Pedestals of Ash

by Joe Nobody

  Fitz saw the explosion right where one of his recon teams was positioned, instantly understanding the relationship between the Stinger launch and the return fire. He quickly switched the TOW missile launcher to active mode and unnecessarily ordered everyone to full alert. The attacking tank was nowhere to be seen, and the only evidence of what had just occurred was the pillar of black smoke still billowing off of the downed Blackhawk.

  Everything had been quiet for almost two minutes when Fitz’s radio crackled with the news from his scout teams. They heard engine noises, including the unmistakable whine of several Abrams tanks. The sounds were moving toward their position and doing so at high speed.

  Fitz’s Stryker was equipped with the TOW-2 missile system, but not all of the units in the 4/10 were the same. Some were equipped with cannons and targeting systems, similar to that mounted on the Abrams tanks they faced. While the Strykers didn’t have the protective armor of the big tanks, they could still deliver a punch. Fitz switched frequencies, reported the new contacts, and then began asking for help.

  Major Owens was relieved when his second platoon reached his area and would soon be joined by the rest of the Ironhorse’s command platoon. He decided to make the airport his command post. He watched with pride as the 2nd platoon’s vehicles executed a perfect maneuver and took up defensive positions bordering the airfield. The back door of each Bradley lowered, and infantry began hustling out the troop carriers to clear the surrounding area of any threats. One of these squads moved directly toward Fitz’s recon teams, and only a few minutes later small arms fire erupted to the east.

  Fitz could see the thermal signatures of several vehicles clearly now and was trying to remain calm on the radio as he reported his observations. It was a difficult task. From his perspective, the entire 1st Calvary Division was marshaling just a kilometer away, and he was urgently begging for either permission to withdraw or reinforcements to hold his position. He had just received word to expect two other units from his platoon to be moving on his position when the distant popping noises of M4 rifles reached his ear and reports of “Contact! Contact! Contact!” filled the airwaves on both sides. When a crew-served .50 caliber machine gun opened up, it became clear to everyone that the battle was joined.

  It was about then that Fitz could make out two targets; one was clearly a tank moving to support the enemy’s infantry. His fingers were shaking as he pushed the appropriate button and flipped the right switches to fully arm the TOW launcher. He muttered “God forgive me,” as the first missile hissed and soared from the launcher. It was quickly followed by a second launch, and both warheads tracked perfectly to their targets.

  The sound of the first Bradley being struck by Fitz’s missile echoed across the rural Louisiana landscape. The missile hit the lightly protected vehicle at a slightly downward angle, and the cone shaped charge pierced the armor with a stream of molten metal moving at over 10,000 feet per second. Designed to kill heavily armored Soviet era tanks, the thin skin of the Bradley didn’t stand a chance. Fortunately, the infantry had already dismounted from the carrier, but the crew was killed instantly. While it appeared as a single explosion, in reality there were two separate events – the missile striking the vehicle and the secondary blast caused by all the ammo and fuel igniting from the 4,000-degree heat. Pieces of the dead machine weighing several hundred pounds were thrown into the air like confetti and had just begun the descent back to earth when the second missile struck a nearby Abrams tank.

  The M1A2 tank was better suited to handle the TOW’s wrath. Its armor was not only thicker, but of a superior design. The missile’s warhead struck just behind the turret above the engine compartment. The explosion generated a jet of liquefied metal that destroyed the tank’s power plant and rendered the turret inoperable. The tank’s commander was killed instantly, but the rest of the crew survived with only busted eardrums and some severe burns.

  The commander of the remaining Bradley witnessed his two sister units destroyed in a matter of seconds, and had a general idea of where the missiles had been fired. He motored his 25mm cannon around and sprayed rounds into the area where he thought the attackers were hiding. At the same time, he fired several smoke grenades from the four-barrel launcher and screamed at his gunner to find a target for the TOW missiles. He eventually ordered the driver to withdraw from what he thought was the kill zone of an ambush, and prayed the smoke would help cover his movement.

  Major Owens had been looking directly at the tank when it was struck. He was stunned for a moment at how quickly the fight was escalating, but shook it off, and ordered additional units to join him. He surmised that he had somehow bumbled into the primary force opposing him and was going to make them pay for the cowardly ambush of both his CO and his men.

  Colonel Marcus listened to the avalanche of reports being broadcast over the command net. While several observation posts reported sporadic movements, it was clear that the serious action was concentrated at one point along his front. Marcus heard confused reports of a helo being shot down and was yet unaware that the U.S. Army had just lost its first general officer in combat since WWII. He had no way of knowing the impact of that act, nor did he realize that his counterpart witnessed the event. What he did know is that a force-on-force skirmish was taking place, and he still believed a large-scale battle could still be avoided if he could send a strong message to the young major he had just met. The message must convey that the Cav was up against a capable foe that had no reservation about fighting. He hoped calmer heads would prevail, and the act might get the higher ups on both sides talking.

  Marcus decided to reposition some of his forces and focus them on the hotspot. He looked up from his map and then stabbed his finger onto the paper while looking around at his gathered staff. “Right there gentlemen…right there is where this is all going to go down. Let’s send the Cav a message. I want our combat power concentrated in this section. Anything not absolutely necessary to cover our flanks should be busting ass to this position immediately. Any questions?”

  The huddled group of officers and NCOs all peered at the spot marked by the colonel’s finger. Notes were scribbled and radio commands began flowing to the field. No one had any questions.

  In the history of warfare, it’s not uncommon for a specific location to become the center of a battle. Often, there is a logical reason why some feature of the terrain or its tactical value results in men dying by the thousands over a relatively small, otherwise insignificant, piece of ground. During WWII, the small town of Bastogne was such a place, with its intersection of roadways being of importance to both sides. During the battle of Gettysburg, a strategic rise called Cemetery Ridge was another such example, where thousands of men died while fighting over a 40-foot high track of elevated ground.

  Other instances have puzzled historians, unable to explain why a certain aspect of some location caused it to become a fulcrum of death and destruction. Hill 875 during the Vietnam War is one such occurrence, with Hitler’s fixation on Stalingrad during WWII being another. The history of conflict is rife with examples of commanders’ illogical, relentless pursuit of some piece of real estate that held little or no long-term strategic value. Perhaps some of those instances were the result of quantum physics or random chaotic circumstance. Maybe others were due to some sort of weird, armor-sized type of molecular cohesion. Regardless of the cause, on this day in 2015 the area around Scott’s Farm and Dairy, eventually known simply as Scott’s Farm, would achieve such infamy. If the history of battles were ever to be documented again, the clash at Shreveport would become known as the Battle of Scott’s Hill.

  Fitz’s radio informed him that two friendly Strykers were approaching his rear, and he provided their commanders instructions on where they were needed. One of the new units was a MGS, or mobile gun system variant. This unusual-looking machine had a slightly smaller version of a tank turret sitting on top of the eight-wheeled chassis. The MGS used the same basic aiming technologies as the Abrams tank an
d was the newest member of the Stryker family. While the MGS could shoot with any tank within a certain range, it was still equipped with the same thin armor as the other Stryker models.

  Just as those fresh units were taking up positions, four of the Independents’ tanks were arriving as well. Colonel Marcus had won the battle-within-a-battle, managing to reinforce his position first. It was a critical turning point in the engagement.

  Major Owens was trying desperately to gather his forces in order to apply one of the cardinal rules of American military doctrine – strike at the enemy with overwhelming force. The problem was that his assets had started the fight while spread in a column formation, and it was taking them far too long to regroup for an attack. He was trying to marshal his forces in a field just south of the airport where the wreckage of the general’s helicopter still burned.

  While the Ironhorse’s armor may have withdrawn from the first clash, two of her scout snipers had remained in hidden positions where they could see Scott’s Hill. When one of the snipers reported he saw tanks approaching, Owens’ skin turned cold, and his mind raced with unanswered questions. Tanks? The 10th didn’t have tanks. Whose tanks were those?

  Reports were now coming in from both of the snipers; the 10th was reinforcing the area directly east of his position, and the major’s confidence waned ever so slightly. Suddenly, he wondered if his counterpart was gathering his assets faster than the Ironhorse could get on line. Perhaps the Cav was about to be hit with overwhelming force?

  The major made up his mind to strike with the limited assets currently available to him, rather than wait for the rest of the brigade to form up. He issued the orders, and immediately 9 tanks and 14 Bradleys pulled out in formation, heading for the enemy.

  Fitz held the high ground and saw the approaching tanks first. The Cav had learned its lesson from the first skirmish and was letting its heavy armor lead the charge. Fitz heard commands being issued by several friendly units to load SABOT, meaning they were loading anti-tank rounds into their guns. Before Fitz could activate his TOW launcher, the Independent’s cannons cut lose with their deadly fire. A hail of TOW missile plumes followed close behind, their warheads seeking 1st Calvary armor.

  Fitz watched as one shot hit the lead tank dead center, but just a little low. The round blew the tread from its guides, and the tank momentarily swerved sharply to the left, and then lurched to a halt. The chassis still rocked from the sudden stop, when a TOW missile struck, causing the disabled tank to disappear in an enormous flash and explosion.

  Along a half-kilometer line, the two titans clashed. While the 4/10 was outgunned and outnumbered, they held a superior position. Fitz’s selection of the junkyard was both a tactical and strategic advantage. Many of the piles of metallic junk were burning, and that caused problems for the Cav’s thermal sights. The slight elevation and cover provided by the piles of scrap iron gave the defenders just enough edge to equal the odds.

  The Cav’s attack was vicious and well executed. The lead tanks were manned by the most accurate gun crews, and their initial salvos destroyed several vehicles. The air was filled with the screaming sounds of high velocity projectiles, roaring missile motors, and the cries of dying men. It wasn’t just a battle of armored machines. All throughout the area, dismounted infantry joined the fray. A few of the Independent’s men were equipped with the latest portable missile system, the Javelin. The two man crews carrying these affective weapons would hide until an enemy tank came to within range and then quickly rise and fire. More than one of the Cav’s battle machines died this way. Squad sized elements of infantry skirmished all along the line, maneuvering like pieces on a chest board and dying by the score in the process.

  The Cav kept coming like waves of steel crashing against an iron beach. Fitz was waiting on his TOW launcher to be reloaded when his Stryker was hit. The SABOT round from an approaching tank destroyed his vehicle and killed one of the crew. Fitz was thrown 30 feet away by the blast, taking shrapnel in the leg and suffering a deep gash to the head. Two crewmen from a nearby unit dragged him to cover, where a medic was performing battlefield miracles in the midst of the mayhem. Fitz was triaged and deemed salvageable. He demanded the medic move on to men in worse shape. After wrapping his scalp enough times to keep the flow of blood out of his eyes, he limped to an open area and began directing arriving reinforcements to key positions. When a nearby Stryker’s commander was shot out of the turret, Fitz climbed aboard and took command. He was an adrenaline charged warrior, motivated by anger and purpose. Gone was any sense of self-preservation or belief in any ideology. Fitz fought with desperate determination to hold his ground.

  The reasons why men join in battle vary. A few do so for country and honor, while a small fraction risk it all because they consider it their job. The vast majority fight because of the brotherhood shared with fellow soldiers. When men see friends and comrades fall to the enemy, a powerful reaction often takes place. Rather than mourn or lose control to disabling emotions, they enter a state of mind where revenge, rage, and sense of purpose override any concerns of survival. For some, combat provides a catalyst to clarity they have never experienced before. Deep questions posed by every human are answered with amazing precision. Why am I on this earth? What is the purpose of my life? Can I make a difference? It all becomes clear in combat. Mental clutter is melted away and realization of core values emerges. Many times observers will note that a soldier performed with a “cool professionalism,” or with “extreme courage” under fire. More often than not, the soldier is experiencing a single-minded transparency of purpose, and his brain is functioning at unprecedented levels. Most will never experience anything close to that state for the rest of their lives. Few can describe it, and none will ever forget it.

  All around Scott’s Hill, thousands of men were simultaneously experiencing that mental state. The United States Army was the most powerful in history. The high level of training, combined with state of the art equipment, enabled a level of violence here before unseen in warfare. The devastation experienced by both sides was well beyond anything in the long history of conflict. Despite the indescribable havoc and destruction, more and more men and material were thrown into the battle. As additional units arrived, they charged into what had essentially become a meat grinder, chewing up equipment and flesh. None of them hesitated or baulked. As men and machines moved forward into the fight, they passed the wounded being taken from the conflict. Many passed friends, or what some even considered family, being carried back from the inferno of destruction roaring just beyond. Witnessing their brothers in arms injured or dead only made them more determined.

  Both commanders realized the battle taking place at the farm was depleting their units at an unsustainable pace. Both attempted every possible maneuver available to them. Left hooks, right hooks, feints, envelopment, and blocking were employed to various degrees when allowed by the fog of war. Most attempts were countered by equal application of maneuver or offset by circumstance. In the end, it all boiled down to a desperate fight for Scott’s Hill.

  The Cav actually pushed the 10th from the dairy on the third attempt. The unrelenting weight of the Ironhorse’s superior firepower and armor had taken its toll on the 10th. Most approaches to the junkyard were now impassable, littered by burning hulks of armor and felled trees. Bark and wood was no match for modern weapons. Mature trunks were snapped off or splintered, and the woods around Scott’s Hill looked as if a tornado had torn through the countryside. An infantry squad spotted an approach that was clear enough for the big armored machines to maneuver, and a squad of four tanks charged at the weakened defenders on the hill.

  There were only three functional Strykers left in the junkyard. When one of these exploded from an incoming round, Fitz couldn’t see any alternative but to order a retreat, and told his driver to get the hell out of there. As the defenders gave ground, Major Owens felt a small sense of relief that his forces were finally moving forward. He would hold the high ground in just a
few minutes.

  Fitz retreated behind a small mound 400 meters away from Scott’s Hill. He was waiting on orders when the last two tanks belonging to the 10th pulled up to his position. They were quickly joined by another Stryker with a fully loaded TOW launcher. After a few moments of radio confusion, it was clear Fitz was senior and in command. Colonel Marcus’s voice sounded through Fitz’s ear – take that hill back at all costs. After a quick agreement on formation, Fitz’s retreat turned into a counter-attack.

  Major Owens was approaching Scott’s Hill after his platoon reported they had finally taken the junkyard. He wanted to regroup any forces he had left and decided the small rise would be the best rally point. As his tank was approaching, explosions began erupting all around him. The enemy was counterattacking.

  Fitz’s patchwork of armor charged at the hilltop with guns blazing and missiles launching. A couple of thrown-together infantry platoons engaged from the south and immediately ran into a group of the Cav’s troopers trying to rally with the tanks. The men of the Cav couldn’t determine the strength of the counteroffensive, and confusion ensured. Major Owens’ tanks began withdrawing from the hilltop they had just occupied and paid so dearly for.

  Something snapped in the major’s mind. They had sacrificed so much to take this damned hill, and he wasn’t going to just give it back. He started screaming commands on the net, demanding his troopers hold that ground. He ordered his driver to tear ass up there and “get this fucking tank into the fight.”

  Owens’ gunner spotted a Stryker moving at an intersecting angle. The turret of the major’s tank spun toward the target, and the computer’s aiming program kicked in, efficiently pointing the deadly gun at Fitz’s charging Stryker.

  Fitz saw another fucking tank approaching the junkyard. He armed and locked on with a TOW, hitting the launch button just before the target’s main gun belched with a cloud of fire and smoke.