by Walt Gragg
He now knew that only the living could cause him pain, for he had no fear of the dead.
The sounds of the spectral battle in the whispery corners of the shattered woods disappeared. Another plane loaded with dependents was approaching for takeoff.
Rios looked at the faces in the windows and wondered if any of them were bound for Miami. He realized he should have thought of that earlier. Get one of the women to carry a message to his mother and sisters telling them he was all right. He’d do that first thing when they came to relieve him at midnight. He’d find someone to take a message for him. But what would he say? “Dear Mother: How are you? I am fine. Killed fifty Russians this week. One almost killed me. Your loving son, Arturo.”
Well, he’d eight more hours out here at the end of the world to figure out what to tell her. Maybe after dark, Goodman and Wilson would help him come up with something.
The airliner’s engines wailed. Rios turned to watch. The plane started down the lengthy runway. It wasn’t long before the aircraft lifted its struggling wings a few feet into the air. As it did, the 150-kiloton nuclear detonation burst above the control tower. The silver airliner vanished in a mighty flash. Arturo Rios would never see the second and third blasts of fusing atoms that smashed into the air base a fraction of a second later. For the first brilliant flash of light had forever stolen his eyesight.
The massive explosions tore the flesh from Rios’s limbs. They ruptured every blood vessel in his lungs. His eardrums burst from the thunder of the imploding atom. Rios was dead a second later when the nuclear blasts’ four-hundred-mile-per-hour winds picked him up and impaled him on the fence. The scattered pieces of the ancient forest disappeared forever.
In seconds, Ramstein was nothing more than a smoking crater beneath three rising mushroom clouds. When the tiny atom was through, there’d be nothing left of the once-mighty air base.
There would be no survivors.
• • •
Goodman and Wilson were waiting when Rios climbed down from the fence. Wilson had that stupid grin on his face. Goodman handed Rios the machine gun. Without a word, the three of them returned to the bunker to continue battling the ghostly Russians until eternity itself reached its end.
CHAPTER 60
February 1—5:37 p.m.
1st Platoon, Alpha Company, 2nd Battalion, 69th Armor, 3rd Heavy Brigade Combat Team, 3rd Infantry Division
East of Heilbronn
In the early-evening darkness, the battalion’s lead tank moved east. Tim Richardson stood in the open commander’s hatch. They’d been the last tank in. Now they were going to be the first tank out. His Abrams was battered. And his driver had one good arm. In front of Richardson, Jamie Pierson did his best to steer the monster with his useless right arm wrapped against his side. There was no one else available to handle the M-1.
Inside the turret, Richardson’s Abrams had a new gunner. He also had a new loader, whose name Richardson had yet to learn, sitting next to him in the bullet-scarred turret. The two were 1st Armor Division soldiers he’d rescued on the previous evening.
Tony Warrick was barely alive when they’d arrived early in the morning. He hadn’t survived a hurried helicopter ride to Landstuhl. He had been pronounced dead upon arrival.
Richardson and Pierson felt his loss deeply.
The 3rd Infantry Division had been re-formed. The division was less than the size of one of its original brigades. The 3rd Brigade was less than one of its battalions. With the arrival late on the previous night of its final tank, the 2nd Battalion of the 3rd Brigade was smaller than company size.
For half a day, they’d been off the front lines. They’d received twelve precious hours of respite while the 24th Infantry held the enemy long enough for their countrymen to lick their gaping wounds. They’d been reorganized, fed a hot meal, and prepared to go forth into battle once more. And for the first time in four days, Richardson and Pierson had actually slept. A five-hour sleep of the dead for the two survivors of the twelve-man tank platoon.
While they slept, hasty repairs were performed on their crippled tank. Any tank, even a badly damaged one, was of too much value to abandon. In the short time they were given, the maintenance crews succeeded in replacing the loader’s machine gun. They’d cannibalized a working one from the burned-out shell of an Abrams whose crew hadn’t been so fortunate. But Richardson’s tank would have to enter battle without the tank commander’s antiaircraft machine gun. There hadn’t been enough time to install one even if they could have located a functioning replacement. In its belly, the M-1 had seventeen shells for its main gun.
As they rumbled toward the coming battle, the battalion’s last eleven tanks and four surviving Bradleys split up. Two tanks and the four Bradleys headed back down Highway 19.
They were moving forward to meet a strong enemy force twenty miles distant and closing fast. The remaining Abrams tanks, including Richardson’s, were churning toward where two of central Germany’s main autobahns met ten miles east of Heilbronn.
The battalion would wait on the snow-tinged fields in a wide valley of ancient farms and small villages. There they’d engage an enemy force forty times their size. On the open ground, air support would be critical. Unfortunately, the few surviving Apaches were spread much too thin to be counted upon. And with Ramstein only a memory, gone nearly two hours earlier beneath the billowing mushroom clouds, the battalion would be depending upon Lakenheath and Mildenhall for assistance.
There’d been no time to prepare firing holes. The battalion would take up positions on the open ground and await the enemy’s appearance. Inside the lead tank, all four soldiers understood they’d seen their last sunset.
Two hours earlier, Pierson and Richardson had sat on a serene riverbank watching the winter sun go down. Both had refused to leave the sacred spot until the final fleeting wisps of its warming rays completely disappeared. Richardson had known for quite some time that there was little chance of their living to tell the tales of the great war. With Warrick’s death, Pierson had also come to understand the awful truth. Each knew he would be added to the bloody list of American dead long before the sun would rise again over central Europe. By morning, the tank’s crew would be nothing more than four additional names on the ever-growing rolls.
Behind the battalion, there was no organized resistance on this side of the Rhine. When the small group of tanks and Bradleys was gone, in this portion of Germany the Russians were going to be able to roll unimpeded to the banks of the mighty river.
Richardson’s struggling Abrams continued moving east.
“Richardson, before we left, did you happen to get any further word on how far away the Russian armor is?” Specialist Haines, his new gunner, asked.
“Nothing more than what they told us at this afternoon’s briefing,” Richardson said. “They think it’ll probably be a few more hours before Comrade’s attack begins. But just in case battalion’s wrong, keep your eyes open wide and your hand on that trigger.”
From Richardson’s and Pierson’s camouflage uniforms, a shiny silver star dangled at the end of a red, white, and blue ribbon. The medals had been awarded a few hours earlier to the survivors of the brave tank platoon that had held the crucial highway. The division commander promised that Tony Warrick’s and Clark Vincent’s medals would be presented to their families in an appropriate ceremony in the near future. In a moving speech, the general stated that without their valiant actions, the entire battalion would’ve been lost. The battalion would’ve been cut off and destroyed during the previous night’s battle if not for the lone tank’s willingness to stick it out against overwhelming odds.
After the horrors of the past two days, Richardson was in no mood for speeches. Even if the speeches praised him. They’d done what they had to do. There was nothing more to say.
A week ago, the surviving tankers would’ve given anything to be awarded a silver s
tar. Now neither of them cared one way or the other.
In thirty minutes, the tattered remnants of the once-powerful battalion arrived at the deserted autobahns. With the Russians drawing near, the broad roadways’ final frantic refugees had disappeared in the past half hour. The tanks continued on. Five miles to the east, they reached their objective. The nine M-1s spread themselves across the wide valley. In front of them, Richardson spotted the position he wanted.
“This spot looks as good as any, Jamie. There’s an off-ramp just ahead. Let’s set up at the top of it. We can use the ramp’s incline for protection.”
The creaking tank moved up the incline. As it neared the top, Jamie brought it to a halt. Richardson leaped down and guided the M-1 forward. When he was finished, only the Abrams’s turret was visible over the crest of the ramp. Richardson viewed his efforts. He liked what he saw. The position was nearly as good as being dug in. Ground forces or armor units were going to have a difficult time killing the M-1.
He knew, however, that helicopters or MiGs were going to be another story entirely. If Russian air forces successfully penetrated the last elements of the battalion without help arriving, Richardson realized with resounding clarity that the one-sided battle would soon be over.
The stoic sergeant climbed back onto the tank. He dropped into his hole and pulled the lid shut behind him. For three hours, they sat in the bloodstained interior of the foul-smelling M-1. Outside, it was a wondrous, star-filled winter night. Alone in their reflections or talking quietly on the intercom, the four of them waited for the enemy to appear. They knew it was only a matter of time.
At shortly after nine, Richardson spotted the first of the Russian armor as it crested a distant hill. The enemy tanks and BMPs were widely spaced. Richardson continued to watch. A steady stream of armored vehicles eased over the hill and moved toward the valley floor. The line appeared to go on forever.
“Echo-Yankee-One, this is Sierra-Kilo-One-Two. Have armor movement on the hillside five miles away.”
“Roger, Sierra-Kilo-One-Two. We see them. We’ve called for fighter support. With any luck, the F-16s should be crossing the English Channel as we speak. Battalion is to open fire when the enemy’s within two miles. Six wants to stop them as far away as possible and hold them there until air support arrives. Sierra-Kilo-One-Two, open fire on the lead tank at two miles. Battalion will follow on your cue.”
“Roger,” Richardson said. “Will engage at two miles.”
Nine minutes, no more, and the battle would begin.
“Haines, you heard the man. Target the leader. Fire at two miles. Let’s get off as many shots as we can before the Russians figure out where we are.”
“I’m already on it,” Haines said.
“Let me know if you need my assistance in targeting the column and prioritizing the targets.”
“Roger. If I need help, I won’t hesitate to ask. But as slow as the Russians are moving, I think I can handle it by myself for now. Why don’t you just sit back and enjoy the show. I’ll try to make it a good one.”
The seconds slowly ticked by. Richardson peered through the tank’s night-vision system at the approaching armor. It didn’t take long for him to recognize that the tanks cresting the distant hill were older T-64s. Still good tanks but not top-of-the-line. They were certainly no match for the M-1s in a fair fight. The tank commander recognized that the enemy they were going to face in this final battle wasn’t going to be a first-line Russian unit. Possibly Regular Army, but definitely not one of the best or most prepared.
As the war neared the end of its fourth day, Richardson had no way of knowing that first-rate Russian armored divisions were few and far between. Almost all of the finest young men Mother Russia had to offer lay dead in the bloody fields of Germany. After four fierce days of fighting, an entire generation was gone.
He knew the M-1s would chew the older tanks to pieces. But nine Abrams tanks against an entire armored division, even a second-rate one, wasn’t going to work for long.
“Richardson,” Haines said, “another ten seconds and they’ll be at the two-mile point. I’ve locked onto the leader. He’ll be dead before he knows what hit him.”
“Roger. Engage when ready.”
Richardson had nothing to do but wait and watch the battle unfolding in front of him. For the moment, all of the engagement responsibilities rested on the shoulders of his new gunner.
Haines fired. The huge cannon expelled its first round. The Abrams recoiled, shuddering beneath the power of its main gun. On the distant hillside, the leading T-64 erupted in flames. A billowing fireball, an image that had become so much a part of the German countryside in the past four days, soared high into the dark heavens. The battle had begun.
Behind Richardson’s tank, eight more fired. Fierce explosions ripped through the overmatched Russian armor. The American guns quickly took their toll.
The defenders bided their time and destroyed their outgunned opponent without suffering a single loss of their own. On the fiery hillside, the Russian division faltered. The enemy armor ground to a halt. For the first ten minutes, the struggle was slow and predictable.
But things were about to change.
For by the fifteen-minute point, the battle had suddenly turned desperate.
This time it was the Russians who’d sprung the trap. Their lure, the older tanks, had worked in bringing the Americans out into the open. By sacrificing their aging armor, they’d identified the M-1s’ positions in the valley below.
From the hills, forty attack helicopters roared west. They were also older equipment, Hind-Ds manned by less-than-top-notch crews. Yet they were still quite lethal. And there were far too many of them for the handful of scattered tanks to handle. Like a swarm of raging hornets, the helicopters were quickly upon the American tanks. The first Abrams was gone before the battalion could react.
Without their antiaircraft gun, Richardson’s crew was nearly helpless against the buzzing helicopters. But he wasn’t going to let that stand in his way. He moved left through the compartment, popped the loader’s hatch, and settled in behind its machine gun.
Two flights of F-16s were on the way from Lakenheath. It would be another ten minutes, however, before the first of the fighters would arrive.
With the Americans busily battling the new threat, the Russian armor saw an opening. The T-64s quickly picked up speed. They roared toward the battlefield.
“Richardson, I’ve still got twelve shells left for the main gun. Do you want me to disengage from the armor and target the Hinds?” Haines asked.
“Negative. Keep firing at the tanks. We need to keep them pinned against that hillside until help arrives. If they reach open ground and are able to spread out, the battalion’s finished. We’ve got to somehow hold the armor where it’s at if we’re going to have any chance at all. You handle the tanks. I’ll use the machine gun to keep the helicopters off us.”
Richardson knew it was wishful thinking. A useless gesture, bound to fail. Still, he had little choice.
Without warning, two Apaches suddenly appeared in the sparkling night sky. The sleek forms raced into the center of the soaring Russians. In a version of combat seldom seen before this war, helicopter against helicopter, the desperate struggle continued. The Hind-D pilots were no match for their deftly skilled opponent.
Hellfires roared from beneath the American killers. For three minutes, one right after another, aging Russian rotor blades stopped spinning in midflight. They fell from the frigid skies in regular intervals beneath the Apaches’ fierce attack.
But two against forty wouldn’t succeed for long. A Russian Swatter missile ripped through the frightful night. An Apache exploded in midair. Seconds later, his partner fell prey to the concentrated Russian fire.
The Apaches were gone as quickly as they’d appeared. Both had been blown forever from the twinkling heavens. And the
F-16s were still seven minutes away.
The Russians were ready to put an end to the uneven struggle. They swooped in on the Americans once more. A pair of determined Hinds headed for the lead M-1. As the helicopters neared, Richardson fired long bursts from his machine gun. But the gun’s range was far too limited, and its armament much too small, to deal effectively with an airborne attack.
The Hinds were right on top of them. There was nothing Richardson could do but continue to fire and pray for divine intervention.
Within seconds of each other, both helicopters fired Swatter missiles at Richardson’s crippled tank. At blinding speed, death raced through the night toward its target. The first missile was a fraction high. It missed the turret by inches. The Swatter smashed into the rear of the crippled American tank. In a blinding flash, its engine was destroyed. The Abrams buckled. Its crew was tossed about like a child’s discarded toy. In the rear of the compartment, the tank’s new loader lay dying. A raging inferno roared forward from the twisted mass of burning metal at the back of the M-1. The tank’s fire-suppression system was overwhelmed by the unholy blaze.
If the Americans didn’t do something, in a handful of flittering heartbeats the frantic flames were going to engulf the crew compartment and end their lives.
“Get out!” Richardson screamed. “Haines . . . Jamie . . . save yourselves any way you can!”
Terror stabbed deep within Richardson’s heart. He struggled to free himself from the hatch. His crew did the same.
The second missile was right on target. Just as Richardson began to lift himself from the compartment, the missile struck the Abrams dead center. The M-1’s turret exploded in a mighty blast. In a fiery pyre, the American tank commander disappeared. A rising ball of death and destruction carried the shattered remains of the disheartened sergeant and his new gunner high into the heavens. In the final instant of his brief life, Richardson was gripped by an overwhelming sense of sadness. His last conscious thought was an undeniable realization that no one would mourn his passing.