by Walt Gragg
The T-72s continued to plod up the hill toward the hidden Americans.
“Tony, did you get that?” Richardson said into the intercom. “We’re still on the lead tank.”
“Roger, I’ve got him locked in. I’ll fire as soon as the lieutenant gives the word.”
Mallory was back on the radio. “If the BMPs dismount infantry to support the tanks, tank commanders open fire with your machine guns immediately. Try to keep the infantry as far away from our position as you possibly can. Let’s hit them real hard, then get out of here fast. Get off two or three good shots at the tanks. We’ll then retract from our holes and head for our secondary fighting position.”
“I’m all for that, Lieutenant,” Richardson said. “Lead tank ready to be engaged whenever you give the word. Will fire two or three rounds and get the hell out of here.”
“Which escape route are we going to take through the trees?” Greene asked.
“We’ll go directly west,” Mallory said, “unless it’s blocked. If we get separated, form up at the secondary position. Does everyone have the map coordinates?”
“We’ve got them okay,” Greene said.
“No problem, Lieutenant,” Richardson said. “Retreating’s something I’ll be able to handle just fine.”
A typical Richardson comment. The kind the platoon had long ago come to expect from its junior sergeant. They were seconds away from their first combat. Even so, inside the three tanks, the soldiers let out a nervous laugh.
The re-formed Russian column picked up speed. Led by the tanks, they moved up the highway. From the snowy hilltop, the M-1s had an excellent angle with which to attack the entire line of T-72s. From their vantage point, they could unleash a clean shot at any of the twelve tanks.
Warrick had his hand on the firing mechanism. Sweat ran down the Americans’ faces. The cramped space inside the tanks was smothering and oppressive. The soldiers’ breathing was short and labored. Richardson, Mallory, and Greene waited to open fire. Each would remotely fire his .50-caliber commander’s machine gun from inside the fully secured tank.
The lieutenant bit his lip and waited. The Russians closed to within five hundred yards. At this distance, the sophisticated firing systems of the M-1s wouldn’t miss.
Mallory screamed into the radio, “Open fire!”
Warrick fired his Abrams’s 120mm main gun. The moment the huge shell leaped from the cannon’s barrel, a giant “whoosh!” could be heard for miles around. Two more “whooshes!” quickly followed as Mallory’s and Greene’s tanks fired.
Three shells raced across the quarter-mile distance that separated attacker and prey. Warrick’s lethal warhead smashed into the lead T-72’s eight inches of armor plating. The shell blew right through the thick armor. The Russian tank erupted in roaring flames. Red-hot pieces of metal flew in every direction. The mighty explosion reverberated throughout the once-peaceful valley. Two more shattering explosions were right on its heels. They filled the fading day with riotous sound. Fire enveloped the destroyed tanks.
“I got the bastard!” Warrick screamed. “Did you see that son of a bitch go up? I got him! I got him good!”
Richardson was feeling the same battle-induced euphoria. He knew, however, he had to keep his head if his crew was going to live to see the onrushing sunset. He tried to sound composed and workmanlike.
“Tony, calm down. Calm down. Start targeting another tank, or else some Russian gunner’s going to be saying the same thing about us in a few seconds. Get that big sucker trying to pull out of line about three tanks back of the burning ones.”
“Roger,” Warrick said. “Targeting tank pulling out of line.”
In the rear of the command compartment, Clark Vincent withdrew the first of the forty-one replacement shells from behind the thick metal panel that separated the lethal ordnance from the crew. He shoved the eighty-pound shell into the main gun’s firing chamber. That task completed, he closed the munitions panel, protecting the tank crew from the possibility of their own exploding shells entering the crew compartment should the tank be hit by an enemy round. Although only six weeks removed from the completion of his training at Fort Knox, Kentucky, the tank’s new loader handled his tasks with relative ease.
In seconds, the main gun was ready to fire again.
The remaining Russian tanks fanned out on the snowy ground below the Americans. They’d yet to locate the exact origin of the attack by the well-hidden defenders. A trio of T-72s started blindly firing their machine guns toward the knoll. BMPs rushed forward to support the tanks. They screamed to a stop. Infantrymen spewed forth from the rear of a dozen armored personnel carriers.
“Tank commanders, open fire!” Mallory yelled.
Richardson squeezed the trigger on his machine gun. A line of tracer fire rushed straight for a squad of seven exposed infantrymen running forward on the open ground in front of the hill. The infantry continued to struggle through the deep snows toward the small crest. Two of the running figures were hurled backward by the force of the striking bullets. Their comrades dove headlong into the snows. But there was nowhere for them to hide on the trackless hill.
Warrick fired the tank’s main gun. Another “whoosh!” filled the valley. Still unable to pinpoint the precise location of the attack, the Russian tank had been attempting to move toward the hilltop. The M-1’s shell bore down upon the T-72. Another funeral pyre of roaring flames and billowing smoke filled the valley as a fourth tank died.
A second squad of foot soldiers charged up the middle of the slope. Mallory’s and Greene’s machine guns went after them. Six of the Russians were struck by the American fire. They crumpled to the ground. The seventh, a panicked private of eighteen, took one look around and turned to run back down the incline. Three bullets smashed into his back and shoved him into the pink snows. The soldier’s body slid down the hillside.
The other American tanks fired their cannons in quick succession. Two additional T-72s wilted beneath the Abrams’s insurmountable main gun.
The Russians finally located the origin of the attack. They began returning the Americans’ fire. A T-72’s cannon shell burst at the base of the logs and dirt in front of Richardson’s tank. Inside the M-1, the fiercely echoing sound of the exploding shell resounded throughout its metal hull.
“Man, that was close! Everybody all right?”
“Yup,” Vincent said as he loaded another round.
“I’m okay,” Jamie Pierson said from his position in the driver’s compartment at the front of the tank.
“Fine here, too,” Warrick answered.
“Tony, get another good shot at one of those bastards. Then let’s get ready to get the hell out of here.”
“Roger. I’m already targeting. A few more seconds and we’ll be all set.”
Another squad of infantry rushed forward. They threw themselves into the snow. One of the Russians got to his knees. He aimed his shoulder-mounted rocket at the American position. His squad attempted to cover him.
It was a difficult angle. The soldier was firing uphill at well-protected targets. There was no margin for error. With death swirling around him, he had to hit the turret of one of the tanks if he was going to have any chance of penetrating an M-1’s stout armor and killing the Americans inside. The missile roared off his shoulder. It was a blur as it catapulted up the short incline. The anxious shot went just a little high. The rocket whistled over the three tanks. It smashed into a huge evergreen a short way up the rise. The tree’s trunk was severed. It fell forward. With a thunderous thud, the evergreen’s broad branches slammed across the turrets of the American tanks.
“Christ, what was that?” Warrick asked.
“Never mind! Just fire that damn gun so we can get out of here.”
The firing of the rocket attracted the attention of the American tanks. Three converging lines of machine-gun fire waltzed across the snows. The tank comm
anders closed in on the exposed Russians.
The beleaguered infantry leaped to their feet and ran from the hill. The machine guns cut them down before any of the squad had traveled more than a handful of retreating steps.
Another Russian tank fired its cannon at the Americans. Two BMPs followed with Spandrel missiles. Tumultuous explosions tore through the crest of the hill. The earth beneath the tank platoon shuddered and yawed. But inside their strongly fortified worlds, the Americans were unharmed.
Richardson’s machine gun continued to spit death at those trapped below.
“Whoosh!” filled the valley once more as Warrick fired a third mighty round. A T-72 exploded a fraction of a second later.
“I got a third one!” Warrick screamed.
Vincent moved forward with another of the heavy rounds.
“Jamie, get ready to move out as fast as you can when the lieutenant gives the word,” Richardson directed his driver.
But no word came from the command tank. And the BMPs continued to unload their foot soldiers. Scores of white-clad figures moved toward the snowbound crest.
Warrick quickly joined in on the slaughter of the Russian infantry, firing the machine gun next to the tank’s huge cannon toward the onrushing soldiers. Four American machine guns were now firing at the struggling Russians. Unspeakable carnage was spreading unimpeded to every corner of the snowy slope.
“Enough is enough, come on, Lieutenant,” Richardson said, “fire a final round already and give the order to move.”
“Whoosh!” went the cannon on Greene’s tank.
With a lightning machine-gun burst, Richardson cut down a solitary soldier crawling forward with a missile tube. Another widow would wail in the streets of Moscow.
“Whoosh!” went the cannon on the platoon leader’s Abrams.
An eighth and ninth enemy tank were added to the ferocious fires.
“Let’s get out of here!” Mallory said into the radio.
“I’m with you, Lieutenant,” Richardson said.
“Richardson, back out and go. We’ll cover you.”
“Roger,” Richardson said. “Jamie, you heard the man. Let’s go!”
While the other tanks continued to fire their machine guns, Richardson’s compelling giant backed out of its hole. The tank turned and ran. As the M-1 wheeled about to head down the back side of the hill, Richardson cranked the turret around to protect Greene’s and Mallory’s escape. Unlike the inferior Russian tanks, which could only engage their opponent while standing still, with its fully coordinated fire-control system, Richardson’s M-1 was capable of accurately firing and hitting any target even while moving at full speed.
“Tony, get your cannon and machine gun ready. Nail anything stupid enough to come over the crest of that hill after us.”
Richardson spoke into the radio. “Okay, Lieutenant, we’re clear and on our way. While we run, we’ll protect your retreat the best we can.”
“Okay, Greene, you’re next,” Mallory said.
“Roger, Lieutenant.”
A second tank eased out of its hole to begin its escape to the next protective burrow. Five miles west on Highway 19, the platoon’s secondary firing position was waiting. Greene’s tank performed the same maneuvers Richardson’s had. It disappeared over the slope on the western side. Another Spandrel missile slammed into the logs and dirt at the crest of the hill.
“Okay, Lieutenant, we’re all set for you to come out,” Greene said.
In seconds, the lieutenant’s tank also vanished from the battlefield. In all, the deadly encounter had lasted slightly less than two minutes.
Nine Russian tanks and sixty enemy infantry were no more.
With Greene protecting the lieutenant, Richardson cranked his turret around to face forward. The M-1s weaved their way through the thinner trees on the western side of the hill. They headed for the twisting highway, hidden in a magnificent forest of august fir.
“Jamie, go ahead and get onto the road.”
Pierson adjusted the motorcycle-like handlebars to move the menacing tank onto the asphalt. As he did, Richardson popped open the tank’s commander hatch. He cautiously poked his head out. To his left, Vincent did the same. The young soldier settled in behind the loader’s machine gun.
The brisk afternoon air rushing by the fleeing tank brought tears to Richardson’s eyes and stung his boyish features. While he peered down the winding roadway, the fleeting strands of the day’s disappearing sunlight danced on the deep forest’s floor.
Mallory was on the radio once again. “Echo-Yankee-One, this is Sierra-Kilo-One-One.”
“Roger, Sierra-Kilo-One-One. Go ahead,” the voice at battalion headquarters said.
“Echo-Yankee-One, have destroyed nine tanks without sustaining a single casualty. We’re presently moving toward our secondary fighting position.”
“Roger, Sierra-Kilo-One-One, we copy. Be advised, enemy helicopter activity in your sector has been extremely heavy in the past hour. Be prepared to repulse a possible air attack.”
“Thanks for the warning, Echo-Yankee-One. Estimate arrival at secondary position in fifteen minutes. Will contact for further instructions then.”
The second Russian armored column was fast approaching Highway 19. They would soon take up the chase.
Like so many before them, the American tank platoon moved farther west.
• • •
It was a war of unyielding intensity. It was a war like none that had come before.
As the day’s sunset neared, the toll on both sides was obscene. American deaths were approaching one thousand per hour. Fifteen Americans were dying every minute in the reddening fields of Germany. By the end of the second day, American losses would be greater than in three years of fighting in Korea. By the end of the third, American casualties would reach beyond those in ten nightmarish years in Vietnam.
German military losses were twice that number.
Russian deaths were five times as great as that of the Americans. Around the clock, without respite, five thousand Russians were dying each hour.
Still, they kept coming.
The real suffering, however, was occurring among the civilian population. The estimates at the end of the second day ran as high as one million German dead. Another three million were injured. In a country as small and heavily populated as this one, such casualties were inevitable.
They died in droves when caught between the combatants. They were slaughtered by the unspeakable death reaching down for them from the sky. And from the unpredictable death coming at them from the ground. To add to the ever-mounting misery, they were killed in untold thousands by Comrade Cheninko’s summary executions and firing squads.
• • •
Twenty miles east of Richardson’s position, the initial armored battle of the new war had ended a few hours earlier. It’d been a truly historic struggle. For twenty-four unrelenting hours, the vastly outnumbered Allies made a valiant stand. But the inevitable finally happened. The razor-thin German and American line in the southern half of the country collapsed late on the morning of the war’s second full day.
Two German divisions and the American 1st Armor Division had withstood hour after hour of immense pressure throughout the first day and the endless night that followed. Wave after wave of attackers smashed into the defenders’ fragile defenses. Yet the Allies didn’t give an inch. One of the fiercest artillery barrages in history crushed their bodies and sapped their spirits. Still, they held on.
Late on the previous evening, the Russians overwhelmed the nine thousand American cavalry soldiers protecting Munich. The city was eerily peaceful and quiet. The Russians chose to surround, but bypass, the sprawling metropolis to avoid the time-consuming, house-to-house battle taking Munich would entail. There’d be ample time for such later.
• • •
The Russians were prepared to fight a five-day war. The clock was steadily ticking. The precious hours in General Yovanovich’s plan were rushing past. Stalemated by the resolute Americans, Yovanovich turned to the only answer he could find. He upped the ante. He introduced nerve gas to the battlefields of the great war. The unspeakable horror of chemical weapons became a crucial part of the battle for control of Germany.
It had begun at three in the morning. After sixteen hours of nonstop killing, the embattled Americans inexplicably found the fields in front of them quiet and deserted. The surprising silence was fearfully deafening to the exhausted men of the 1st Armor Division. A war of unbelievable ferocity had given way to absolute peace. For an hour, not a shot was fired. The Americans futilely searched the killing ground for an enemy who had somehow vanished into the darkness and couldn’t be found.
At 4:00 a.m. the image-wracking stillness suddenly was broken. Hundreds of obscene Russian helicopters appeared in the misty night sky. A few feet off the ground, they roared along the front lines. From their stubby wingtips certain death spewed forth for those unprepared to deal with it. On a swath of earth 150 miles long and 12 miles wide, they dropped life-ending liquid from the black winter skies. Colorless, odorless droplets rained down upon an unforgiving world.
For seventy years, the Americans had anticipated the use of such tactics. They were thoroughly prepared for such an eventuality. The poison gas would have little effect on the Bradley and M-1 crews, secure within their armored vehicles’ fully integrated chemical defenses.
For the exhausted infantry soldier on the ground, however, the nerve gas was a far different story. The Russians caught him at the lowest physical and mental point of the night.
He had nine seconds to get his gas mask on or face a certain, horrible end. He had ninety additional seconds to clothe himself in his chemical suit and booties or suffer the consequences.
Each soldier had practiced for this moment hundreds of times. The steps were imprinted on his brain. Ripping open his gas-mask pouch. Removing the horrid mask. Placing the grotesque object over his face by inserting his chin first. Pulling the straps over the back of his head and tightening them. Clearing the mask by blowing out. Verifying the mask was properly positioned and the seal was tight. Giving himself an atropine injection by slamming the thick tube with its long needle into the fleshy part of his thigh.