80 | John W. Warner IV Under tall sand-colored tents painted to match the shadowed mud brick buildings, were three of the biggest tanks Bea had ever seen. Painted in desert camouflage, their wide tracks and heavily-armored fascines and turrets gave them a menacing stance like no other. Maintenance crews busied themselves, readying the heavy Panzers for combat; engine oil and fuel were added by the Jerrycan-full, and vital ammunition was loaded, the big 88-millimeter shells glistening in the hot sun before being lowered into the top and side hatches. From the air they would be almost impossible to spot. An officer blew a whistle, and one of the tanks started its two engines one after another. Bea could smell the distinct fumes. Routine engine warm-up probably, she thought. From her distance, she could just make out two maintenance crew reading what looked like a comic book. Panzer three, report, yelled the officer, a captain. The tanks were painted 101, 102, and 103 in red, with the Fifteenth Panzer division markings of a red circle with a white triangle and vertical line. The elite crews had also painted a jolly, smiling long-tusk mammoth on each of the turrets. A leutnant spoke from the top hatch. Herr Hauptmann, engine oil temperature and pressure normal, electric motors on standby and in good order. Cooling fans normal function. Chassis and sprockets lubricated. Turret electric motor needs adjustment. Gwafa pulled on the donkeys reins. Vite, vite,let us move. As the crowd passed some German troops eating rations on a stoop, Bea could hear them bragging to one another. Sixty tons apiece and ready for action, Kameraden, laughed a sergeant. Fucking Tommies will fry in their shit cans! ^irresto! An Italian patrol stopped them outside of town. Bea moaned as if she were sick, gripping the donkeys neck under a dirty blanket that smelled horrible. Gwafa spoke Arabic, and one of the Italians understood a little. She is sick! The plague. She wants to die in the desert and we will bury her there by Allahs grace. We Berbers prefer this ritual. Bea thought fast.There was only one trick that came to mind, the nastier the better. Suffering a bit from dehydration, she hadnt had a bowel movement in days, thus there was a logjam in the river. She strained, and a pile of filth oozed out. She dug