by Walt Gragg
“Then let’s get this done,” Erickson responded. He keyed his headset, allowing him to communicate directly with every man in the platoon. “Okay, enough of this crap. Before the first of the amtracs arrives we need to regain control of the landing zone. Corporal Whitehurst, you and your Humvee are to remain here. The rest of you are to spread out until you connect up with Joyce and Johnson. Once you’ve done that, your team is to move forward on its own initiative until your grenade launcher can accurately hit that rise. Lay down a barrage at the point in front of you where the grasses begin. Give it everything you’ve got. Saturate the entire area with grenades then make a frontal assault on the enemy defenses. Are there any questions about what each of you is to do?” He paused, waiting for a response. His query was met with silence. “All right, then, let’s take back this beach!”
The platoon moved into action. It wasn’t long before each leapfrogging team’s grenade launcher was within range. The eight surviving Americans armed with launchers loaded a stubby grenade canister into the tube below the barrel on the front of his rifle. Each pulled the tube back, locking the grenade in place. From this distance it would take a high-arching shot to lob the destructive ordnance onto the far bluffs. But the Marines had long hours of practice. And they were deadly in their abilities to put their virulent munitions in the center of the targeted area. Even in the severe pressures of what for many was their initial combat, they wouldn’t miss.
A first reached forward and pulled his savage launcher’s trigger. Others soon joined in. The soaring armaments sailed through the night. In rapid succession, one explosion followed the next. A hideous end rained down in fragmenting torrents upon the Pan-Arab lines. The proficient Americans reloaded, firing again and again.
The hellish anguish of their dying adversaries’ cries punctured the fearful gloom. The abject agony of their suffering pierced the blustery darkness. On this soulless night, many of his believers would be going to the Chosen One’s paradise. Beneath the Marines’ fierce actions, the rifle fire from the wavering dunes dwindled until it was hardly more than a trickle. It took little time for huge holes to appear in their beset foes’ defenses.
The Americans saw their opening. They charged straight for the disjointed remnants of their ravaged adversary. The slaughter was on. On the small crest, the apt platoon eliminated their opponent with ruthless intensity. While the diminishing fight continued, the command group rushed to the vista. They threw themselves into the strewed grasses.
“How much time before the amtracs reach us, Gunny?”
Fife peered at his watch. “Twenty minutes or so, sir.”
“I calculate our losses at more than a dozen dead and half that many wounded.”
“Sounds about right. Gonna grow further if we don’t eliminate those damn mortars.”
The pair lay on the hilltop and waited. They knew it was only a matter of time before the mortar teams fired again and revealed their location.
A few seconds later another whistling salvo screamed into the squall-swept skies.
“You spot ’em, Platoon Sergeant?”
“Yep. Three flashes in that gully about a quarter mile southwest of here.”
“That’s what I got. They’re in range of Corporal Johnson’s .50-caliber, aren’t they?”
“Sure looks that way, sir. I’d say they’re about five hundred yards south of Johnson’s Humvee. And he rarely misses at that distance.”
“Then let’s give Corporal Johnson a little target practice and finish off the final obstacle in securing this beach.” The lieutenant keyed his headset once more. “Johnson, the mortar teams are in a gully about five hundred yards south of you. Drive up to the crest, find ’em, and kill ’em. When you’re done, return to your original position defending the flank.”
Johnson’s response was simple and straightforward. “They’re as good as dead, sir.”
And the battle-tested Marine was true to his word. In less than two minutes, all nine members of the mortar teams had been eliminated and the Humvee was back in its original location, ready to protect the right.
On the far left, the platoon continued to engage the final elements of the dissipating defenders. Yet with the destruction of the Pan-Arab mortars, the last of the serious threats had been destroyed without suffering further casualties.
In a modest depression a few feet in front of the platoon’s leaders lay the twisted bodies of two of the Chosen One’s mortally wounded disciples. Hamilton Smith crawled forward to verify both were dead. Their opponents’ lifeless corpses were covered by the folds of their headdresses and masked by the night’s onerous mantle. His rifle ready, Smith lifted the dressing from the face of the first. He stared at the inert image. The corporal pulled the night-vision equipment from his eyes to take a closer look. A puzzled expression appeared on his features. A bolt of recognition swept through him. Even in the weighty darkness, there was no denying what he’d uncovered. He dropped the silk cloth back onto the blood-creased body. Smith slid over to the second silent form. Once more he lifted the thin covering to view the motionless enemy. After a brief examination of the contorted shape, he let the cloth slip from between his fingers.
“Damn, Lieutenant,” he said. “I don’t believe it. They’re both women.” Farther down the small slope, devastated figures, gripped in death, were haphazardly strewed about. Their clothing was identical to those Smith had inspected. “It looks like they’re all women, sir.”
Erickson and Fife edged forward. The lieutenant raised the red-streaked cloth covering the first defeated soldier’s face. It took only a cursory glance to confirm Smith was right.
“We’ve been fighting a company of women,” Erickson said.
“So what?” Fife replied. “In the past few minutes those women have cost some damn fine Marines their lives. I don’t care who we’ve been fighting—men, women, children, little green invaders from outer space. At this point, it doesn’t matter.”
“This one can’t be over fifteen,” Smith said.
Erickson let the cloth drop back onto the girl’s sightless eyes. He looked at Hamilton Smith. “Gunny’s right. It doesn’t matter.”
Just then, one of the jumbled figures on the backside of the rise stood up. She threw down her rifle and raised her hands into the air. The teenage girl had hidden among the dead in hopes of somehow escaping the anguish-filled destiny that had befallen her friends. She’d seen an opportunity to live and embraced it. The young Algerian figured her best chance of surviving was by surrendering to the Americans above her on the ridge.
“Looks like at least one of the Chosen One’s followers isn’t all that eager to enter the next world this morning,” Fife said.
“Motion for her to come up,” Erickson responded.
The platoon sergeant signaled with the barrel of his rifle for the terrified girl to start toward them. She took a first tentative step. A flash of gunfire rang out. Her fatally wounded figure sank to the ground and moved no more. Death seized another victim.
The startled Marines dove for cover. Each searched for who had fired the shots. Yet none could identify the source of the assault. Unexpectedly, a perverse figure popped up from his hiding place behind a rocky outcropping forty yards away. The turbaned image turned and ran toward the desert. He hadn’t gone far before Fife cut him down with a quick spray from his M-16.
“That was no woman,” Smith said.
“Goddamn company political officer,” the platoon sergeant said. “I’d stake my life on it. One of the Chosen One’s religious fanatics. I’d heard rumors he was placing them behind his lines to kill anyone who tried to surrender.” He paused, taking a quick look around. “The more of those sons-a-bitches we kill, the better I’ll feel.”
Two more masked forms leaped up from behind a not-so-distant dune. This time they were women. Both fired a handful of wild shots toward the crest. With rifles in hand, they tu
rned and ran toward the open Sahara. Erickson brought up his rifle, aimed, and squeezed the trigger. His gunfire echoed throughout the night. The retreating images went down in a tangled heap. The sullen lieutenant dropped the weapon from his shoulder. It was obvious he wasn’t pleased with the distasteful action that had been forced upon him.
“You had to do it, sir,” Fife said. “Don’t kill them now, they might kill one of us later.”
“I know. But that doesn’t make it any easier. Send Sergeant Merker’s team down to search those dunes in front of us and all the dirty little places where the enemy could still be hiding. Let’s make sure there are no more of the Chosen One’s friends waiting to surprise us.”
* * *
—
Merker’s scouts began scouring the area in front of the platoon’s position. While they did, the small-arms fire ended as Joyce’s squad eliminated the final pockets of resistance.
With Petty Officer Bright taking care of the platoon’s wounded, there was nothing the corpsman could do for any of the Arab girls who were still breathing. Given the enemy’s extreme indoctrination, few would have accepted help from the infidels even if offered. Most were severely wounded. Yet they did their best to suffer in silence, praying through the intense pain for the end to come. In little more than minutes, without medical attention, the majority would bleed out.
* * *
—
After the raucous battle, the near silence was deafening. For ten minutes the dark world around the Americans was almost serene. Yet to no one’s surprise, the quiet wouldn’t last.
4
3:56 A.M., OCTOBER 17
3RD PLATOON, BRAVO COMPANY, 2ND RECONNAISSANCE BATTALION, 2ND MARINE DIVISION
THE SANDS OF NORTHERN EGYPT
Gunny peered at the distant desert. “Sir, there’s more company on the way.” The anxiousness in his voice was unmistakable.
“What? Where?”
Fife raised his arm and pointed toward the endless void. “South-by-southwest, cloud of dust about three miles out. Four tanks headed this direction in one hell of a hurry.”
“Aw shit, get Whitehurst’s team up here. As fast as those things are moving, they’ll be here in five or six minutes.”
The platoon sergeant keyed his headset.
Erickson watched as the rushing giants continued to approach the depleted platoon’s lines.
In seconds, the Humvee armed with antitank missiles roared up the sandy slope and stopped next to the platoon leader’s position. Their furious opponent was closing fast.
“What do we have, sir?” Whitehurst asked.
“South-by-southwest, a platoon of tanks headed toward us.”
It only took a moment for the corporal to identify the approaching threat. “I’ve got them. From their silhouettes looks like American-made M-60s.” Whitehurst immediately understood the immense danger the Marines faced. His mounting concerns matched those of the platoon’s leaders. Yet even with the dire turn of events, he was too well trained and too confident in his abilities to panic. And the last thing he wanted was to further alarm the others. So he pushed aside any self-doubt and did his best to sound poised and professional. He knew his words wouldn’t fool Erickson or Fife, but hoped they would calm his fire team and keep them focused on the task ahead. “TOWs will handle ’em just fine. Dinkins, grab the replacement missiles. These guys are not yet in range. But that won’t last much longer. Half mile, maybe a bit more, and the TOWs can reach them. Unfortunately, their main gun will also be able to reach us. We’ve got to reload and fire as rapidly as possible. Our six missiles will be more than enough to eliminate them. All we need is time.”
Whitehurst began tracking the spectral forms. He soon located the leader in his crosshairs. As it grew nearer the corporal followed the feverish M-60 to get a feel for its range and speed.
“Smith, inform the task force that four tanks are about to attack,” Erickson directed.
The corporal started speaking into the radio.
“Wait!” Fife said.
The radioman stopped in mid-sentence. He stared at Fife, unsure of what to do.
“We’ve got much bigger problems than a platoon of tanks,” Gunny said. “Look beyond them. There’s an immense curtain of sand a few miles back that appears to go on forever.”
Those on the modest hilltop focused their attention on the platoon sergeant’s latest discovery. The strange image, giving every appearance of a savage Sahara sandstorm, also was coming their way.
But it wasn’t a sandstorm.
A startled Erickson was the first to recognize what it was they were viewing. “Give me the handset.” The radioman handed it to him. “Sierra-Victor, this is Bravo-Three-Six.”
“Go ahead, Bravo-Three-Six.”
“Sierra-Victor, four M-60s are three miles out and closing with our position. We’ve also identified a far more serious problem. The forward elements of a Pan-Arab armored division are five miles behind them. Like the M-60s, they’re headed this way at a high rate of speed. Be aware there may be additional divisions approaching that we’ve not yet identified. How do you wish us to proceed?”
The threat was undeniable. Three hundred tanks, an equal number of armored personnel carriers, thousands of zealous soldiers, untold artillery pieces, bristling air defense missiles, and scores of supporting equipment were flying across the desert intent on destroying the Americans. They had significantly more firepower than the Marine division, on its own, could muster. If not stopped, their lead units would reach the landing zone in twenty minutes.
“Wait one, Bravo-Three-Six.”
It felt like forever as the lieutenant lay holding the handset while the division leadership conferred. Finally a new voice came on. Erickson instantly recognized it was the division commander.
“Bravo-Three-Six, you are to proceed with the initial plan,” the general said. “We are landing here, we are landing now. We’ve been ordered to establish a second front before the sun peeks over the horizon. And the 2nd Marine Division will damn sure do everything in its power to ensure that happens. No matter how challenging this becomes, no matter what obstacles we face, there is no other option if we’re going to keep this potential planet-consuming holy war from erupting further.”
“Understood, sir.”
“We’re launching a dozen Hornets to blunt the enemy attack. The aircraft carriers are still one hundred miles out so it will take eight to ten minutes to launch the aircraft and have them reach the coast. In addition, every destroyer in the task force is aligning to unleash their five-inch guns. The estimate for that to occur is the same as the fighters. Eight to ten minutes before we’re ready to go. If that doesn’t hold the sorry bastards until we can get our forces ashore, I don’t know what will.”
“Yes, sir. But what about the four tanks closing with my position? They’ll be here in less than four minutes. Unless stopped they’ll reach the beach just prior to the first wave landing. The amtracs won’t stand a chance against such firepower. The tanks will rip them to shreds.”
“Understood. Be aware we’ve nothing that can reach you in time. So there’s no other option I’m afraid. For our plan to succeed we need you to take out those tanks. Can you do that, Lieutenant?”
“Sir, with a single antitank Humvee we’ll need some luck. But we do have enough missiles to handle a force that size. We’re tracking them right now and are seconds away from releasing a first TOW.”
“Good. No matter what the cost, take them out. The landing depends on it.”
* * *
—
“All right, here we go,” Whitehurst said.
After a quick glance to ensure no one was within the backfiring canister’s lethal discharge, the corporal released the first of his potent missiles. The noxious TOW burst from the firing tube. Trailing a thin fiber-optic cable behind it, the measuring slayer skimm
ed across the lifeless desert in pursuit of the targeted M-60. While it did, its fins popped out and a light came on in its tail. The approaching tanks continued on their determined way toward the Americans. Not one had the slightest notion that a hideous assailant was on the wing, ready to claim the first of them.
Whitehurst made a handful of adjustments to the menacing missile’s flight. In seconds, the TOW’s nose struck home. A mighty explosion rocked the callous morning. The dying M-60’s crushing fireball reached high into the heavens. Within its flaming walls, four frantic beings instantly were consumed by the all-devouring blaze.
The remaining leviathans didn’t hesitate. Without pause, they continued their fervent charge toward the American defenses. The horrid shadows came on, their shrilly creaking treads growing louder with every passing second.
Whitehurst reached for a replacement TOW to reload the firing tube. It would take at least a half minute to prepare for the next launch. For the next thirty seconds, the platoon would be at the mercy of the sordid tanks.
The lunging ogres were, however, too far away to open fire with their machine guns. And unlike the more sophisticated American M-1 tanks, they didn’t have fully integrated shoot-on-the-move capabilities. Each would have to come to a stop before its crew could target its foe and unleash its main cannon against the Marines. The Pan-Arabs decided to continue their maniacal rush. At thirty miles an hour, a frightful end was coming to claim the battered platoon.
Whitehurst was up and ready. He selected his next victim. Once more a TOW leaped from the fiery container to seek and destroy. Straight and steady the searching missile ripped across the tedious landscape at incredible speed. It relentlessly closed with the surging formation. The corporal made the final adjustments to its destructive flight. The injurious armament struck home. Another thunderous blast swept through the crisp night. A second fifty-ton beast’s roaring funeral pyre was added to the grisly bonfires near the coastline.