September 1944; Central France.
Two trucks of Company C, 514th Quartermaster Regiment pushed on through the cloudy, moonless night as the sounds of war - mostly long-range German artillery - crept ever closer. On their tail Pvt. Bobby Jenkins and radioman/mechanic Pvt. Trevon Malloy followed with a load of fuel - some rationed for them, most of it headed for General Patton's tanks pushing eastward through the French countryside. Somewhere ahead the convoy's lead trucks had disappeared into the inky blackness. Somewhere behind, the rest of the trucks slogged along ready to climb up their ass if they didn't keep pace. Three days without rest, except to refuel. Three days without hot food. Three days having to piss out the window as the truck careened wildly through the ruts carved by the incessant parade of supplies. Three days of white-knuckled terror dodging ruts, rocks, and German shells, carrying jerrycans of gasoline and boxes of ammunition just waiting for a spark to become a traveling bomb.

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