Tin Soldiers

by Michael Farmer

  Cole dropped his M16 to the ground when he reached Ramirez. Bending over the prone figure, he threw the still body over his shoulder and shifted it into a fireman’s carry. He scooped up his rifle with one hand and looked back toward the BRDM as he started to run south once more. Again tracers tore up the ground, this time in a line running directly to his right. Cole jinked left, beginning to feel his thighs burn from his exertions. As he looked toward the opening of the wadi where their Hummer was hidden two hundred meters away, he could just make out the sound of a windswept voice.

  “Get down, Sarge!”

  Immediately Cole dropped to the ground, using his body to cushion the impact on Ramirez. Cole eased from under the young scout and covered Ramirez’s body with his own just as he heard the sound he’d been waiting for.

  Whump-whump-whump. The dull thumping of the Mark-19 automatic grenade launcher was music to his ears. The 40mm high-explosive shells arced over the prone scouts, one round every two seconds, reaching toward the pursuing Iraqis. PFC McDermott, the final member of Cole’s team, had stayed in the hide position with the vehicle. Apparently he’d heard Cole’s call and had been watching for the team’s return.

  A dull explosion sounded behind Cole and he felt a wave of pressure and heat as the thinly armored scout car blew up mere yards from them. En shallah, thought Cole as he watched the BRDM burn.

  He slid off of Ramirez, checking for a pulse. Thank God, he thought, faint but steady. He checked the extent of his team member’s injuries, expertly working his hands down the young soldier’s body. Nothing in the torso. His hands continued working quickly and efficiently. There it is. The calf was torn up pretty good.

  A slight groan issued from the soldier and his eyes fluttered open as Cole’s fingers probed his wound. He looked at the sergeant in confusion. “Sergeant Cole?”

  Cole looked into Ramirez’s face as he pulled the field dressing from the injured soldier’s first aid pouch and began wrapping it around the wound. “Well, hello, Sleeping Beauty. Nice of you to join us.”

  The corporal was having trouble focusing on Cole’s face. “What . . . what happened?”

  “Well, I’ll tell you what happened. You didn’t listen to me when I told you to beat boots outta there—that’s what happened . . . and I’ll tell you something else . . . if you ever—”

  PFC McDermott slid the Hummer to a stop next to his team. “You guys okay, Sergeant Cole?”

  Cole broke off his tongue-lashing of Ramirez and looked up. “Nice of you to drop in, shit bird. Stand by.” He turned back to his injured soldier. “Now, Ramirez, in the future when I give you an order . . .”

  A slow smile spread across McDermott’s face. Yeah, they were just fine.

  3rd Brigade, 4th ID TAC, Northern Kuwait

  22 October, 0645 Hours

  “Sir?” said Sergeant Matt O’Keefe in obvious exasperation.

  Jones, standing next to O’Keefe in the Bradley’s turret, turned to him and raised an inquisitive eyebrow. He and O’Keefe had just moved forward to see what 3rd Brigade’s left flank looked like following the night’s fighting.

  “Sir, you really shouldn’t be this close to the front line.”

  Jones flicked his Zippo, took a deep drag off the cigarette—completely ignoring ten different army regulations regarding smoking on combat vehicles—and waved a dismissive hand. “Ah, bullshit, Sergeant O’Keefe. We’re not that close.”

  An artillery round impacted five hundred meters away, causing O’Keefe to grab the side of the turret to steady himself.

  “Sir, at least get in the back with the S3 and FSO. You don’t need to worry about commanding the vehicle. That’s my job.”

  Jones lifted the binoculars hanging from the strap around his neck, exhaling a steady stream of smoke, then turned to O’Keefe. “The FSO is allergic to cigarette smoke. You believe that shit? How the hell can I operate in that type of environment?” He turned the binos north, conducted a quick scan of the horizon, and then turned back to his gunner. “Besides, I can’t see shit in the back of the track.”

  O’Keefe rolled his eyes. “Stand by, sir.” He flipped his CVC to intercom. “Driver.”

  A nervous voice answered. “Driver here.”

  “Driver, I want you to back up two hundred meters. You’ll see a slight depression to your left once you’ve completed the move. Get us in there.”

  The relieved response was instantaneous. “Roger. Moving now.”

  Jones and O’Keefe were thrown forward as the driver switched the M2’s transmission into reverse and shot backward.

  Jones thumped his cigarette over the side of the vehicle and turned to his gunner. “I’m going back inside. Happy?”

  O’Keefe gave a quick nod. “Yes, sir. Fucking ecstatic.”

  As Jones stepped down and into the troop area, the brigade S3 and fire support officer both rose from years of habit. Their helmeted heads banged into the steel roof.

  “Seats, gentlemen,” said Jones, trying not to laugh. He turned to Proctor. “So, Tom, do you think it worked?”

  Proctor stared at the map. He’d been scribbling notes on its margins from the scouts’ spot reports. “I believe so, sir. From the information we’ve received, the Two is calling the unit attacking toward Task Force 2-35 a brigade-minus, mainly tanks. That tracks with what should be left over from the unit that attacked into this sector last night. At any rate, for now we’re calling them the same unit. But a larger force has appeared on the screen.”

  Jones closed his eyes and rubbed them as he mentally processed and stored everything his operations officer said. “Go on.”

  “The 2-77 scouts reported the larger force here, to the east.”

  Striker 6 opened his eyes just long enough to focus on the spot Proctor was pointing to on the map, then closed them and resumed rubbing. “Got it.”

  “These forces have slowed down in the low ground ten kilometers north of 2-77 Armor. Based off the reports, the Two is calling it a brigade.”

  Jones opened his eyes and looked to his FSO. “Buck . . . 2-35 still has priority of fires?”

  Major Deerfield “Buck” Sheldon nodded. “Yes, sir. We’ve got some fire missions going in for them on the Iraqis to their front, but as that force is now almost in direct fire range, we’re preparing to shift the priority to Task Force 2-77.”

  “Okay,” said Jones, “now for the question of the day. Where’s the Tawakalna’s third brigade?”

  Proctor took over, pointing north on the map. “Sir, we’re getting feeds from airborne platforms, primarily Joint STARS, indicating a large formation of mechanized vehicles here—lots of moving target indicators. It appears to be at least two mechanized battalions. Its movement thus far leads me to make the call that it’s supporting the brigade to the east—the one moving toward the Iron Tigers.”

  Jones’s eyes remained closed as he leaned back and crossed his arms across his chest. “Summarize.”

  Proctor had worked for his commander long enough to know that the relaxed posture was anything but indicative of how quickly his mind was assimilating the information it was receiving. “Sir, we have a brigade-minus attacking into 2-35 Armor’s sector, approximately two battalions consisting of a little over thirty combat vehicles apiece. We have two additional brigades behind that one. One of these brigades is trailing the other by about five kilometers. The XO has been running through it with the rest of the staff at the TOC. He said to relay that their read is the attack in the west against Task Force 2-35 is a supporting attack. The main attack will be in the east with the other two brigades, into 2-77’s sector. That’s where they think we’re thin. They’ll try to open a hole through our lines with the lead brigade and punch through and exploit with the follow-on brigade.”

  Jones nodded. His eyes popped open as he sat up. He looked to Sheldon. “Roger. I concur. Buck, I want close air support targeted against the follow-on brigade in the east. I want to gain some separation between him and the brigade he’s trailing. That
way Task Force 2-77 is only fighting one brigade at a time. Switch priority of fires to 2-77, time now. I want to start hammering the lead brigade in the east with artillery—ASAP. When they hit the obstacle belt forward of the Iron Tigers, I want them pounded some more. After that, it’s 2-77’s fight.”

  Proctor and Sheldon made their final notes.

  Jones turned back to the S3. “Tom, don’t move the reserve yet, but you tell that company commander to make sure he’s conducted a recon and timed a route to 2-35’s BP. What’s the remaining strength there?”

  Proctor didn’t need to check his status charts. “There are about three companies’ worth of tanks and Brads, sir. Their counter-recon team lost eight of fourteen vehicles. The other three companies lost one or two vehicles each.”

  Jones nodded slowly, a small indication of the pain the news caused him. He hated losing men, tanks, Bradleys, or anything else to these bastards. However, he also knew they’d been fortunate. A heavy price had been paid for letting the enemy get a read on their disposition in the west—but they’d held.

  “Okay, gentlemen. Game time.”

  Cold Steel Battle Position, Northern Kuwait

  22 October, 0650 Hours Local

  Dillon unconsciously ran his hands over the switches of his commander’s weapons station, double-checking their positions. He looked to his right at his status lights . . . good. He bent his face to his sight extension. Picture good, set for thermal imaging. It was still cool outside, so the enemy vehicles should show up nicely in the thermals. He stood, extending his head and chest out of the tank’s hatch. He raised his binos, looking north. Nothing yet. He scanned left. Dust, and lots of it, to the northwest. That tracked with the spot reports relayed by the S2 just minutes ago. That would be the supporting attack heading into 2-35’s sector.

  Overhead, Dillon heard the sonic boom of jet fighters at high altitude heading north. He silently took back all the bad things he’d ever said about aviators in general and air force pilots in particular. The brigade was in a combat ratio numbers crunch and needed some help in evening the odds.

  The artillery had shut down to the northwest a couple of minutes earlier and the unmistakable sound of armored vehicles locked in combat could be heard now, a sound that had become all too familiar the previous night. Task Force 2-35 was in it again. Dillon hoped their fight didn’t spill over into his own sector, that they could hold for just a little longer. He and his company would have enough problems dealing with the fight in their face without having to worry about additional threats from their flanks.

  The friendly artillery began again. Dillon judged it to be heading north at the bad guys moving into his sector. The task force had priority of indirect fires now, so the COLT teams forward with the scouts must have eyes on the Republican Guard brigade attacking south. The COLTs, formally known as Combat Observation Lasing Teams, were artillery observers stationed far forward of the main combat troops. With the mission to locate and target advancing enemy formations with indirect fires before they entered the main battle area, these great Americans didn’t have overly long life expectancies. Survival depended on stealth and training, with a bit of luck thrown in for good measure.

  Again Dillon heard the whistling of artillery. Oh shit, that’s not going out. . . .

  Jumping back inside the tank, Dillon worked his hatch levers, slamming it shut and locking it down. Looking across the turret, he saw that his loader, PFC Hunter, had already done the same and was now plastering himself against the side of the turret in preparation for what they all knew was going to be a wild ride.

  “Guideons, Steel Six—” The first Iraqi 152mm artillery rounds impacted within one hundred meters of C-66, cutting off Dillon’s words in his throat. The concussion of the high-explosive rounds slammed Dillon backward into the turret wall hard enough to knock the breath out of him.

  The tank shook violently. It sounded as if a crew of street workers with jackhammers had decided to get down to business on C-66. Dug in eight feet beneath the desert floor, thus shielded from the majority of the artillery fires’ effects, the tank nonetheless was rocked repeatedly as volley after volley rolled across the company position.

  Dillon’s thoughts turned to Third Platoon. He’d kept them as far back as possible in preparation for this moment. Unable to dig in, they would be catching hell. He hoped they were missing the brunt of it. Takahashi knew to move forward as soon as the indirect fires lifted. They would need every gun at that point, because the Iraqi main body would be following the artillery barrage as surely as Patton pissed vinegar.

  Dillon flipped his CVC to intercom. “Gunner!” he screamed to be heard over the maelstrom that continued to swirl around their vehicle. No response. Dillon yelled into the helmet’s boom mike again, this time punctuating the call with a swift kick into his gunner’s back.

  Sergeant Bickel, Dillon’s gunner for the past twelve months, turned and favored his tank commander with a look that could kill. Realizing that Dillon was trying to tell him something, Bickel grabbed the sides of his CVC and squeezed the earcups tightly against his skull in an attempt to hear the message.

  “Bick!” Dillon yelled, pointing above the gunner’s head. “Close the doghouse!”

  Sergeant Randy Bickel, the best natural gunner Dillon had ever met, all but slapped himself in the forehead at the blinding flash of the obvious. He reached up and threw a lever, closing the steel door that protected the tank’s optical system. If it sustained enough damage, the crew would be back to engaging tanks in the same manner as the combat crewmen of World War II. No laser range finder, no thermal imaging system, no crosswind sensor, no built-in lead, nothing—just an eight-power auxiliary sight and Kentucky windage. They didn’t have the numbers or the ammunition to win that kind of fight. If their fire control system held up, Dillon knew he and his crew could engage and destroy several enemy vehicles inside of a minute. If it didn’t, their effectiveness would be cut by better than half.

  Dillon threw the CVC switch forward to the radio position.

  “Tiger Six, Steel Six, over.” Dillon waited. There was little doubt that Estes knew of their current situation, but SOP required a report go up.

  Hearing nothing from the task force commander after thirty seconds of waiting, Dillon re-keyed. “Tiger Six, Tiger Six . . . Steel Six, over.”

  After one final try, Dillon called Thad Mason. Nothing. He tried the platoons. Again, nothing. Finally, Dillon faced the fact that they had lost communications. With no contact to his company or his battalion, and their tank continuing to be rocked by indirect fires, Dillon felt as if he and his crew were in some kind of hell on earth. Their universe consisted of constant hammering and the impact of soft human flesh on cold steel as they were bounced around inside.

  After what seemed an eternity, but was actually closer to fifteen minutes, the fires slowed. Finally, they stopped. More accurately, Dillon judged, they shifted south and into the rear areas of 3rd Brigade. Dillon shook his head to clear it. Not his problem. He had enough to keep him occupied.

  He looked to the loader. “Hunter. Get out there and—”

  Seeing that the soldier hadn’t turned, Dillon realized the loader couldn’t hear him. The shelling had temporarily deafened them all. Dillon reached across the turret and grabbed the PFC’s shoulder, pulling him across the turret so that he could speak directly into his ear. “Get out and check the antennas! I think the artillery took them out! Grab the spares from the sponson box and replace them!”

  Hunter’s head nodded once quickly, then he was opening his hatch and hopping out.

  “Crew report!” Dillon yelled over the intercom as loud as he could.

  “Driver’s up . . . and you don’t have to yell, sir. I put in earplugs when the arty started,” came the voice of Specialist Thompson, Dillon’s driver.

  “Roger, any problems that you can tell?” His own hearing just beginning to return to normal, Dillon made a concerted effort to speak in a normal tone of voice.

/>   Dillon felt the tank move forward ever so slightly in their hole, then ease back. “The old girl seems to be functioning normally, and all my indicators are green,” said Thompson.

  “Roger. The loader’s up,” said Dillon. “He’s checking things topside.” Dillon bent down and tapped his gunner on the back.

  Bickel continued flipping switches back and forth, checking status lights. Finally he turned in his seat to face Dillon. “Fire control systems look green. I’m running through a diagnostic test to make sure. I’ll give you a yell in a minute once I’ve confirmed.”

  “Roger,” grunted Dillon as he struggled with his hatch. Unlike the loader’s hatch, with its single latching handle, the tank commander’s hatch was a bitch to open, especially when crouching inside a dim turret. After a few seconds, he swung the hatch up and stood in the cupola.

  Dillon took in the scene around C-66 with fascination. The outside world had taken on an alien perspective. It looked primordial, as it must have eons ago in its infancy. Huge craters, open wounds in the earth’s face, dotted the landscape in their immediate vicinity. The surrounding air was thick with dust from the tons of raw earth that had been thrown upwards. The bloodred rising sun tried to cut through the haze, but it would be a few minutes before the dust settled enough for Dillon to get a clear picture past a couple of hundred meters.

  Not being able to see didn’t affect Dillon’s knowledge of what was coming at him. In his mind the dozens of T-72s and BMPs moving hell bent for leather to hit the American position before they’d fully recovered from the artillery were clear. He knew without a doubt that the attack on their position was imminent.

  Dillon looked toward the back of the tank as Hunter finished tightening down their second antenna. The loader gave him a thumbs-up signal.

  Crossing his fingers, Dillon keyed his CVC. “Any Steel element, Steel Six. Radio check, over.”

  “Steel Six, Steel Seven. Roger. Good to have you back.” The relief at hearing Dillon back on the company net was evident in Rider’s voice.