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A division of tanks, twenty or thirty of them with what appeared to be sledrunners invertedly attached to their fronts, rolled into sight. "Wirecutters," he explained with pride. "Same equipment used for barbedwire on the Normandy beachhead. Go through anything like cheese." The tanks drew up in a semicircle and the drivers came out of their vehicles for lastminute preparations.
The mysterious pay and mess books were completed and company cash accounts closed. New equipment was given out to officers and men, as well as wirecutters, revolvers and other necessities of active service. Field dressings were handed out dark omens of what was now to be anticipated.
What do you have on SMT5, FHQ? Come in, FHQ." I was still speculating as to what had happened to SMT5 when the loudspeaker once more became intelligible. "... and the going's getting tougher all the time. I don't believe these goddamned wirecutters are worth a pissinasnowhole. Just fouled up, that's what they are, just fouled up. Got further if theyd been left off." His grumbling was blotted out.
A final check was made of gas, oil, and the positions of the wirecutters. Maps, showing the location of each house now covered by the grass, were studied and compasspoints checked against them. I admired the thoroughness and efficiency of the arrangements. So did the captain. "The idea is simple. These tanks are shocktroops. Theyll cut their way into the middle of the stuff.
The hand of the rider lifted in mute acknowledgment, and as he shot past, the farmer caught a glimpse of a delicately handsome face that smiled down at him. "The left gate! The left gate!" he shouted through his cupped hands, and as the fugitive rushed through the upper gate he turned to face the posse which was already pulling up at the fence and drawing their wirecutters.
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