Invasion

by James Rosone

  To the left flank of their current location, their sister regiment, the 137th Infantry, was waiting in the city of Decatur. They’d advance behind his regiment’s tanks once they broke through the enemy lines. Screening to their right was 1st Squadron, 98th Cavalry Regiment. They were hunkered down in Monticello and would cover their right flank as they advanced to contact. Once Regan’s regiment made a hole in the enemy’s lines, their two sister regiments would rush through behind them. Following their advance was 1st Battalion, 155th Infantry Regiment. They were going to act as their mobile reserve should they get bogged down in a particular spot.

  The 2nd Battalion, 198th Armor Regiment would accompany Regan’s unit as they worked to find, fix, and then destroy the German-Dutch army somewhere in front of them.

  Colonel Beasley walked up behind him. “It looks more complicated than it really is,” he remarked.

  Regan shrugged. “I just wanted to get a better picture of what we’re headed into,” he explained.

  “When I was at the division meeting last night, the G2 said the bulk of the German armor was hunkered down around this point here,” Colonel Beasley said, pointing to the area of contention.

  Regan saw that the spot was a large patch of flat farmland stretching between Bloomington and Onarga. “That’s good tank country. Nice, flat, and wide open.”

  Beasley grunted. “It sure is. That’s why you guys are going to have to stay frosty, Regan. I don’t have to tell you not to underestimate these German tankers. They’re better tankers than the Russians we first fought. They also know if we break through their lines here, we may be able to roll their entire line up all the way back to Kankakee. If we do that, we’ll be in spitting distance from Gary, Indiana, and we can cut off their entire force in northern Illinois and Wisconsin.”

  Regan turned to look at Colonel Beasley. “We’ll find the bastards, sir. And then we’ll kill ’em all.”

  *******

  As he walked back, Regan saw that Sergeant First Class Miller had finished painting four new rings on the barrel of their tank. There was a total of twenty-two of them now, each one representing an armor kill they’d managed since the beginning of the war.

  When Regan had been promoted to captain, one of the first things he’d done was get the brigade commander to promote Miller two grades, making him an E-7. That way, Miller could help him manage the company better. Regan wanted and needed an experienced tank commander in the vehicle with him when the shooting started so he could hand off the duties of fighting the tank while he coordinated the rest of the company.

  Miller heard Regan approach and turned around. “When do we push off?” he asked. He hopped down from the turret and immediately began to help one of the other guys tie down a couple of five-gallon jerry cans of water to the rear of the turret.

  “Two hours,” Captain Regan replied. “Two more hours, and we finally get this show on the road.”

  Corporal Tipman stuck his head out of the gunner’s hatch of the turret. “Hey, Miller. Can you see if we can get a couple more sabot rounds? I still have room for three more in the locker.”

  “That’s Sergeant or Sergeant First Class Miller, Tipman—not ‘hey, Miller.’ Got it?”

  Corporal Tipman sighed. “Yes, Sergeant,” he answered, annoyed but appropriately respectful. “Sergeant, can you please check on getting us some additional sabot rounds?” he asked.

  Sergeant Miller smiled. “Yes, Corporal,” he answered. “I will go check on getting us a few extra rounds. Help Jaysic get these water cans loaded in the cage and make sure you guys have that new camouflage netting properly secured.”

  Miller turned to Captain Regan. “I’ll be back shortly, sir. I’m going to go hunt down some more tank rounds. You need me for anything else?”

  “No, Sergeant. I’m OK,” Regan responded. “Make sure you’re back in thirty minutes though, OK? I’m going to go over our objectives with the rest of the company, and I want you there.”

  Miller nodded, then took off to find some additional tank rounds to top off their stores.

  *******

  Looking at his watch, Regan saw it was now 0934 hours. They were thirty-four minutes late in starting this new offensive, and he was growing more agitated by the minute. Just as he was about to pick up the radio and inquire with headquarters as to what the holdup was, he heard the rumble of artillery further behind them.

  Captain Regan poked his head out of the turret. Behind them, their artillery, the 2-114th field artillery regiment, had finally started the show. The 155mm M109 self-propelled Paladins were going to hit the known and suspected enemy tank positions with a short barrage before the regiment kicked off their attack.

  Miller popped his head out of the gunner’s hatch to see what Regan was looking at. “It’s about time they started firing,” Miller commented. “Those freaking gun bunnies are always late.”

  Captain Regan turned back to the front and lifted his field glasses to his eyes. He couldn’t see where the artillery rounds were hitting, but he still felt the urge to look anyway. “Agreed,” he remarked. “Time to get this show on the road.”

  Regan slipped back inside the turret and depressed the talk button on his radio. He had enough experience to wait a second for the familiar beep indicating the SINCGARS had synced before he started talking. “Dixie Six to all Dixie elements: let’s roll,” Regan announced.

  Time for the Mississippi Guard to go kick some ass, he thought to himself.

  Regan switched to the vehicle intercom. “Driver, head to Waypoint One. Keep us moving at twenty-five miles per hour and watch for obstacles.”

  With the order given, the tank lurched forward, and they took up the lead position in the arrow formation. Regan knew his tank should probably be further back in the formation, but he didn’t care. He firmly believed that you led from the front. Regan had read somewhere that General Patton used to like to ride in the lead tank or have a jeep lead the charge as he held his pearl-handled revolvers. Not that Regan fashioned himself after Patton, but he figured if Old Blood and Guts could do it, so could he.

  Standing up in the turret, Regan looked to his right and left. His platoons were emerging from their covered positions as they steadily advanced over the small engineering bridge that spanned Sangamon Creek next to a small bridge on County Road 320 East.

  A week earlier, a driver in their scout platoon had mistakenly thought the bridge would hold up as he drove his Bradley over it. Sadly, the bridge had fallen apart on them, and the vehicle had crashed into the creek. It had taken them a few hours to get a wrecker to pull the Bradley out of the water. The next day, the engineers had moved one of their heavy assault bridge spans to the spot so the tanks could get across the creek.

  “We’re over the bridge,” their driver called out over the intercom. The tank started picking up speed again.

  Miller was peering through the gunner’s sight when he called out, “I don’t see anything just yet. Nothing on thermals or infrared, either.”

  Regan nodded, more to himself than anyone else. He kept looking through his own commander’s sight extension, switching between thermals and their regular lens. With it still being winter, it was relatively easy to spot a vehicle or person against the cold air and ground.

  Artillery rounds were still flying over their heads, heading toward an unseen enemy. Their rhythmic thudding and explosions could be heard off in the distance, reminding them that a war was still raging, even if no one was shooting at them right this moment.

  Either our artillery scouts have found something, or those guys are wasting a lot of ammo firing at something they can’t see, Regan thought pensively.

  As they drove down the county road, they spotted the small town of Cisco to the left, along with Interstate 72. I-72 was the first waypoint. Once the regiment made it there, they’d line up and prepare to make their mad dash across roughly twenty or so miles of open ground to the town of Farmer City, or Waypoint Two. Once they reached Farmer City, they expected to
meet the first line of resistance.

  Five more minutes went by as they continued down the road to the embankment of I-72. Standing in the turret, Regan looked to his right and caught sight of a handful of homes nestled on the side of the road up against the trees. He saw a few adults and some kids standing on their front porches or in their yards. The little kids held up tiny American flags, and the parents waved briefly as they caught his eye. They were all smiling and looking like they were delighted to see them instead of the Germans.

  Captain Regan suddenly felt a wave of anger wash over him. He couldn’t believe that he was driving a tank through southern Illinois in order to liberate parts of his own country. As they rolled past more homes and saw civilians waving, he felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach—these were the true victims of all of this chaos. Regan pushed past these emotions and forced himself to smile and wave. No sense in making things worse.

  When they reached the embankment of the interstate, Captain Regan ordered his company to stop. His tank came abreast as they waited for the rest of the regiment to move forward. The next dash they were going to make was across some pretty flat farmland, with little in the way of cover. Since it was ideal tank country, it would probably be where they’d meet their first signs of resistance.

  *******

  Peering out of their IR camouflage netting, Oberfeldwebel Karl Haag observed the sky, checking to see if he could spot any reconnaissance drones or surveillance aircraft leading the advance of the American force.

  His German paratrooper unit had known the Americans would eventually attack them. Knowing that this assault was imminent and that they couldn’t rely on any air support or substantial armor support of their own, the men of the 310th Airborne Reconnaissance Company had set out a series of ambush points in hopes of bloodying the Americans up and possibly forcing them to halt their new offensive.

  Covering their ambush position was a specially designed infrared shielding camouflage net. It was the latest in German technology and should help to conceal their location from any thermal or other types of surveillance devices on the enemy tanks or drones that might be flying overhead.

  Turning to look at the three other soldiers in the shallow trench they called home these past five days, Haag saw that his men were tired but ready for action. Thus far, their highly trained unit had been kicking the crap out of the Americans, although Haag knew deep down that was primarily because they had caught them by surprise. Once the Americans got themselves organized, they’d come at them like banshees.

  As the four of them were eating their morning Einmannpackung, the German version of an MRE, they were interrupted by the unmistakable sound of artillery rounds flying over their positions. Not far behind them, the ground shook as the high-explosive rounds hit targets to their rear.

  Looking at his soldiers, Haag exclaimed, “Toss your breakfast and grab your weapons. The Americans are coming!”

  The four of them grabbed one last bite of food and began to get their weapons ready. Aside from their personal rifles, they had one Heckler & Koch MG4 and two Panzerfaust 3s. As they prepared their weapons and extra rockets, Haag made a point of making sure they had their white sheet unfurled and attached to the stick they’d found a while back.

  Three days ago, Haag and his men had agreed that after they carried out their attack, if it looked like they were going to get killed, they’d voluntarily give up. There was no point in dying in this hole if they genuinely had no hope of winning the battle or making a difference. But, until that time came, they’d do their best to rough the Americans up.

  Ten minutes went by. Eventually, the artillery barrage lifted. As it did, they made a quick check of their field phone to see if it was still working. The artillery hadn’t destroyed the telephone cable, which was good. Now they just had to hope their command wire to their explosives hadn’t been cut either.

  As Oberfeldwebel Haag listened, he realized that the enemy artillery hadn’t stopped entirely but had merely drifted further away. He also heard a new noise. It was faint at first, but unmistakable—the clinking mechanical sound of tank treads and the almost high-pitched whine of the Honeywell multifuel turbine engines of Abrams tanks.

  Sensing the enemy was getting closer to them, Haag lifted his field glasses to his eyes and scanned the sector to their front. A couple of minutes went by as the tanks drew closer. Then, Haag spotted them. At first, all he could see was the radio antennas of the vehicles swaying and rocking as they made their way through the farm field. Eventually, the shape of the turrets appeared as the lead tanks moved closer to the southern embankment of Interstate 72.

  Intermixed with the tanks were several M2A4 Bradley fighting vehicles and a group of Strykers. Those concerned Haag the most. An armored force almost always traveled with a contingent of infantry. The infantry soldiers accompanying the tanks were there to protect them from the very type of ambush Haag and his men had planned. They were also the force that was best suited to hunting his men down and killing them.

  The armored force stopped on the southside of the interstate, just as the Germans had anticipated. Haag looked for the reflective tape they’d placed on a couple of trees near those positions. Those were their range points. It would let them know when the enemy tanks had entered the kill box.

  A smile spread across his face. The tanks and Bradleys had just entered their trap. Haag lowered his field glasses and handed them off to his second-in-command, Unteroffizier Reichman, who took the glasses and confirmed the enemy was in position.

  Haag grabbed the field phone. He cranked the handle a couple of times, which sent an electronic chirp back to the operator on the other end. Haag grabbed the handset and depressed the talk button.

  “Artus Six, Artus Two. How copy?” he said in a hushed tone.

  Haag’s soldiers stared at him as they did their best to listen in on the conversation.

  The voice on the other end quickly responded, “Good copy, Artus Two. What do you have?”

  “The Americans have reached the interstate, and they’ve entered our kill box.” Haag reflected that it was odd using an old-fashioned field phone for their communications. However, it was a tried and tested means of talking without the risk of being jammed or someone listening in on what they were saying.

  A short pause ensued before the soft voice on the other end replied, “Commence your attack. Good hunting, Artus Two.” Then the line went dead.

  Turning to look at the four other soldiers in the hideout with him, Haag could feel the tension in the air. Excitement, uncertainty, and terror hung in the air around them.

  A mischievous smile spread across his lips. “Blow the charges,” he ordered.

  Unteroffizier Reichman reached over and grabbed the detonator. He removed the safety switch on the device, twisted the plunger a quarter turn, and then depressed it.

  In a fraction of a second, an electrical charge was sent across the command wire some one thousand meters away from their position to a series of twelve blasting caps that were inserted into the nose of the daisy-chained 155mm artillery rounds they had buried more than a week ago.

  The world in front of them burst into a brilliant and thunderous boom. Rocks, dirt, chunks of trees, cement, and parts of vehicles and bodies were blown hundreds of feet into the air. The entire southern embankment of Interstate 72 erupted in fire and shrapnel.

  Seconds after the blast, a handful of Abrams tanks emerged from the smoke and dust as they raced forward, toward their positions.

  “Here they come. Get those Panzerfaust ready!” Haag yelled to his motley crew.

  A slight breeze blew in from the east, which helped to clear away the smoke and dust from the IEDs. Using his field glasses, Haag saw they had succeeded in blowing up at least one tank and looked to have damaged two more. What really made his day was the three Bradleys he saw on fire. Three JLTVs also appeared to have been destroyed.

  The enemy tanks were now six hundred meters and rapidly closing in. A new se
ries of explosions rocked the path in front of their position as four additional IEDs were detonated by the other ambush crew four hundred meters to their left. This second round of IEDs succeeded in disabling one more tank.

  “Ready…fire!” Haag yelled.

  Two of his soldiers popped up from their concealed positions and fired off their Panzerfaust at the remaining enemy tanks.

  *******

  Captain Regan’s tank was rocked hard by the second set of IEDs as they continued to charge forward. The driver was giving the engine as much gas as possible as their sixty-plus-ton beast, barreling ahead into whatever may come next.

  “Keep an eye out for possible RPG teams!” Regan shouted. They still hadn’t found any enemy tanks or vehicles yet, but clearly, someone was out there watching them.

  “Rocket team to our four o’clock! Engaging them now,” Miller shouted as he swiveled the remote-controlled gun system.

  Bang, bang, bang.

  The Browning fifty-caliber machine gun that sat in front of the commander’s hatch fired a handful of rounds, cutting the two attackers apart before they could fire off their rockets.

  “Good shot, Miller. Rake that position they were hiding in again and let’s make sure there aren’t any more of them playing possum,” Regan ordered. Miller proceeded to pump a dozen or so rounds into the makeshift hideout.

  An urgent call came from one of the tankers in Blue Platoon. “Enemy tanks to our front, twenty-eight hundred meters, my nine o’clock!”

  Miller immediately shifted the main gun to Blue-Two’s location and scanned for a target.

  “Enemy tank, 2,300 meters to our three o’clock. He’s right behind that barn to the left of that blue farmhouse. See it, sir?” Miller shouted. He was clearly looking for verification that he wasn’t just seeing things.

  Captain Regan peered through the commander’s sight extension. It was hard to see, but he could make out the silhouette of the barrel. Whoever had positioned that tank there had done a damn good job. They’d nearly missed it.