by Walt Gragg
Seventeen hundred were going to meet seventeen hundred in a battle that was absolutely critical to America’s fading hopes.
Just outside the depot, the 24th Infantry hid forty Bradleys in the thick trees. They waited for the Russian regiment. Three times that number of 82nd Airborne Humvees were in support.
The parachutists roared toward their objective. Unaware of the overpowering force hidden at the supply depot, the regimental commander implemented his battle plan. He sent six hundred of his parachutists into the deep woods surrounding the target. On foot, the Russians stealthily moved through the heavy mantle of trees, intent on encircling the depot.
Given thirty minutes’ warning of the parachutists’ attack, the American battalion commander had anticipated such a move. The Russian action had already been countered. When the parachutists entered the forest, hundreds of American airborne soldiers lay in the shadows waiting for them.
The Russian regimental commander was a fearless man of legendary exploits in Cheninko’s recent wars for Eastern European liberation. Once his soldiers in the woods engaged the thin defensive force of MPs, he’d make a frontal charge down the main road entering the depot. He was convinced his regiment would annihilate the MP company in a matter of minutes. He’d then set about the task of destroying the American equipment. Two hours from now, there wouldn’t be a single combat vehicle standing in the depot.
Inside the woods, the parachutists edged forward. From all four sides at once, they’d hit the MPs. They’d tighten the noose around the Americans’ necks and wait for the main column to smash through the defenders. It wouldn’t be much longer until the besieged MPs would all be dead.
Deep within the forest, the Russians crept silently through the misty shadows. Their attack would commence as soon as they made contact with the MP company’s scattered sentries.
The 82nd Airborne Division’s soldiers were waiting.
The element of surprise was with the Americans. The burgundy berets hid in the twilight. They watched their opponent moving cautiously through the trees. Step by step, second by second, the Russians drew closer to the trap.
A burst of gunfire chattered in the forest. It was followed by another, and shortly thereafter by a third. With incredible intensity, the battle exploded in every corner of the snowy woods. The Americans caught their counterparts unprepared for the fierce attack that enveloped them. With rifles, grenades, knives, and fists, the two sides fought to the death in the forest’s darkness.
In the woods, it was going to be no contest. The Russians had been taken by surprise, and they’d pay dearly for their mistake.
The regimental commander thought the gunfire in the trees signaled the beginning of his men’s attack on the MPs. He ordered the long column forward. They charged down the winding road toward the depot. The decoys, four MP Humvees, sat on the roadway just ahead of the final curve. Each Humvee carried a single TOW missile. The Russians spotted the MP vehicles. In his command BMD, the regimental commander smiled a broad smile. The force waiting to challenge his regiment was exactly what he’d anticipated. At breakneck speed, they roared toward the MPs. Each American fired his TOW, destroying the leading edge of the onrushing column.
The parachutists barely slowed down. As they’d practiced over and again, the Russian vehicles shoved their burning comrades out of the way and continued on.
The Humvees disappeared into the woods on both sides of the road. The regimental commander smiled a second time. This was going to be even easier than he’d believed. The parachutists raced toward the depot.
It would soon be over. The American armored equipment would be destroyed and Russia’s victory in the war assured. Around the next curve lay their prize. The column rounded the final turn.
Twenty Bradleys were waiting to greet them. Another twenty rushed in behind the parachutists. The 82nd Airborne’s Humvees edged forward on both sides to complete the encirclement.
Ambush.
The trap had been sprung.
Untold numbers of TOW missiles ripped through the air from the Bradleys and Humvees. Bushmaster cannons laid down a deadly curtain of fire so thick that nothing on earth could withstand it. It was a supremely powerful blow. Half the Russian column disappeared in the first thirty seconds. The regimental commander lived just long enough to realize that his miscalculations were going to cost the lives of the brave men under his command.
The Bradleys moved in for the kill. The staggered Russians regrouped and fought back. Given the overwhelming force they faced and their ever-mounting losses, they knew they had little chance, but that was of no importance.
The BMDs were one-half the Bradleys’ size. On their sides and tops they had one-seventh the Bradleys’ armor. Even so, the BMDs were certainly not defenseless. Those that survived the initial onslaught quickly responded with Bastion antiarmor missiles and 100mm shells. The Bastions, one of the most powerful tank-killing weapons in the world, took a toll on the Americans, destroying a number of Bradleys and their crews. Their 100mm main cannon shells, however, were less effective in addressing the dire threat that imperiled the entire column. Most of the powerful Russian shells damaged the Bradleys’ heavy frontal armor but failed to penetrate it, allowing the Bradleys to fight on.
Time after time, a BMD would get a clear shot with its cannon only to have the shell explode against the Bradley’s hull without piercing the protection of its laminated, reactive armor plating. The Bradley crew would then quickly dispense with the BMD.
At Spangdahlem, the slaughter was under way. But at Kaiserslautern, it was the Americans who mercilessly butchered their opponent.
It was over in ten minutes.
With untold scores of vehicles burning on the roadway, the deputy regimental commander called for a full retreat. There was nothing else he could do.
The Americans pursued the remnants of the retreating parachute regiment across the German countryside. The burgundy berets would chase them all the way back to Russia, or follow them into hell, if that was what it would take to finish the job. Leaving the MPs behind, the Americans hunted down the scattered survivors.
When it was over, and the losses on each side had been totaled, the American victory was overwhelming. Fifty-three Americans were dead. Another eighty-seven were wounded. Seven Bradleys had been destroyed. Twenty-three Humvees had succumbed. Over sixteen hundred of Russia’s finest soldiers had perished. The final few dozen were deep within enemy territory as they fought to save their lives. In the coming days, nearly all would be tracked down and killed by German territorial units or captured by angry mobs of German civilians.
The parachutists didn’t fare well at the hands of the mob. A few were literally torn apart. Others were shot or hanged in ancient town squares. Their bodies were left to rot or thrown to the vermin. Only a handful lived to tell the tale of what had happened on a sunny morning outside of Kaiserslautern.
Of the hundreds of combat vehicles the Russians had come to destroy, one tank and a self-propelled howitzer were lost. A second M-1, and an Avenger air-defense missile system, had been damaged.
For now, the further arriving American reinforcements of the 82nd Airborne and the 24th Infantry Divisions would find the equipment they needed waiting outside of Kaiserslautern.
Despite their setbacks, even on the first morning of the war, one thing was clear to the American leadership. If they could hold on for fourteen days, enough reinforcements would arrive to turn the tide of battle. In all likelihood, if they were still bleeding and dying in the fields of Germany two weeks from now, America would win this war.
But the generals knew that would only be true if the Americans controlled the skies. And they couldn’t do so unless Ramstein still stood.
CHAPTER 33
January 29—10:25 a.m.
On the Eastern Fence
Ramstein Air Base
A pair of missiles ripped into
the main aircraft maintenance hangar. The six fighter aircraft inside the huge building were engulfed in a roaring inferno. Thirty airmen were trapped by the fierce explosions. The all-encompassing fires soon consumed them. Two more death-tinged clouds reached into the restless skies over Ramstein. Thick trails of virulent smoke masked the battle, frustrating attacker and defender alike.
On the eastern fence, Rios’s machine gun sang out against the advancing Russians. Forty parachutists were inside the wire. They were desperately trying to cover the ground necessary to wipe out the Americans’ last heavy gun. Rios caught them in the open.
Five invaders fell in rapid succession from the mayhem spewing forth from the machine gun’s barrel. In an hour of battle, twenty Russians had died at Rios’s hands.
In front of his bunker, the rifle fire suddenly increased fourfold. Wilson and Goodman were pinned down. The airmen buried themselves in the protective sand. At a trio of locations, four parachutists rushed forward and hacked at the fence. Afraid of hitting their comrades, the parachutists’ gunfire from the woods momentarily slackened. Goodman risked a quick look at the fence line.
“We’re in trouble here, Rios!”
Rios continued to fire his machine gun at the large group of Russians advancing on the right. “We’re in trouble over here, too.”
“They’ve got us pinned down. They’re about to break through the fence. We can’t hold them any longer.”
“Stay down,” Rios said. “But throw every grenade we’ve got at the ones at the fence.”
Wilson and Goodman grabbed the last three grenades. They pulled the pins and, without exposing themselves to the enemy’s rifles, tossed each in the direction their mind’s eye said they would find the parachutists. In rapid succession, three explosions rocked the wire.
Goodman took a second quick peek. On the other side of the fence, the tattered remains of a dozen misshapen bodies were strewn about on the cold ground. “Jesus, we got them all.”
• • •
On the western end of the base, the Russians broke free. They rushed onto the flight line and runways. The Americans fell back on all sides. A second building burst into flames. Others soon followed. Wave after wave of black smoke rose once again. The parachutists tore through the small groups of defenders around three reinforced bunkers where fighter aircraft were stored. The aircraft inside the bunkers were quickly destroyed.
Another Spangdahlem was taking shape.
Unchecked, hundreds of determined parachutists moved forward. On foot or in combat vehicles, the confident blue berets surged forth. The Ramstein commander was nearly out of options.
He’d little left with which to stop the merciless Russians from eliminating his air base.
• • •
Many of the aircraft out of Lakenheath had arrived too late to take part in the battle for control of the skies. As most of the MiGs disappeared back into Eastern Europe, the frustrated Americans circled over Germany itching for a fight. The last thing the recently arriving F-16 pilots would’ve ever imagined was attacking one of their own air bases.
That, however, was exactly what they were about to do.
The Ramstein commander, certain of impending defeat, watched as his forces failed to stave off the Russians. He’d reached the point of conceding and ordering a retreat to protect the housing area when word came from the control tower that twelve Lakenheath F-16s had been attracted by the growing pillars of smoke. The F-16s were overhead. The pilots thought the damage below had been caused by an enemy air attack. They were asking for any targeting information the control tower could provide.
The base commander seized the unexpected opportunity.
“Send word for everyone to get away from the runways and flight line,” the general said. “Give them five minutes, then order the F-16s to attack anything they find in the open. Tell them to use everything they’ve got. Hold back nothing. We can fix holes in the runways, but we can’t do anything if Ramstein’s destroyed.”
The word went out. The base’s airmen scrambled to find deep holes in which to crawl. The triumphant parachutists came forward to finish off an opponent who appeared to be in complete retreat. The regiment’s combat vehicles roared triumphantly onto the runways. Wherever the base commander looked, he saw BMDs and Russian soldiers.
• • •
There were gaping holes all up and down the eastern fence. The Russians were pouring through.
On the distant fence line, there was no way to warn the handful of Americans who remained in the fight about the impending attack.
“Give me another ammunition container!” Rios shouted over the gunfire.
Goodman looked down at his feet. Three empty .50-caliber containers lay at the bottom of the bunker. Goodman kicked the containers aside, searching for ammunition.
“There isn’t any more!”
“Oh shit!” Wilson yelled. “Here they come from the left.”
Two dozen parachutists had breached the wire and were running toward the bunker.
Rios stopped firing. He checked his final ammunition container. He had ten rounds left. Goodman’s ammunition clip ran out. He reached into his parka pocket for another. His pocket was empty. Wilson inserted his last ammunition clip and fired at the force hurrying toward them on the left.
“What’re we going to do? I’m out of ammunition,” Goodman said.
“What about grenades?”
“All gone!”
Rios had no answers. He aimed his machine gun at the parachutists on the right. In three short bursts, he fired his last ten rounds. Four Russians fell.
The group on the left neared the bunker. On the right, the enemy Rios had decimated was fifty yards away. Wilson fired the final rounds from his ammunition clip. Two more Russians, covered in blood, dropped to their knees in the heavy snows.
The Americans’ ammunition was gone. There was nothing more the trio could do. The airmen stared death in the face and braced for the end.
• • •
Wingtip to wingtip, the F-16s roared over the trees. The instant they hit the fence, they opened fire with their 20mm cannons. At the end of the runway, Rios, Goodman, and Wilson frantically dove for cover. Powerfully striking shells smashed into the frozen ground all around them. The fighters passed so near that Rios could feel the intense heat from their engines.
Round after round rushed toward the exposed parachutists. Caught in the open, the Russians went down. The 20mm shells tore huge holes in the blue berets’ bodies. One at a time, or in large, tangled clumps, the attackers succumbed. Their guns blazing, the F-16s ripped across the base at incredible speed. On their first pass, forty Russian vehicles were torn apart. Two hundred parachutists died. Twice that number were severely wounded.
When the F-16s reached the western fence, they circled for another run. The Russians raced in every direction to escape the growing slaughter. Those caught on the vast open runways had no chance. Those on the flight line ran for the protection of the beckoning buildings. Inside the hangars and offices, airmen waited with their rifles at the ready and their fingers on the triggers. They knew the vaunted enemy would soon arrive.
The few parachutists who reached the sheltering structures didn’t fare well. Each was torn to shreds in a hail of gunfire.
While the F-16s prepared for their second run, Rios cautiously poked his head out of the bunker. On both sides of the sand, vast numbers of parachutists lay dead or dying. Not one of the attackers had been spared.
A handful of Russians were still in the woods. They took off running, desperately searching for deep cover.
The F-16s started their second pass. This time they’d come in high to allow for the use of their bombs. All over the base, in vehicles or on foot, the remaining Russians scattered in every direction. A handful of shoulder-mounted air-defense weapons appeared. While they raced back toward Ramstei
n, three F-16 radars told their pilots they’d been targeted. The trio pulled out of line. Two of the three would deftly avoid the air-defense missiles. The third wasn’t so lucky. He’d fall from the skies in a ball of flames and smash into the heavy woods on the southern end of the base.
The remaining F-16s came on. Wherever they found a cluster of vehicles, a bomb fell with devastating accuracy. Close to two hundred vehicles had rammed through the gate an hour earlier. There were now sixty. And their numbers were quickly dwindling. The F-16s made run after run. The final blow came when two A-10s appeared over the eastern trees after missions at the front lines. Any fleeting hope the Russians had of somehow snatching victory from their impending defeat disappeared with the Warthogs’ entrance into the one-sided affair. There was sufficient ammunition remaining in both planes’ noses to mop up what was left of the vanquished Russians. Along with the F-16s, they wiped the parachute regiment from the face of the earth.
When it was over, not a single Russian vehicle had made it through the holocaust. Eleven F-16s would arrive home in Lakenheath in time for lunch. The A-10s landed to a heroes’ welcome. But the most gratifying welcome for the Warthog pilots occurred an hour later, when they arrived home to find their families safe.
All of the base’s dependents had survived without a scratch.
The maintenance crews set about repairing the runways. The bomb craters would soon be filled and patched. The runways would be ready for use before the sun set.
Airmen went to work removing the destroyed Russian vehicles. Others started collecting the dead and wounded from both sides. A thousand airmen had perished. Only a few handfuls of the proud Russian parachute regiment’s soldiers were still alive. The Americans had lost forty aircraft. A dozen buildings were aflame.