, Gruneisen figured it wasn’t worth the life of a single one of his men. He wasn’t fighting to liberate Iraq. He was fighting to kill the people trying to kill his men. He gave the order: “Button up!” He wanted everybody inside, the hatches locked. He ordered Hernandez to squeeze down inside the loader’s hatch beside Diaz. The two men had to hug the hull to avoid the twelve-inch recoil of the thirty-two-foot main cannon—a violent, explosive thrust that could easily break a man’s back. One of the first things a tanker learns is to respect the recoil.
    Gruneisen was getting irritated now. It had been an awful morning. He had gone into the fight two tanks short. He had taken off with his tank’s warning lights flashing—an ominous development at the time but now a mere annoyance given all that had happened since. He had had a tank burn up on him, then had watched it take a HEAT round from an American tank. Now he was overloaded, separated from the column—and practically driving blind. It had been hard enough to see the roadway from up top with all the gear piled on the turret. But now he was “open-protected,” down in the hatch with only a five-inch gap between the hatch lid and the top of the commander’s cupola. He couldn’t see out his vision blocks or periscope because of all the piled-up gear and weapons. His driver, Peterson, wasn’t bothered by the gear because his hatch was down below the main gun. But the smoke from the burning vehicle made it difficult for him to follow the highway. And none of them knew precisely where they were supposed to be going.
    As Hernandez scrambled down into the loader’s hatch, he saw that Peterson had the tank hugging the right lane, dangerously close to a concrete bridge abutment just up the highway. The gunner, Couvertier, had the main gun tube swung over the right side, pounding bunkers and trenches. Hernandez realized that the tube was heading straight for the abutment. He cried out, “Traverse left! Traverse left!”
    Couvertier was wearing his communications helmet and couldn’t hear anything except radio calls, especially with the clanking of the tracks and the incessant explosions from both friendly and enemy fire. He kept scanning the right side of the highway for targets. The abutment rushed toward them. Hernandez squeezed down into the loader’s hatch and slammed the hatch cover shut, still screaming for the gunner to swing left.
    The tank was rocked by an explosion. Diaz thought they had been hit by a tank round. Hernandez knew what had happened: the turret had smacked into the abutment. There was a shower of sparks and a rush of gray smoke. Suddenly, the entire turret was spinning wildly. The four men inside were pressed against the turret walls, paralyzed, pasted in place by centrifugal force. Diaz had the same helpless, out-of-body sensation he had felt as a kid on the gravity ride at the carnival. They kept spinning, spinning. Gruneisen was still clutching the elevation handle for the .50-caliber machine gun. It had snapped off at impact. He rode the turret around and around, his hand in the air. Loose pieces of equipment were flying around with them. They spun and spun, fifteen spins, twenty spins. They couldn’t move. They felt sick. Finally, the turret slowed and stopped. The gun tube hung over the front deck, ripped from its mount.
    â€œEverybody okay?” Gruneisen asked. He was dizzy. He flipped a switch to cut the turret power. Diaz was pressed against the radio, stunned. Hernandez was crumpled against the turret wall, woozy