by W. R. Benton
Sticking his head in the door of the communications tent, the Sergeant yelled, “Get all available aircraft above us, and do it now!”
“Air support was requested over twenty minutes ago.” a young Major said.
The Sergeant walked to a radio and pushing the mic said, “Base, this Senior Sergeant Pajari and I want air support and now, damn you. I have partisans up to my ass, cannot find the Commander, and he is assumed dead, so you either give me aircraft now or I will kick your collective asses when I return!”
“No, I do not give a damn if you are a Lieutenant . . . sir! I have Russian men and women dying here and I demand you support us as required. Yes, yes, okay, sir. It had better be here damned soon, or you will find the base under new ownership.”
“Tent City, this is Black Shark One. Where do you need us? I am leading a group of three attack helicopters.” the leader of the three Black Sharks asked.
“Uh, wait one.” Pajari said as he picked up the radio and moved outside.
“I need a couple of runs on the north side and bring your munitions into the wire. I request you use your 30 mm gun on the north side. Then from our perimeter to the trees use rockets. We are under heavy attack.”
“Any side that needs the rockets more than others?”
“Negative, they are all over us!”
“Get your heads down. I will spray the north side with 30 mm, and Black Shark 2 will spray the east and the last bird, Black Shark 3, will spray the west. I have some fast movers coming and they will drop napalm. Once they work the ground over, I will place missiles where you need them. I am rolling in hot now.”
The chopper's 30 mm rounds did unbelievable damage to the partisans, with body parts thrown high in the air as screams filled the night. The next two passes were just as costly to the Americans, so they began to pull back with long blasts from whistles. The temporary fuel dump for the tanks blew, sending rolling flames high into the air. As the fuel burned, the night was suddenly as bright as day, and partisans were seen moving out of the wire and running toward the trees. The Americans knew from experience napalm was coming next.
Black Sharkii 3 rolled in and lined up on the west side. As he began spraying the ground with 30 mm rounds, a Strela 2 missile fired, striking the aircraft just aft of the pilot's position. The instant the helicopter exploded, the pilot ejected and was seen dropping to the ground in his parachute, but every partisan on the ground was shooting at him. The chopper fell to land in the wire around the base, exploding with a huge fireball, as the fuel and ammunition detonated. The pilot landed inside the base, but suffered from burns and two gunshot wounds, neither of which were considered life threatening.
The remaining two Black Sharks reported seeing what looked to be thousands of partisans on the ground. They both used up their rockets and then called to say they needed to return to Edwards Air Base to refuel and rearm.
As the choppers left to refuel and rearm, the fast moving jets arrived.
“Uh, Tent City, this is Tiger one. I have two other MiG-31's with me. I will drop my napalm first, so where to you wish me to drop the containers?”
Pajari said, “Tiger one, this is Tent City, the partisans have pulled back into the trees. I need you to drop your napalm in the trees to the west, then have the other two aircraft hit the trees to the north and south sides of us.”
“Copy, and will do.”
The base was still lit up like it was day, and the Senior Sergeant was out in the open with the radio so he could direct the attacks. He felt a heavy blow to the front of his helmet and it was hard enough it knocked him off his feet. For a minute or two he didn't move, and while he felt warm blood on his face, he felt no serious pain. Crawling to a destroyed machine-gun pit circled with sandbags, he climbed in and then checked himself for injury. His helmet had a bullet hole in the front and an exit hole in the rear. His head had a slight burn from a bullet, right where his hairline started and that was it, or all he could find. The shot came from the west side of camp. He donned his helmet and peered over the sandbags. The MiG-31 was approaching the woods at a high rate of speed and he saw two metal containers fall from the aircraft, tumbling end over end as they dropped to the woods.
There came a big splash of flame, and then a wave of fire crested and fell. The Sergeant knew anything near the fire was dead. The second approach to the north went smoothly and screams were heard as the flames covered the trees. It was with the third aircraft that a serious mistake was made.
The Aircraft lined up properly, along the south. Seconds before the pilot was to release his containers of napalm, two Strela 2 missiles fired, with one missing the aircraft but the other hitting a wing. The aircraft suddenly nosed up and the pilot and weapons system operator ejected. The aircraft continued forward, now out of control, and impacted on the southern section of the base, creating a huge explosion that destroyed all the defensive wire and killed many Russian soldiers. The pilot landed safely on the base, but all watched in horror as the weapons system operator's chute drifted or was pulled to the napalm flames. Then, a couple of the nylon panels on the parachute burst into flames. Within seconds, still hundreds of feet in the air, the whole parachute exploded into flames and the man dropped into the burning woods.
The fight was over for now, but it brought a quiet that was so loud it almost hurt the ears of Senior Sergeant Pajari.
Looking around, he saw the base was a mess with injured and dead bodies of Russians and Americans thrown around like so many toy soldiers. Unfortunately, these soldiers bled and screamed as they died, with few dying quietly. Most of the tents were gone, burned, and the two destroyed tanks were throwing dark black smoke from their engines into the air. The third tank was still spitting machine-gun bullets into the woods. At odd times the cannon would fire at some target only the gunner could see with his NVGs.
As men began climbing out of foxholes and moving from behind sandbags, the Sergeant walked toward the burning aircraft wreckage in the southern wire. Medics were already on the job removing the wounded, but unable to recover many of the dead because many were still burning. The sweet smell of burning human flesh joined the smell of burning human crap, to make even the hardest soldier puke. After wiping his mouth clear of vomit, the Senior Sergeant pulled an aluminum flask from his cargo pocket and drank the whole half-pint without stopping.
Pulling the senior medic aside, Pajari said, “The Commander is missing and was last seen in his quarters. I need some of the men to look for him. I know his tent took a direct hit from a mortar.”
“There may not be much to recover then, but we will look for his remains.”
It will sure be a shame if they find the sonofabitch dead, the Senior Sergeant thought, and then smiled.
Chapter 9
When she didn't get a response, she yelled once more, “Disney!”
“Mickey Mouse.” came the response.
“Disney, and if you are wrong this time, we'll start shooting.”
Silence.
Finally the same voice said, “Goofy.”
Our machine-gun opened up, as well as the flamethrower, and seconds later almost the whole group was dead. Most of the bodies were still partially burning when we heard one young man screaming in pain. Hall disarmed the man and searched him, removing all weapons. Then Wied moved to the man to give him enough morphine to kill his pain, so we could speak with him. While he was dressed as a partisan, I suspected he was a Junior Sergeant or young officer, because of his age.
Five minutes later, I asked him, “Do you speak English? Are you still in pain?”
“I speak English, all of us do. My pain is not as deep, like before, so when will you kill me?”
“All of your comrades spoke English? If you answer my questions, you will live.” I was surprised at his English and heard no accent. I pulled my skinning knife to get his attention.
“Yes, I will answer your questions. To be able to speak fluent English was required to be selected for these special units. Th
ose who spoke British English were not accepted.”
“Where did you learn American English?”
“I was born in Russia and raised in Saint Louis, Missouri. I can speak both Russian and English well. When my father died, my mother and I returned to Moscow.”
“How many units are formed like yours and where are you based?”
“There are six such English speaking units in Mississippi, but more are being assembled all the time in Russia. Once they receive more training on American customs they will be sent here. My home base is in Jackson.”
We stripped the dead of anything useful and found a radio, which we also took. I pulled the medic, Marsha Wied aside and said, “When you give him his next morphine shot, give him too much. He has special skills that make him valuable. I seriously dislike doing this since I gave him my word he'd live.”
“Colonel, I don't think I can do that. This man will live if found soon enough by his army, and you gave your word to him.”
“Damn it, he speaks fluent English. How many American lives will he help take later, once healed?”
“I'm sorry, sir, but I can't do it. I was trained to save lives and not take them, unless my patient is going to die; then I'm to give meds to allow them to pass without pain. You want me to murder that man. Sir, with all due respect, do your own damned killing. I'm more than surprised you are breaking your word, too.”
I pulled my Russian pistol, walked to the injured Russian Sergeant and fired twice, both shots hitting a different knee cap. He screamed and jerked around on the ground. Wied ran to the man and began working on him, and I'm sure she silently cursed me as she fixed him up.
I thought, He might speak English, but he'll need a wheelchair to get around in the future, because they'd be forced to remove both of his legs. Damn, I hate this war, but it's all about survival.
“Now,” I said with my voice filled with sarcasm, “as soon as you're done, Florence Nightingale, we have a mission to complete. unless you want to stay with your patient. By law, I could have shot the man as a spy, since he's out of uniform and dressed like a partisan, but I feel generous this day.”
“I have a mind to report you, sir, for abusing a prisoner.”
“Report to who? I'm your Commander and I work for the General, who has ordered all Russian prisoners executed, especially spies. He'll laugh you out of his office.”
We were soon moving again; Wied was pissed, but I figured she'd either get over it or not, and it didn't matter to me what she did. There was no way in hell I was going to let an English speaking member of a special unit recover and then go right back to work. Now he'd lose both legs, but he was alive. I should have killed the bastard.
I heard of the attack on the Russian Forward Operating Base via our radio and was overwhelmed at the number of dead, wounded and missing in action we'd experienced. We had no idea of the real damage we'd caused, but I wondered if our initial estimates of the attack made it well worth the cost in pain and human lives. The attack had cost the Russians a lot of material, manpower, and equipment. Two T-90 tanks were knocked out, the fuel storage area was destroyed, approximately 80% of all shelters were gone, and we couldn't even guess at the number of dead and wounded the Russians had on their hands. They'd also lost two valuable aircraft, a Black Shark and a MiG-31, and at least one pilot or weapons system operator from the MiG had died when the flames from napalm ignited his parachute.
I thought of the attack and cost to the Russians, but they didn't think like we did. This cost meant nothing to them. What hurt the Russians was our refusal to comply with their orders and for us to raise up against them. While the average soldier wasn't aware of it, the Russian people at home were getting tired of receiving their sons and daughters back from the United States in aluminum boxes. The war had been going for over five years now, with still no end in sight. I knew beyond a doubt we'd never stop fighting as long as one healthy American remained alive.
The area we were in now didn't have many trees and I felt like a sitting duck. After we were about five miles from where I'd shot the Russian, I suggested to Mary we try to cover the open areas tonight, not now in the daytime. Many partisans were killed each year when they were caught out in the open by aircraft.
“Makes sense to me.” Mary said and then added, “We'll move under the oaks in that small grove off our left. I want two guards on at all times and wake us all if you hear or see anything.”
As the Commander, I wasn't expected to pull guard duty, but in the field, I did everything I expected my men and women to do. I took the first shift with Alford, while the others ate or tried to get some sleep. As a partisan, a hot meal, a shower, and a good nights sleep were hard to come by. Usually we washed in a stream, had our meals out of Russian cans, and slept in blankets or sleeping bags furnished by the Russian bear.
As we sat, Alford said, “It bothers me that the Russians are creating special units of English speaking men and women, sir.”
“Why? It's been done before.” I replied, and then swept the area once more with my binoculars.
“Really? When?”
“During the Battle of the Bulge in December 1944, the Germans sent special English speaking units forward to confuse the Allies, and it almost worked. The men the Germans used were so good they spoke American slang, knew our baseball teams, knew neighborhoods in parts of the larger US cities, and were hard to tell from the real GI. The special units switched road signs, removed signs with the names of towns, cut phone lines, disrupted communications when they could, and generally made a mess of things. Most where killed when American units determined who they were. All in all, they didn't accomplish as much as the Germans thought they would, but they were dressed and used American gear, right down to dog tags. My great grandfather fought in the battle and said they shot every one of the men they found. They considered them a serious threat and spies, as I do English speaking Russians dressed in partisan clothing.”
“Wow,” Alford said, “ain't that something.”
“Stick with me, son, and I'll learn ya.”
He gave a low chuckle and then asked, “Do you ever wonder what kind of future America has?”
“Oh, sure, but it'll damned sure not be as a liberal nation, because that caused most of the problems that led to our fall as a country. When we started spending more money than we had coming in, we were in serious trouble. But, instead of cutting our spending, we just borrowed more money. Can you imagine running your home budget like that? Then, they just printed more money with no gold or silver to back it up. You'd end up in jail for writing bad checks. Anytime a country prints more money than it has assets to back it up, that nation is living on borrowed time.”
“Yep, seemed to me we were trying to help the world, while our own people did without.”
“That was messed up, too. We learned, and hopefully our new nation will be better and stronger, and it can be, if we remember what led to this fall. Now, enough talk and let's spend more time watching and listening.”
Two hours later I slipped into my sleeping bag and few minutes after, heard and then felt Carol place her sleeping bag beside mine. I was instantly asleep. I awoke before dusk to find her in my arms and her head on my chest. I carefully raised her head and lowered her to the sleeping bag.
I walked over to Mary and Lea, who were pulling the last guard shift.
“Quiet?”
“All the night sounds are there and no reports of any aircraft all day.”
“When do you want them up?” I asked.
“Give them about thirty more minutes, because moving all night is twice as tiring as moving during the day, or so I think.”
“What do you think of those English speaking Russians?” I asked.
“I think our medic needs to grow-up a great deal. That man was clearly out of uniform, looking to blend in with us, learn some secrets, and possibly kill some or all of us. There is only one sentence for spying—death. I think you did the man a favor, but he'll never realize
it, or so I think.”
“I've found medical folks too tenderhearted for our line of work. To be on the line, so to speak, you have to be a total warrior, plain and simple. No, I don't want or need killers, but we do need people who are willing and capable of killing when it's needed. Now, don't misunderstand me, because most medics are brave folk, but they're into healing, not killing.”
“Must be something that makes them different from us then.” Lea said.
“I think deep inside most medical folk hate violence, when at times, like in a war, the only thing your enemy will understand is brute force, with no quarter given or asked.”
“But yet I've seen many of them run into gun-battles to save a downed person, so they're not cowards.” Mary replied.
“No, none are cowards, but medical folk see first hand the wasted resources, the loss of lives, the missing limbs, and other serious injuries that come through their hospitals by the hundreds and thousands. That has to sadden them, because it would anyone. Then, the field medics have to treat people with injuries on the spot, so you know after so many times, a man or woman will have developed PTSD. Hell, I think most of us these days would be classified by the old VA as 100% PTSD disabled. I've shot men, knifed men, blew them up, and have burned some alive, all in the name of America. Do I have bad dreams? You bet I do, and I know you two do as well.”
“I have them, but John, there is no other way to get our country back than to fight for it. I'm old enough to remember the old America, with sock-hops, drive-in restaurants, and being able to sleep at night with the front door and windows open so fresh air could enter. I can remember my family, all dead now, gathering around the table, and I want my old America back. All was fine until the hippies grew up.” Mary said.