by Walt Gragg
Both sides were caught unaware. Even so, the Americans’ response was quick and proficient. Within seconds, Miguel unleashed a TOW with devastating effect. A BMP was ripped apart. A thundering explosion rocked the bitter morning. The remaining Bradleys of Walton’s platoon joined in. Two T-72s fell. The American M-1s discharged their mighty cannons. The approaching armor fell. The staggered enemy battalion ground to a halt. The unanticipated battle was over as precipitously as it had begun. Leaving seven burning pyres, the Iraqis turned and ran.
* * *
—
Ten a.m. Walton checked their location. The information from the global positioning satellite indicated they were six miles from the Iraqi border.
“Okay, Wally, we’re right where we should be. Make a ninety-degree turn to the east.”
The Bradley driver did as he’d been instructed. The huge formation changed direction.
“Keep going until I tell you to stop,” Walton said. “It’s time to encircle the Iranians.”
The Bradley headed toward the midmorning sun. Hundreds of combat vehicles followed.
* * *
—
Noon. The lead platoon was on the move through the unending desert. The trailing column of armored vehicles was growing shorter as every few minutes units reached their designated locations. The 1st Cavalry soldiers had encountered only token resistance since the fleeting combat three hours earlier. It was obvious the Iraqis were in full retreat. The bewildered Iranians were on their own. The cavalry division was five miles north of where intelligence placed the last of their ruinous opponent’s forces. It wouldn’t be long before they slammed the door shut. They rushed to surround their immense adversary.
Walton and Sanchez sat in the Bradley’s open hatches. To their left and right, the wide steel treads of the platoon’s remaining fighting vehicles plowed forward. Behind them, the M-1s rolled through the barren lands. They continued on for nearly an hour. In that time they saw neither friend nor foe. Without warning, however, that was about to change.
“Hey, Sarge, we’ve got company!”
“Where?”
“Big dirt cloud to the southeast. Got to be armored vehicles. Lots of armored vehicles. Looks like they’re headed this way in one hell of a hurry.”
“I’ve got them, Miguel. Iranians must’ve figured out what we’re up to and are trying to escape. Let’s see what battalion wants us to do.” The time had come to break radio silence. Walton picked up his handset. “Two-Six, this is Alpha-Four-Five. Two-Six, this is Alpha-Four-Five.”
“Roger, Alpha-Four-Five, this is Two-Six, go ahead.”
“Two-Six, we’ve got a large formation in front of us, approximately four miles east. They’re headed this way. How do you want us to proceed?”
“Wait one, Alpha-Four-Five,” the battalion radio operator said.
While he waited for a response, Walton’s Bradley moved toward the billowing sand. The voice soon returned. “Alpha-Four-Five, you’re to continue on your present course. Engage the target head-on. Remainder of Alpha and Delta troops are to follow on Alpha-Four-Five’s lead and attack the approaching formation. The rest of the regiment is to swing farther north to cut them off. The division commander doesn’t want any of those pathetic bastards to escape.”
“Roger, Two-Six. Will head straight for the enemy and make a frontal assault.”
“Attacking forces will open fire on Alpha-Four-Five’s cue.”
It would be up to Darren Walton to determine when and where to commence the developing fray. Once he engaged the retreating Iranians, the remaining ten Bradleys of Alpha Troop and the sixteen M-1s of Delta Troop would follow his lead.
Walton watched the mountains of dust and sand drawing near. It was painfully apparent the grouping they were racing to meet was considerable. At their present speed, the platoon would reach the attack point in three minutes.
“Looks like we’ve got our hands full,” he said. The concern in his voice couldn’t be masked. “Miguel, drop into the compartment, slide behind those TOWs of yours, and get ready.”
The lead Bradley flew across the banal desert. The impending onslaught was near. A few insignificant dunes and an immense battle would be joined.
“Get ready, Miguel, they’re almost here. Fire on my order.”
Walton readied his Bradley’s Bushmaster cannon.
Using his periscope, Sanchez searched the barren world. He soon located the summoning arrangement’s foremost armor. He aligned his initial shot. There was no way he was going to miss the massive quarry. In a few seconds, there’d be one less Iranian tank to worry about. It was then he realized what it was he’d acquired.
“Sarge, whatever you do, don’t fire. Did you hear what I said? Don’t fire!”
“Why the hell not, Miguel?”
“Look at the silhouette of the lead tank. That’s no T-72, it’s an M-1. And there are Bradleys behind it. Those aren’t Iranians, they’re our guys! It’s the 25th.”
“Are you sure?”
“Hell yes, I’m sure. Those are Americans coming this way.”
* * *
—
One p.m. The encirclement was complete. The Iranian army was surrounded. Now the division’s job was to keep their opponent from escaping the rearing slaughter. The final 1st Cavalry battalions began selecting defensive positions throughout the expansive desert. They needed to ensure they’d left no weaknesses their monstrous adversary could exploit. To their left, the 25th Infantry’s forward elements did the same.
Walton quickly identified firing locations for his foot soldiers and Bradleys. The platoon started digging in. The M-1s did the same. The beginnings of individual foxholes and armored fighting holes soon appeared. Sandbagged walls rose. By shortly after nightfall, their Bradleys would be in their comforting burrows with only their turrets visible.
Once they were in place, the word would go out. In the night’s dreadful darkness, the two French divisions and the Americans’ 1st Armor would hit the cocksure invaders with everything they had. A thousand Allied tanks would roar across the frightening sweep. They’d signal the waiting air forces, attack helicopters, and Multiple Launch Rocket Systems. America’s great armored killers would be unleashed to annihilate and destroy. The trap would be sprung.
* * *
—
Eight p.m. Walton’s men were set. The 25th Infantry’s forces indicated they also were ready.
The final strands of the deadly spider’s web had been strung. The platoon sergeant picked up his radio handset. He sent out the coded signal to the waiting attackers. The time had come to finish their abhorrent rival.
A half million were about to die in a single, decisive battle.
The Allied armored divisions edged forward.
55
6:37 P.M., OCTOBER 30
3RD PLATOON, BRAVO COMPANY, 2ND RECONNAISSANCE BATTALION, 2ND MARINE DIVISION
ON THE GREAT EGYPTIAN BATTLEFIELD
SIXTY MILES FROM CAIRO
Sam Erickson had never been so tired, or so thirsty, in his life. As he stood in the chest-deep trench, he shook his canteen. It was empty. He reached down, unfastening the canteen from the waist of one of the Pan-Arab soldiers he’d killed moments earlier. The overcome enemy’s half-full metal flask was soon poised near his face. His mouth was so parched he had to pry his bloodied lips apart. The tepid water had an unpleasant smell. Yet he no longer cared. In two long swallows, the lieutenant consumed the life-sustaining liquid. He dropped the depleted canteen. A stray bullet stung the horrid ground a few yards in front of the man-made trench. A second whizzed past his ear. The exhausted Marine made no effort to protect himself from the random rounds. Unable to see more than a few arms’ lengths, the spent platoon leader didn’t bother searching for the source of the gunfire.
There wasn’t a cloud in the heavens. Yet the battlefield was as bl
ack as the darkest night. The noxious smoke from two thousand raging fires billowed forth over an immense area, masking the sickening scene. Blazing armored vehicles stretched to the horizon, overwhelming the sunlight and blotting out the death-tinged sky. Explosion after explosion rocked the ominous landscape.
After a second day of fighting, the siege was nearly over. In a handful of distant venues, the malignant struggle continued. Nevertheless, the Allied victory was assured. It had taken a massive effort, but eventually they’d prevailed over their tenacious adversary. Even though the results were certain, it didn’t matter to the scattered Pan-Arab survivors. They knew they had no chance, but the Mahdi’s followers would continue fighting to the last tank and final soldier. That time was drawing near. The end would soon be upon all of Allah’s warriors involved in the wretched battle.
They’d been scarcely more than sheep to the slaughter.
They’d opened Pandora’s box, and the suffering they’d released had consumed them. It had been a clash of historic proportions. It had started the previous afternoon with one battalion of Challenger tanks, supported by three hundred Marines, facing two divisions of Pan-Arab armored vehicles and thirty thousand of the Chosen One’s devoted. Throughout the first day and into the present one, the clash had grown. With the significance of the contest obvious, the Mahdi had ordered a third division to rush to the killing ground. They’d arrived shortly before midnight. The Allies had responded in kind, continually sending fresh combatants to join their determined brothers. At its end, seven battalions of British tanks, accompanied by their supporting Marines, had joined the furious fight.
Forty-five thousand Pan-Arabs had succumbed. As if tossed by a vengeful deity, shattered T-72s and BMPs were strewn across thirty square miles of desolate landscape. The dead and dying were everywhere.
Two hundred and fifty Challengers had been engaged in the furious struggle. Their losses had been severe. Barely half had survived. By its conclusion, three thousand Marines had fought in the feverish conflict. And while the totals weren’t yet in, less than one-third had escaped unharmed from the ravenous tornado. Marine dead and wounded were nearing twenty-one hundred. Even those in the sky had felt Thor’s wrath. The unending fight had devoured six Hornets. And eleven Cobras had fallen beneath the Mahdi’s determined air defenses. Pan-Arab helicopter losses were above three score.
Yet so monstrous a result as had occurred in the Egyptian desert would be dwarfed many times over in the coming hours. Five hundred thousand Iranians were soon to suffer the same hideous fate. And a titanic struggle double that was poised to begin in and around Cairo. Under Mourad’s direction one million obsessed souls were preparing for a final push to destroy those guarding the Nile.
For the previous sixty minutes, the surviving Americans had been involved in fierce hand-to-hand combat with the flailing defenders. In the end it had taken a classic Marine charge, evoking distant memories of Tarawa and Iwo Jima, to subdue the unrelenting enemy.
The front of Erickson’s uniform was covered in fresh blood. None of it, however, was his. He picked up his M-4. His bayonet was flowing red. To his right, the mangled bodies of two additional Pan-Arabs were sprawled in the ditch. Both had multiple stab wounds, the results of their futile attempt to defend themselves against the rock-hard lieutenant.
Despite the three-to-one odds against him, Erickson had leaped into the trench to battle the Algerians without giving it a second thought. Though outnumbered, his unchecked rage and superior fighting skills had carried the day. It had been a violent struggle, lightning quick and filled with desperation. Just minutes after its end, it was hardly more than a blur to the spent American. But somehow he’d overwhelmed his opponents. And he’d survived.
The fear and anguish of his beaten foes were frozen upon their faces. The dead soldiers’ features were imprinted on Erickson’s brain. On trembling arms, he struggled from the ditch. After horrendous hours of abject carnage, the sounds of battle were dwindling. Even so, the macabre battlefield was far from secure. Sporadic gunfire continued. As voracious flames consumed the devastated tanks and personnel carriers, secondary explosions surrounded the platoon leader, assailing his frayed senses. The angst-filled screams of both sides’ wounded carried to every corner of the horrific venue.
The shock of it all was too much to bear. The innumerable fires’ poisonous residue threatened to devour the staggered lieutenant. Nausea overwhelmed him. Erickson bent over, hands resting on quivering thighs. He fought to keep from vomiting. Still it was no use. He dropped to the ground, his stomach heaving.
He’d no idea what had happened to the platoon. In the addled melee of the past hour, he’d become separated from the rest. Not that there was much of a platoon left. Of the seventeen men who’d arrived on the small rise overlooking the agonizing tract, six were still in the fight.
In the immense contest’s swirling confusion, shortly after yesterday’s sunset, Sergeant Merker’s Humvee had strayed too near a defeated T-72. The tank’s munitions had chosen that moment to erupt. A violent blast had reached out to claim the exposed Humvee. The American combat vehicle had been demolished.
Somehow its four passengers had survived their brush with eternity. None, however, was unscathed. Their wounds ran the gamut from moderate to severe. Merker’s injured team had been plucked from the fight. Placed on board a medevac helicopter, they’d been rushed to the beach and its waiting hospital. Throughout the night that followed and well into the present day, one by one the members of the platoon had perished or, cradling their gaping wounds, been carried away.
Fifty-three Marines had taken part in the platoon’s initial battle on the beach. Thirteen days later, only six remained. Along with their platoon leader, Gunnery Sergeant Fife and Sergeant Joyce’s fire team were all that were left. Joyce’s Humvee had more dents and bullet holes than any of them could count. Yet it, and its men, continued battling the enemy.
Unable to regain his footing, Erickson painfully raised himself onto one knee. The revulsion of the tortured hours failed to subside. His stomach continued to expel its scant holdings. He was powerless to stop his body’s response to the disgust he felt.
An unidentified figure appeared out of the black swirls. The furtive image headed toward the heaving Marine. Rifle in hand, the shadowy form moved toward the ditch.
James Fife stood over the kneeling lieutenant. “You okay, sir?”
Erickson looked up at his platoon sergeant, unable to speak. He nodded affirmatively.
“We’ve been looking all over for you,” Fife said. “Got to tell you I was starting to get more than a bit concerned.” He stared at the platoon leader. “Are you sure you’re all right, sir?”
Sam Erickson could barely form the words. “After living through this, I’ve no idea what ‘all right’ means. I’m still breathing, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“For the moment, still breathing will do, sir.”
Fife reached out a strong hand to help him up. Erickson stumbled to his feet.
“Where’s the rest of the platoon?” the lieutenant asked.
“If you mean Sergeant Joyce’s Humvee, they’re searching the ground to the west of us in hopes of finding you. They were to meet me in twenty minutes about a quarter mile from here.”
The grizzled sergeant tugged at his sleeve and stared at the iridescent glow of his watch, straining in the swirling void. “That was seventeen minutes ago. Which means if we’re going to rendezvous at the scheduled time, I need to head over there right now.”
“Go ahead, Gunny. I’ll be okay until you get back.”
“You sure, sir?” He looked at Erickson, measuring whether to momentarily abandon him. “I’ve got to let Joyce know I’ve located you so they don’t continue searching and eventually get themselves killed. I’ll be back in less than ten.” He paused. “Are you certain I should leave you?”
“I’ll be fine. Go m
eet up with Joyce’s team.”
“All right, sir.” Fife started to walk away. He looked back. “I’ll be back before you know it.”
The platoon sergeant vanished into the wall of smoke. In the middle of the surreal scene, once again Erickson was alone. Beyond exhaustion, his mind as worn as his battered frame, he could stand no longer. His trembling legs collapsed. As night’s impending arrival further darkened the haggard scene, Erickson slid back into the trench. He curled up between the dead Pan-Arabs. Their bodies were still warm. Within minutes, he fell asleep.
Fife returned shortly thereafter with Joyce’s team. It didn’t take long to find the ditch where he’d left the platoon’s leader. The bone-weary group walked over to the tortured furrow. They looked at the sleeping lieutenant nestled in the middle of those he’d killed.
Fife jumped in the hole and held his hand in front of Erickson’s face.
“Is he okay?” Joyce asked.
“He’s fine. Sound asleep from what I can tell.”
“What should we do now?”
Fife looked around, unable to see more than a few feet. With the constant explosions, it was difficult to determine what fighting was still ongoing and what was nothing more than the aftereffects of acidic efforts past. But as usual, the veteran sergeant’s judgment was sound.
“Despite everything, it looks like the battle’s starting to settle down. I know it doesn’t sound like it, but there’s not much fighting going on. And from the feel of things, none of it’s within a mile of here. It doesn’t make sense to stagger around in the dark looking for another fight. The lieutenant’s got it right. We ought to stay where we are for the night. Let’s get these stinking bodies out of the trench and grab some sleep.”
The members of the platoon’s surviving fire team leaped into the ditch. They tossed the dead Pan-Arabs onto the pillaged ground. There was one thing remaining before they could consider closing their eyes. They needed to set up a guard rotation.