by James Rosone
While the hallway was still poorly lit, with just a small light every twenty feet or so, at the end of the tunnel, he saw something. Squinting a bit, he thought he could make out a pile of sandbags maybe a meter high. He focused his eyes more. On top of the sandbags was what looked to be a Type 67 machine gun on a tripod with a couple of soldiers sitting next to it, looking back at him. He quickly pulled his bayonet back and whispered for one of the other soldiers to do what he had just done and tell him what he saw.
At this point, Staff Sergeant Sanchez had caught up to them, with another six soldiers in tow.
“What’s the holdup, Webster?” he asked quietly.
The corporal filled him in on what he had seen and then handed his knife and mirror over for Sanchez to take a look.
Looking at the contraption, Sanchez shook his head. “What are you, MacGyver or something?”
Then he bent down on a knee and used the mirror to look around the corner; it didn’t take him long to see what Webster had found.
“Smart, Webster, damn smart. That gun would have killed us all in this tight little corridor,” Sanchez remarked. He handed the knife and mirror back to Webster, who proceeded to stuff the mirror back in his pocket and put his knife away. Then he grabbed the gum and put it back in his mouth.
“No reason to waste it,” he thought. Plus, it helped calm his nerves.
Sanchez signaled for the flamethrower. “Here’s what’s going to happen. Harvey here,” he said, pointing to one of the guys with the M203 grenade launcher mounted under his M4, “is going to pop out around the corner here and fire one of his HE frags down the hallway to hit that position, and hopefully either kill or wound them. As soon as he does that, I need you to haul butt down that hallway as far as you think you need to in order to use that bad boy.” Now he was signaling to the guys with the flamethrower.
“If you need to go ten feet or twenty feet, you get as close as you need, and then blast that gun position with your fire stick. Once you’ve hit it once or twice, then kneel down and step aside while the rest of us run past you and capture the position, OK?”
The soldiers all nodded. Several of them stole a nervous glance at the flamethrower, hoping they wouldn’t end up dying in glorious ball of fire if it took a stray round to its tank.
Everyone quietly got themselves ready for the assault. Private Harvey double-checked his grenade launcher, then nodded to the rest of the guys. Sanchez nodded back, then held up a hand with all his fingers spread out. He silently mouthed a countdown as he pulled each finger down into his palm one by one. When he reached zero and his hand had formed a fist, he pointed to Harvey to begin his attack.
Private Harvey moved out around the corner, leveling his M203 at the soldiers at the end of the hallway. Just as he was about to fire, his body was hit with a barrage of bullets—the gun crew must have known they were down there, preparing to attack. Harvey didn’t even have any time to react as his body was pounded relentlessly by dozens of 7.62×54mm rounds. They punched right through his body armor, and he collapsed to the ground.
In the flash of a second, everything slowed down as if the world was moving by one frame at a time, one fraction of a second after another as Webster dove for Harvey’s now-dead body. He landed right next to him and grabbed him by his MOLLE gear, throwing Harvey’s body in front of him like a shield. He grabbed Harvey’s M4 with the grenade launcher, and before the gun crew at the end of the hallway could react, Webster fired the high-explosive projectile down the corridor. The round slammed into the wall directly behind the gun crew. Flame and shrapnel hit many of the enemy soldiers.
Instantly, the soldier with the flamethrower jumped around the corner and charged down the hallway like a man possessed, screaming obscenities as he ran. He moved maybe ten feet down the hallway before he stopped and unleashed a torrent of fire on the enemy soldiers who were still trying to recover from the blast that had just wounded them.
Several other soldiers in Webster’s fire team ran down the hallway past the flamethrower to capture the enemy position. Looking over Harvey’s dead body and past his soldiers, who were charging down the hallway, Corporal Webster saw one of the enemy soldiers screaming wildly, his body completely engulfed in flames. The Chinese soldier shrieked for another minute or so, turning and running down the other hallway before his voice went silent, probably because he had finally collapsed and died.
When two of his soldiers reached the enemy positions, they rounded the corner and a quick firefight ensued. One of his soldiers took several rounds to the chest and fell backwards onto the burning bodies of the dead enemy soldiers. His comrade unloaded the rest of his thirty-round magazine at whatever enemy soldiers they had encountered.
Another soldier joined him and tossed a hand grenade down the corridor.
Crump.
Silence followed. More of the soldiers rushed the position.
Sergeant Sanchez walked up to Webster; he pushed Harvey’s lifeless body to the side and took the hand Sanchez offered to help him up.
“It’s too bad about Harvey,” Sanchez said. After a momentary pause out of respect, he added, “We’re going to have to start calling you Rambo, Webster. That was unbelievable. I’ve never seen anyone move or do something like that,” Sanchez exclaimed with a look of pride on his face. “Let’s get down there and finish clearing this place out. I can’t image them having more internal security positions like this.”
The two of them quickly caught back up to the rest of the squad as they moved through the rest of the tunnels. Every few hundred meters, they’d find a metal door leading to a gun bunker. When they found the back entrance to a new bunker, they’d usually throw a grenade inside to stun the defenders and then stand aside for the lone flamethrower guy to do his deed. He’d pop out from around the corner and fire a five-to-seven-second burst of liquid flame into the enemy position. Then they’d slam the door and lock it and move down the hallway to find the next one.
The rest of the day went by in a blur as Corporal Webster’s unit moved from one corridor to another, silencing enemy gun positions from the inside. More and more American soldiers filtered in through the new entrances they were opening up in the mountain fortress. By the end of the day, nearly an entire battalion of soldiers had found their way inside the fortress, tearing the enemy stronghold apart. They had transformed a small tear in the enemy lines into a full-blown rip. The way before them now stood clear.
Chapter 10
Operation Sandman
Nonghezhen, China
Lieutenant Colonel Grant Johnson looked at the map one more time as his company commanders filtered into the meeting tent. The air was hot and stifling outside; the sun had broken through some of the morning clouds that had been shielding them from its bright rays. He lifted his coffee mug to his mouth, imbibing the warm liquid. “I don’t care how warm it is outside—coffee is supposed to be hot,” he thought.
Caffeine now on board, Johnson determined this was as good a time as any to get started. He cleared his throat to get their attention. “At ease. Take your seats. We have a lot to go over before the start of this next offensive.”
He turned the map board around to show them what he had been studying and to give the captains and senior NCOs a reference point to refer to while he spoke.
“The commanders from on high have decided that now is the time for us to launch our summer offensive. Some of our infantry units have pushed a handful of kilometers ahead of us and secured a crossing of the Songhua River nearly forty kilometers east of Harbin. Our objective is not Harbin—that’s going to be handled by the infantry. We’ve been tasked with going after the enemy armor force further to the south, between the cities of Harbin and Changchun.” He used his pointer a few times as he spoke to show their position in relation to where the enemy units were located.
“Right now, intelligence has the PLA 4th Armored Brigade here, roughly ten kilometers south of Harbin. They appear to be in a holding pattern, waiting to see where bes
t to be deployed. Forty kilometers to the south, and just north of Changchun, is the PLA 8th Armored Brigade, along with the 68th Mechanized Infantry Brigade. What concerns us most, however, is the 46th Motorized Infantry Division, which is sixty-eight kilometers to the west of Changchun. If we make a move toward either of those armor brigades, that division could start heading our way.”
Captain Jason Diss raised his hand, and Lieutenant Colonel Johnson nodded to allow him to speak. “It sounds like we can handle the armor, but what kind of infantry support do we have to deal with the mechanized infantry we’re bound to run into?”
The others perked their heads up, interested to hear the answer.
“We have the 162nd Infantry Regiment that will be moving along with us,” Johnson answered. “They’re part of the Oregon National Guard. In addition to the guard unit, we’ll have the 3-16 AR with us. This’ll be a full 2nd Brigade Combat Team move, gentlemen—1BCT is being held in reserve in case we need them, and 3BCT will be to our right. This is going to be a tough fight, but I’m sure we’ll be able to handle it.”
He paused. “Now, our objective is simple. We’re to press the enemy until we obtain a breakthrough, and then drive fast and hard to the outskirts of Changchun. However, we are not going to pursue the enemy into the city. We aren’t going to do anything with the city except go around it. Once our infantry forces have caught up, they will encircle the city and deal with whatever enemy units are left.
“Then the Brigade CO wants us to head west. Our next waypoint is a city by the name of Shuangliao. Once there, we’ll rally up with the rest of the brigade, figure out what forces we have left, and collect up on our supplies before making our next push.
“If there are no further questions, then I want you guys to stick around and study the map a bit more. Make sure you plot down the various navigational waypoints and note all the call signs we’ll be using. As most of you know from our previous conversations and briefings, comms is about to get all sorts of screwed up in the next few days.”
Captain Diss and his first sergeant, Bo Adams, looked over the map and the rough distances they’d be traveling. It was a lot of ground to cover and most likely would result in a lot of enemy engagements. They were one brigade, going up against several PLA brigades. Besides this obvious challenge, it looked like it would be difficult to stay properly supplied—the farther out they went, the farther their supplies would have to stretch.
“Air cover is going to be an issue,” First Sergeant Adams stated.
“Right, but it doesn’t look like the enemy has a lot of air assets in the area to harass us with either,” Diss countered.
After spending twenty minutes looking everything over and marking up their own maps, the two of them headed back to their company area to get the rest of the guys ready.
“What’s the main priority you have for me, Sir?” asked First Sergeant Bo Adams as the two of them walked toward their bivouac site.
First Sergeant Bo Adams was new to the company. Diss’s last first sergeant had died in the Battle of Kursk, so he had been without one for a few weeks. Captain Diss had already decided that Bo was a decent enough guy. He hailed from the backwoods of Mississippi and was no stranger to roughing it. He’d hold things together in the company, and that was all Diss wanted.
Captain Diss thought about Adams’s question for a minute. “I think the most important thing, Top, is making sure our supply lines are keeping up with us, and that they know where we are. We’re going to burn through a lot of ammo, and we can’t be running out,” he asserted. “Next, stay on top of casualties…we’re bound to take `em. Focus on the ones that can make it, and mark the ones that can’t. Either we’ll come back for them, or Mortuary Affairs will get to them at some point.”
“Copy that, Captain. I’ll make sure we stay on top of those issues. If I need anything else, you want me to go through you or the XO?” he asked.
“Go through me unless I tell you to go through the XO. If things get hairy, that could happen, but let’s not start out that way,” Diss replied.
First Sergeant Adams nodded and walked off to get his own vehicle and troopers situated.
Captain Diss took a few minutes with his platoon leaders and made sure they knew the big picture of what was happening, as well as how and why. When they broke up a few minutes later, they soberly headed back to their platoons to get their own men ready. Tomorrow was going to be a busy day for them all.
*******
The following morning, Captain Diss stood next to the right side of his tank, Warhorse, admiring the sunrise. He thought about the juxtaposition between the beauty before him and the death and destruction that was about to be unleashed.
A voice suddenly intruded in on his thoughts. “Are we good to go, Captain?” inquired his gunner, Sergeant Jesus Cortez. Cortez had been a driver on one of his other tanks four months ago. After continued attrition, he’d been promoted to gunner and taken over for Staff Sergeant Dakota Winters when Winters had taken command of his own tank.
Diss smiled, his way of offering an olive branch to the newbie. “Yup,” he answered.
Cortez nodded and, without any further hesitation, climbed up the side of the tank and through the hatch. Diss followed suit.
Despite the fact that he was working with a new gunner, Captain Diss and his team functioned like a well-oiled machine as they followed their training to complete the necessary checks before the coming battle. Before long, all crewmembers of Warhorse had reported ready, and Diss had moved on to checking on the rest of the company.
Everyone called in Redcon One and acknowledged the standard order to begin in a wedge formation, with Blue Platoon in the middle. Diss noticed that the young and previously overly zealous Lieutenant Spade was much more subdued this time around; more than likely, the Battle of Kursk had eroded some of his enthusiasm for combat. Word from the guys was that he had turned into a good combat commander after all.
“If losses stay high, he’ll have his own company to command soon enough,” thought Captain Diss.
“Roger, Mustangs, begin your movement,” said Captain Diss, changing his focus back to what was in front of them.
The platoon of tanks gathered into formation and began their journey. Near the small village of Xindianzhen, they expected to find multiple pontoon bridges that had been set up by the engineers to cross the Songhua River, a formidable body of water and one of China’s longest rivers.
As anticipated, when they reached the banks, the engineers guided the tanks across, one at a time. Each tank slowly crossed the first part of the pontoon, sinking into the water until it settled and then rose again as it moved its way across the bridge. With four bridges set up, Diss was able to get one full platoon across at a time.
It took them nearly twenty minutes to get his company to the other side. Once that was completed, they all moved forward half a kilometer and took up a defensive position while they waited for the rest of their battalion to catch up. In the meantime, refuelers drove by and continued to top off their tanks and the other vehicles as they showed up. An hour after Captain Diss’s unit had set up their defensive position, they got word that their battalion had fully crossed, and the other tanks were in the process of topping off their own fuel tanks before they moved forward.
Captain Diss reviewed his map while they waited. They had probably close to a hundred kilometers of terrain to cross before they would start to run into any PLA forces. Their last intelligence report was from a small reconnaissance unit screening for the larger brigade of tanks nearby. It was as if someone above them was moving the chess pieces on the board in anticipation of a much larger battle.
“I suppose that’s what the men with the stars on their collars do,” Diss mused.
The radio in their CVC chirped with the voice of the battalion commander. “All Mustang elements, move out. Begin moving in diamond formation.”
Diss depressed his own talk button, adding, “You heard the man. It’s time to earn our
pay. I want everyone on the move, heads on a swivel. You see a target, call it out ASAP.”
Warhorse lurched forward as they took up their position in the formation. Sergeant Cortez, his gunner, searched the horizon for potential targets. Diss reached up and popped his commander’s hatch open, lifting it up on the spring and locking it in place. He then used his hands to pull himself up so he could stand in the hatch with a much better view of the terrain they were heading into.
Captain Diss tried not to dwell on the losses they had taken up to this point or the wasted opportunities of the past. They had finally been given permission to do what tankers do best, go kill other tanks and murder unguarded infantry. He nearly let out a sadistic laugh.
“I love the smell of napalm in the morning,” he thought with a smirk, remembering one of the lines from his favorite movie, Apocalypse Now.
His tank rumbled down the side of a two-lane road that was lined with trees, providing a semblance of cover. While he wanted his tanks to change into a single-file formation and use the trees for cover, he had a sick feeling that this ideally covered road was probably laced with tank-mines and other nasty surprises.
“No, we’ll stick to the more open ground, where we can clearly see what we’re driving into,” he resolved.
Lifting his binoculars to his eyes, he scanned the horizon several kilometers to their front, looking for anything out of the ordinary but spotting nothing. The only thing they had seen in the last thirty minutes was a lot of little kids and old men and women, standing outside their homes or near a road, just watching them drive by. Some waved and smiled at them; others stared daggers, aware that they were the enemy invading their homeland.
Nearly two hours had gone by since they’d crossed the pontoon bridge, and they were just now approaching their first major village, Bin'anzhen. It was a small village of maybe 15,000 people and sat at the crossroads of several major road junctions. Luckily for them, an advance party of military police had arrived ahead of them; MPs were staggered at different turns, bridges and roads to guide them through the village and back into the open fields that would lead them toward the enemy.