3rd Brigade, 4th ID TAC, Northern Kuwait
22 October, 0237 Hours Local
Jones’s finger jammed into the map repeatedly. “You don’t seem to understand me, Major. I want those fires, right here, right now!”
The brigade FSO nodded. “Sir, the guns are shifting to those targets as we speak.”
Jones willed himself to calm. “Look, Buck, I know they’re shifting. I need them to shift faster. Task Force 2-35’s getting hit hard. I need that artillery to slow the Iraqis down so we can pull 2-35’s counter-recon team out. They’re forward and their shit’s in the wind.”
As if to emphasize this final point, a long series of Iraqi artillery impacted less than three kilometers away. Jones had moved his Tactical Command Post, commonly referred to as a “TAC”, as close to the front as he dared. Unlike the brigade’s TOC, which stayed well behind friendly lines and consisted of dozens of armored and wheeled vehicles and countless officers and troops responsible for tracking the battle and planning future operations, the TAC consisted of only Jones and few members of his staff in a handful of vehicles. Located well forward, the TAC’s job was to fight the fight at hand, and that often meant getting dirty.
The artillery officer nodded. “Yes, sir.”
The brigade command net came to life. “Striker Six, Tiger Six, over.”
Jones grabbed the handset in the back of his Bradley. O’Keefe had worked miracles in reconfiguring the interior of the M2 to function as Jones’s command and control track. Thoughts of O’Keefe reminded him of Kelly and he smiled. The sergeant major had taken care of him one last time. The kid was good.
As he keyed the radio, Jones pushed the thoughts of his friend to the back of his mind. There’d be time to mourn later. “Striker Six, over.”
“Striker Six, Tiger Six. My Knight element reports twenty-plus vehicles, mixed T-72s and BMPs, on Avenue of Approach One. I’ve got one platoon in position who can engage, but I need to get my boys out of there as soon as possible. If I don’t get them back behind the main defense in the next few minutes, I might not get them back at all, over.”
Jones looked at the numerous red and blue symbols littering his map. He understood the reasons behind Estes’s request. The situation was that the Republican Guard had acted in unpredictable fashion. Instead of leading their attack with a smaller-sized element, say a platoon or company, they’d led with a larger force—what appeared to be a battalion of tanks and BMPs . . . more than thirty combat vehicles. If the counter-recon teams forward of the friendly battalions got caught up in a run-and-gun battle with this larger force, it could get ugly fast. The numbers would be against them and they’d be trying to fight their way backward to friendly lines. Not good.
While artillery was hitting all across 3rd Brigade’s front, the attack itself centered on 2-35 Armor in the west. Jones was working on getting that battalion’s counter-recon team back first. If the reports he was catching were accurate, they were catching pure hell.
“Tiger Six, Striker Six. Pull back everyone but the platoon that’s in position to engage. I need them to support the withdrawl of 2-35’s counter-recon force.”
“This is Tiger Six, roger.”
“Rob, you decide when to pull that last platoon, but give us as much time as you can.”
“This is Tiger Six, wilco.”
Phase Line Sheridan, Northern Kuwait
22 October, 0245 Hours Local
Stuart had been pleased with the news that at least part of his team was still in the fight. He understood why Estes wanted them back behind friendly lines, that he didn’t want twenty-five percent of his firepower caught forward with no support. He also knew if Estes had been watching 2-35 Armor getting chewed up the way he had been for the past few minutes, it would take an act of God to keep Tiger 6 out of this fight. Stuart planned to stay forward with Third Platoon while his XO moved the rest of Knight back behind the task force defense.
Stuart looked into his sight extension. Shit, still no smoke. What good did it do to attach the Mortar Platoon to the counter-recon team if he couldn’t get the fucking fires when he needed them? As if in answer to his silent question, the radio squawked.
“Knight Six, Thunder Six. Shot, over.”
Finally. The shot call told him that the requested mission had been fired. Stuart continued looking north and replied, “Shot, out.” This let the mortars know that he’d heard their call and was observing the targeted area.
A few seconds later, at the end of the precalculated flight time of the mortar rounds, Thunder 6 radioed again. “Splash, over.”
Stuart continued to look north. Small impacts began dotting the green landscape. They quickly blazed white in the tank’s thermals. Stuart keyed the radio. “Splash, out.” From six locations smoke began rising. Soon there would be a nice, thick haze hanging between the withdrawal route and the Iraqis.
“Knight Five, Knight Six. You’ve got the ball. Start moving the rest of the team back. Red first, then White. Contact Steel on task force command and let them know you’re moving, over.”
Sergeant First Class Jeff Coats was the platoon sergeant of Team Knight’s Third Platoon, call sign Blue Four. He’d been watching the attacking Iraqi formation for quite a while. His trigger finger was starting to get itchy.
Coats called to his crew over the tank’s intercom. “Okay, guys, give me a crew report.”
“Gunner up, sabot indexed.”
“Loader up, sabot loaded.”
“Driver up.”
“Roger, TC’s up. We’re set. Now, gunner, you tell me as soon as that tank you’ve got in your sights closes to two thousand meters. You shoot it when I tell you, not before. Clear?”
“Got it, Sarge.” His gunner was a corporal with little experience but a lot of potential. Under Coats’s tutelage he’d grown into a fine shot—on the range anyway. The gunner continued watching the T-72 he’d been tracking. Jesus, the thing was getting bigger and bigger. Range twenty-five hundred meters and closing.
“Good. Driver, we’ve got cover behind this berm. Same as firing that first round, you pull up when I tell you. Once we move forward and begin engaging, count the number of rounds we fire. After the main gun has fired twice, you get our ass back and start moving to the alternate firing position before some Republican Guard hero has time to get a bead on us. Clear?”
“Clear, Sergeant.”
Coats shifted his eyes across the turret to his loader, a man whose face was empty of all expression. That didn’t tell Coats a lot, since the kid always looked like that—the boys in the platoon didn’t call him Rock for nothing. “Rock?”
The large face smiled serenely across the turret. “Yes, Sergeant Coats?”
“You ready, man?”
Rock’s smile broadened and the big head shook up and down vigorously. “Oh, yeah. I’m ready.”
Despite the situation, Coats couldn’t help grinning. “So what are you gonna do, Rock?”
“Sarge, I’m going to keep slamming sabot rounds into that breech until I run out or somebody tells me to load HEAT.”
Coats nodded at Rock and gave him a wink. “Exactly right, my man. Exactly right.”
As part of their platoon Standard Operating Procedure, Coats talked to the company commander. This freed his platoon leader to fight the platoon on their internal platoon frequency. Coats keyed the company net now.
“Knight Six, Blue Four. All Blue elements set. Ready to engage. Enemy now within twenty-four hundred meters. Request permission to engage once they’ve closed to two thousand, over.”
Stuart’s reply was quick. “Hold fires until my call, Blue Four. I want one volley fire from all five of our tanks to initiate the action. Call me when the enemy reaches two thousand, over.”
“This is Blue Four, wilco.”
As he made this last transmission, Coats heard Blue One relaying the information to the other Blue tanks on the platoon net. Coats understood what Stuart was up to. They were firing into the attacking Iraqi
s from the flank, trying to break the enemy attack long enough to pull the 2-35 team out. The shock effect the enemy would experience when losing a large number of tanks in a split second could do the trick, thus Stuart’s planned volley fire. Too bad they didn’t have the entire company up here. That would blow their fucking turbans and give ’em something to think about.
“Okay, gunner, what d’ya got?”
“Twenty-one hundred meters.” The voice was a little shaky.
“Steady. Just like the gunnery range, Rudy. Wait about ten seconds. Then lase again. Just have that sight on and a good lase when we pull forward.”
“Roger. Lasinnnngggg . . . two thousand meters!”
Coats felt his senses sharpen, though he hadn’t thought that was possible.
“Knight Six, Blue Four, they’re across the trigger line. Range two thousand meters.”
“Roger. All Knight elements, Knight Six. At my command, two rounds sabot. Tophat, tophat, tophat.”
The fire command told the Knight tanks several things. First, “at my command” let them know not to fire until Stuart gave them the order. Once they received “fire” from Stuart, all of the Blue tanks would open up at once. “Two rounds sabot” limited their fires to two rounds of sabot ammunition. This kept the trigger-happy crews from expending half their basic load of main gun rounds. Finally, “tophat” told all of the crews to move their tanks up into a firing position, time now. Stuart would give them a couple of seconds to get set and lock on their intended targets before issuing the command of fire.
Coats spoke slowly and deliberately into his boom mike. “Driver, move out.”
The crew rocked as the tank pulled up into a firing position.
“Driver, stop.” The driver slammed on the brakes. The tank gave a final shudder and stopped. The turbine engine kicked into a high whine. The crew could now engage, but as long as they were pulled up into the firing position, the enemy could also engage them.
“Gunner, you still locked on that T-72?”
“Affirmative!”
Coats broke his face from the sight extension momentarily and looked to his left towards the loader. “Rock, arm the fucking gun!”
The loader jumped forward and grabbed the arming handle. “Oh, shi . . . up!”
Coats’ crew was ready. “Stand by. Steady . . . steady . . .”
Stuart’s voice roared in the CVC helmet. “All Knight elements, Knight Six . . . Fire!”
Coats was listening to Stuart and timing his call to his crew accordingly. “Fire!”
The tank rocked. In the night, all that Coats could see was smoke and dust from the main gun firing. “Gunner, scan left. We’ll come back and check that guy, but he’s either hit or running for cover. A little more. I want to be on his wingman when the smoke clears. That’s the guy that will be looking for us.”
“Roger . . . I’m there.”
“Up!” Rock was on the ball now, another round in the chamber and the main gun armed.
Coats kept staring into the sight extension. The smoke was clearing. “All right, gunner, there he is! He’s traversing this way! Fire!”
“On the way!”
Again the tank rocked as a sabot round exited the gun tube. Now the crew was thrown forward as the driver slammed the transmission into reverse and got them behind cover.
The driver piped in on the intercom. “Hey, Sergeant Coats.”
“Yeah?”
“I saw both of those tanks blow. Rudy got ’em.”
“All right. Good work, guys. No time for kumbayas yet, though. There’s a lot more of them out there.”
Lead Republican Guard Battalion, Forward of 3rd Brigade
22 October, 0255 Hours Local
Lieutenant Colonel Sahaf listened to the progress of his units. The attack was going well. The brigade commander would be rewarded for this night’s actions.
Those who’d fought during the Gulf War remembered well their lack of success against the American tanks. The new Swiss ammunition was functioning better than they’d dreamed possible. A copy of the American depleted-uranium round, it was having great success in penetrating the beast that had ripped through the Iraqis’ ranks in 1991.
They’d now almost penetrated the American company screening the left flank. His battalion would make the hole a little wider and let the rest of the brigade break it open for the division’s attack. From his position behind the lead company, Sahaf could see it all. It was his battalion’s moment of glory. It was also short-lived.
Red flames streaked from the darkness to his left, followed a split second later by the sound of thunder. Five tanks in Sahaf’s immediate vicinity exploded. The lead company halted in its tracks. Thoughts of glory disappeared for the moment as his battalion’s crews shifted their actions toward survival against this unexpected threat.
“Got another one, Sarge!” called the gunner of B- 33 as their tank repositioned.
“Good work, troop, but it ain’t over yet.”
The gunner nodded absently as he scanned for another target. The TC could say what he wanted, but they all knew that T-72s couldn’t stand up to an M1A1 in a straight fight. The gunner smiled as another target moved unknowingly into his TIS at only fifteen hundred meters. Piece o’ cake. “Identify PC!”
The tank commander had pulled out his PVS-7s for a quick scan of their local area. His heart jumped. Reaching into the cupola, he grabbed the power control handle to override his gunner, slewing the gun tube in the direction of the threat he’d seen—an Iraqi tank only eight hundred meters off of their flank. “Gunner, sabot, tank!”
The gunner, disoriented by the rapid spin of the turret, finally saw the enemy vehicle. “Identified!”
“Fire!” cried the commander of the enemy T-72.
His gunner engaged the American tank a split second later.
The commander watched as the American tank’s onboard ammunition shot a plume of fire thirty feet into the sky as the pressure of the explosion vented through the blowout panels on top of the M1A1’s turret. “A hit, but he is not yet finished. Reengage.”
“On the way . . .”
The Iraqi smiled. The dreaded Abrams now died, just like everyone else. This would be a different war from the last, praise his name. His thoughts turned to survival as he watched flames lick from the hatches of the doomed tank. “Driver, move back towards the line of departure. There is nothing more we can do here for now . . . but we will return.”
Jeff Coats, separated the last few minutes of the fight from his wingman as each moved between firing positions, saw the fireball reaching into the sky. He knew that it had to be B-33. “Driver, move to the alternate position, now!”
As the tank completed its move, Coats took control of the turret from his gunner. Within seconds he found the T-72 he was searching for, rapidly moving out of the area. And the carcass of what had been B-33. “Load sabot, from my position. . . .” Coats took the time for a final lase and to center on his target. “On the way,” he said through clenched teeth. He showed no satisfaction as he turned control of the gun back to his gunner and climbed into the cupola.
Lieutenant Colonel Sahaf tried reaching the lead company’s commander on the radio. Nothing. As he shifted his radio frequency to contact the company on its internal frequency, the Americans sent another volley towards his battalion. Four more T-72s shuddered to a halt.
Sahaf felt as though a cold snake had wrapped tightly around his spine as he realized his tank was now the lead vehicle. And he was alone. All of the tanks accompanying him were in flames—all the ones behind him had stopped and had begun withdrawing.
“Driver, get us back, get us ba—”
Once the battalion commander died, so did any hope for a quick Iraqi penetration.
Jeff Coats listened as the platoon, minus Blue 3, the tank commander of B-33, sent their reports to the platoon leader. Once they finished, he keyed his radio to send the consolidated list to Stuart.
“Knight Six, Blue Four, over.”
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“Knight Six, send it.”
“Knight Six, Blue Four. Slant three, I say again, slant three. Blue engaged and destroyed ten enemy tanks and one PC between TRPs Mike-One and Mike-Three.” Coats hesitated, as if sending the call would finalize his friends’ lives. “We lost Bravo Three-Three. Catastrophic kill, no survivors. Continuing mission, over.”
Stuart’s voice was subdued. “Roger, understand. Is anyone in the platoon still in contact, over?”
“This is Blue Four. Negative. The lead enemy victors are destroyed. Looks like the rest have pulled back.”
“Roger, Blue Four. Prepare to move back on Route Dagger. Going higher.”
Cold Steel Battle Position, Northern Kuwait
22 October, 0315 Hours Local
Dillon could see the flash of tank cannons to his front, followed seconds later by the booms of the big main guns. Not for the first time this night, he said a silent prayer for his friend Stuart. He picked up the PVS-7s that dangled around his neck and looked forward.
Cold Steel had occupied their battle position just before Knight started moving back. In this way they could take up the fight once all of Stuart’s elements were safely to the rear.
As Dillon watched through his PVS-7s, he could see the dust trails marking the last of Knight’s main body moving through the passage point. He began to breathe a little easier. There were a lot of nervous gunners and tank commanders in his company who expected the horde to rush them any time. Dillon would be glad when all of the friendlies were behind them and they could quit worrying about a potential fratricide.
Thad Mason’s voice squawked in his CVC. “Steel Six, Steel Five.”
Dillon keyed his boom mike with one hand while continuing to watch with the PVS-7s for the returning Black Knights with the other. “Steel Six.”
“Steel Six, Steel Five. The last elements of Knight’s main body have moved through the passage point. They still have five tanks and three mortar tracks forward, over.”
Tin Soldiers Page 13