Tin Soldiers

by Michael Farmer

  The eyes of his men were upon him. He threw his arm up and gestured north. It was time to leave this place. A few ambulances would stay to collect the wounded. If captured, at least they’d receive decent treatment. The Gulf War had taught them that much about the Americans.

  As his track began its turn to the north, Abdulamir heard the incoming artillery. It looked as though the fickle Gods of War were not yet finished with him and his men. . . .

  Dillon watched with a touch of regret as the artillery impacted in the middle of the enemy formation. The Republican Guard commander had struck Dillon as noble, even in the face of catastrophic defeat. After the first volley of 155mm shells impacted, he tried to see if the commander’s vehicle had survived the barrage. He couldn’t tell. Dozens of the Republican Guard vehicles that had survived Cold Steel’s fires were black and burning now, survivors of one fight only to die in another. It was impossible to tell one vehicle from the next.

  The Iraqis had brought fuel and ammunition forward to support their attack. The artillery fires had ignited those, adding their effects to the destruction. Dillon estimated a little over two companies’ worth of vehicles scattered to the north still capable of movement. That would have to change. Slowly he reached for the transmit switch. “Steel Fist, Steel Six. Tell the guns they’re dead on . . . give me a repeat.”

  Dumphy acknowledged the order and started the process of bringing more fire to bear on the decimated Second Brigade of the Tawakalna.

  CHAPTER 10

  Flirting with Disaster

  3rd Brigade, 4th ID TAC, Northern Kuwait

  22 October, 0730 Hours Local

  “What’s the good word, S3?” asked Jones.

  Major Tom Proctor had just gotten off the radio and was annotating the latest information from the task forces onto his map. He looked up at Jones. “Good and bad, sir. The Iron Tigers have for all intents and purposes destroyed the lead enemy brigade in the east, but they lost some combat power . . . four tanks and four Bradleys. We’re still trying to establish where the trailing Iraqi brigade is. Our scouts haven’t made contact with it yet.”

  Jones opened the troop door on the back of the M2 and turned around before stepping out. “I’ve got something on that.”

  He called over the intercom to O’Keefe. “Hey, O’Keefe . . . don’t move this thing. I’m out back.”

  O’Keefe’s voice came back with the tone of a parent reasoning with a child. “Roger, sir, but you should really stay inside the vehicle. Having a smoke isn’t worth the brigade losing you.” Since the death of Kelly, he’d taken his position as Jones’s personal bodyguard very seriously.

  “Damn it, O’Keefe! I’m not having a smoke. I gotta take a leak.”

  “Roger. Let me know when you’re back inside.”

  Jones reached into a pocket for his cigarettes and Zippo. Pulling them free, he looked at Proctor and shrugged.

  “Okay, Tom. I just got off the phone with the Joint Task Force headquarters. They’re working the deep fight. As soon as the trail brigade moved into MLRS rocket range this morning, they hammered it—hard.” Reaching into the back of the Bradley, he pointed to a spot on the map thirty kilometers to the north. “Right here. We got real lucky. A satellite caught them in the open refueling. Best we can tell, they lost a company of tanks and two companies of mechanized infantry, about twenty-five percent of their combat vehicles.”

  Jones looked to Proctor again and smiled. “The good news doesn’t stop there. Fifteen minutes ago, a flight of F-15E Strike Eagles opened up on the lead units of the brigade after it had regrouped. The initial battle damage assessment was a company of tanks destroyed, but you know how that goes. Figure they killed a platoon and slowed ’em up some. They’ve got another flight on station moving in for another strike.”

  Reaching to the map and Task Force 2-77’s position, Jones summarized. “So between the rocketeers and flyboys, the trail brigade is running a little behind schedule—but they’re still coming. Those guys will be pushing hard to exploit the penetration they think is going to be here.”

  Proctor sat a moment in silence, absorbing the information, then looked to Jones. “Okay, that takes care of what’s going on with the Tawakalna, but what about the other two divisions reported moving south from Baghdad?”

  Taking a deep draw on his cigarette, Jones looked to Proctor and shook his head. “I can’t worry about them, Tom. Not yet. The only way we’re going to win this thing is to take them down a piece at a time.”

  The 3rd Brigade had known this was an uphill battle from the start. According to doctrine, they could handle one enemy division when they defended. They knew with their soldiers, equipment, and air support, they could probably do a bit better. But three divisions? That was nine-to-one odds. Rumors of the fresh units from the States cheered the troops, but the fact was that the reinforcements likely wouldn’t be in theater in time to make a difference. It was up to 3rd Brigade.

  Again reaching to the map, Jones pointed to a red box with an oval inside it, two Xs on top. The box was bumped directly against a blue box that represented 3rd Brigade. “We’ve got a Republican Guard armor division in our face now. So far we’ve destroyed sixty to seventy percent of that division. Until the Tawakalna is finished, it receives our undivided attention.”

  He indicated Task Force 2-77’s position in the center. “I feel good here. Scratch one bad-guy brigade. The Two says that a couple of command and control vehicles and about a platoon’s worth of armor is all that made it out of the Iron Tigers’ engagement area. Scouts reported them limping north.” Pointing to 2-35 Armor’s front, he continued. “This is my primary concern. The brigade-minus that is conducting the supporting attack to the west. I haven’t heard jack shit lately on this one.”

  Reaching over with a black marker, Proctor struck a line through the Republican Guard unit facing 2-77 Armor, a casual gesture that meant more than five hundred men would never see their native land again. Extending his arm to the left, Proctor tapped the symbol indicating the enemy brigade attacking in the west. “We’ve shifted all indirect fires to Task Force 2-35 now that the lead echelon of the enemy’s main effort has been destroyed.” Proctor paused and shook his head. “Sir, it doesn’t look good over there. I spoke to the 2-35 commander a few minutes ago. He said, ‘Tell the boss that these bastards of mine have performed magnificently, and are still fighting, though I don’t know how,’ unquote.”

  Proctor held up, unsure of how far he could go with Jones. “Sir, they’re done. We might consider moving some forces from 2-8’s position.”

  Jones remained silent.

  Proctor continued. “I just don’t know how much more Mace can take, sir. They were shelled all night, fought off a battalion attack after that, and are fighting two more battalions now.”

  Jones looked as if a knife were twisting inside of him as he shook his head and replied. “I can’t pull anything from 2-8’s sector, Tom. They’re already short from giving up a team as the brigade reserve. That puts them at seventy-five percent strength. If that northern brigade gets a wild hair and attacks east . . . you get the picture. No, they stay where they are.”

  He pointed at a spot directly behind 2-35 Armor. “Back to the reserve. Tell them to go here. Their mission is to ensure nothing, nothing, gets past them.”

  Jones knew that his S3 meant well. If he survived this war, Proctor would one day understand that commanders didn’t always like the decisions they were forced to make. He could teach men like Proctor how to make those decisions—now if he could only teach them how to sleep peacefully afterward. He hadn’t mastered that one yet himself and never really expected to.

  “Tom, we’ve got to hold out a little longer. I saved some good news. Early indications are—and I stress early—that the other two Republican Guard divisions will be held up for at least forty-eight hours. The CINC threw everything he had at them last night, short of nukes, plus hit the command and control facilities around Baghdad.”

  Pro
ctor brightened for the first time. “You think the Tawakalna commander will keep throwing forces into the fight, knowing that the other two divisions aren’t going to be here to support him? Why not just pull everyone back and wait?”

  Jones smiled and lifted an eyebrow. He crushed the cigarette, which was nothing more than a smoking filter at this point, and threw it outside the track. “There’s the rub. We don’t think the Tawakalna commander knows how bad it is. Between the cruise missile and air strikes hitting their command and control nodes and our intel folks jamming anything remotely resembling a broadcast from the north, we’re betting that the word never reached him. Odds are, without orders to the contrary, he’ll continue his attack as planned.”

  Proctor nodded. Like Jones, he hoped the reports were accurate. They could use a couple of days to lick their wounds.

  The brigade command net flared. “Striker Six, Mace Six, over.” The sounds of close battle, of tank cannon and artillery, could be heard all too clearly in the background of the calling station.

  Jones snatched up the handset. By the sound of the 2-35 Armor commander’s voice, both knew that it wasn’t good news.

  “This is Striker.”

  “Sir, all hell’s breaking loose here. I’m down to a slant of one-zero and four—and those ten tanks and four Bradleys are strung out from hell to high water along my front.” The transmission was interrupted for a moment as metal on metal was heard. Cahill’s tank was taking fire. “The enemy is pushing what looks like three companies through our east side, mainly tanks. I’m moving what I can behind me now to cut them off.” There was a pause from the other station. “Also, I just called for final protective fires now.”

  It was indeed as bad as it sounded. Final protective fires were called only when the enemy was at your throat and your position was in imminent danger of being overrun. It was a sheet of steel rain dropped directly in front of a friendly position by every available tube of artillery, a last-ditch effort to allow the friendly force to move back. The men manning the 155mm howitzers would literally keep shoving rounds and powder bags into their big guns until told to stop firing or their tubes melted, whichever came first.

  “This is Striker Six, roger. The reserve will be closing behind your position anytime now. How close are the Iraqis? Over.”

  As the 2-35 commander keyed his radio, the background fighting sounded as if it were intensifying. “What color turban do you want? I have a good view of about three different styles. Sir, they’re in our face. We’ll try to hold long enough for the reserve—”

  The transmission cut out midsentence.

  “Mace Six, say again. You cut out.”

  Nothing.

  “Mace Six, come in!”

  White noise.

  Jones threw the handset in frustration. “Damn it!” Moving toward the front of the Bradley’s compartment, he patted Proctor on the back. “Get ready, Three. We’re moving.”

  “Roger. I’ll try to get 2-35’s XO on the horn.” He yelled at Jones’s back. “Sir, where are we going?”

  Jones looked over his shoulder as he slid into the turret. “Forward, Tom. Forward.”

  Proctor nodded and went to work on the radios.

  Seeing Colonel Jones entering the turret, O’Keefe ducked from the Bradley commander’s hatch and moved left into the gunner’s hatch. Jones climbed into his position and plugged in his CVC.

  “Where to, sir?”

  Jones pointed to a spot on O’Keefe’s map. O’Keefe marked it and called directions to the driver. The two men stood in silence a few moments, bodies swaying as the large fighting vehicle moved rapidly across the barren desert landscape.

  O’Keefe sensed his commander’s unease. He pulled his boom mike close to his lips to be heard over the wind and engine noise. “How are things going, sir?”

  Jones continued looking forward as he replied, “Could be worse, Sergeant O’Keefe, could be worse. Then again, they could be much better.”

  Anvil Battle Position, Northern Kuwait

  22 October, 0750 Hours

  “Roger, Tiger Three. Tiger Six, out.”

  After signing off with Dave Barnett, Estes made final adjustments to his companies’ statuses and locations in a matrix he maintained on the border of his map. Putting away his marker, he took a few moments to examine his unit’s current situation.

  Team Knight was in the task force’s reserve position three kilometers to the rear. The team was on standby in case combat forces were needed anywhere in the Iron Tiger sector. Knight had completed rearming and refueling after last night’s counter-recon fight. Stuart was trying to give his men some rest for the follow-on fights that were sure to come. Estes shook his head, knowing that only the most exhausted soldiers would be able to sleep right now.

  Steel was in the process of resupplying ammunition. The company wasn’t critically short, but the smart move was to get it on the tanks now while they were in the midst of a lull in the battle. If they waited, a resupply truck could get hit en route, rounds could run short at exactly the wrong time, or a million other problems could arise. The priority for Steel was to get some replacement tanks and crews. They could fight with ten M1A1s, cutting the platoon strengths from four tanks each to three, but Estes knew they’d need the additional firepower soon. Same problem for Team Mech. As for Anvil, Malloy’s company was still intact. The bad news was that the wadi system spilling into their flank from 2-35’s sector was looking more and more ominous.

  It sounded like the better part of an Iraqi battalion had just overrun the eastern portion of Task Force 2-35’s BP. The assumption had to be made that all American forces in that sector were combat ineffective and that the enemy force was continuing to move. But moving where? If they continued south, the brigade reserve would be in place to hammer them. If they slid east . . . again Estes’s eyes looked to the wadi system. Well, no one ever said it was going to be easy.

  As soon as he’d heard Cahill’s report, Estes had called Malloy and instructed him to shift two platoons west to the position currently occupied by only himself and Muddy Waters. Now that they knew nothing large was going to hit Anvil’s front, they could afford it. Dillon could move something left into Anvil’s sector on the off chance that an enemy force attacked that way.

  Where in the hell are those tanks? “Anvil Six, Tiger Six, over.”

  “Anvil Six, over.”

  Well, at least he was monitoring the radio. “Anvil Six, SITREP on the elements moving to my location, over.”

  “This is Anvil Six, uuuhhhh . . . stand by.”

  Estes made a concerted effort to remain calm.

  Dan Malloy got on the company command net again, trying to get the two platoons moving toward Estes. He didn’t need any more trouble with the commander. The problem was, no one seemed to be in a rush to follow his instructions. Before this deployment, when Malloy said “Jump,” he was greeted by a “Roger! How high, sir?” Now . . . well, the only thing that he could think of was that the troops had heard about the previous night’s events. Estes had come up here, undermining his authority, second-guessing his tactical decisions. Somehow, word of that must have gotten out. How else to explain the lack of enthusiasm from his men?

  All things considered, Malloy was fairly pleased with the way things had worked out today. The Iraqis had gone the other way once they’d spotted his company of tanks in their well-prepared positions. He may have been a little off base with his initial tactical assessment, but things were definitely looking up now. If events continued to go well, Estes might even reconsider his rash outburst of last night—and the hasty decision that followed. Malloy smiled to himself. I bet he’ll do just that. With that reassuring thought in mind, Malloy worked even harder to get the two platoons moving.

  “White One, Blue One . . . Anvil Six.”

  “White One, over.”

  “Blue Four, over.”

  Malloy didn’t attempt to hide his irritation. “Blue Four, Anvil Six. I called Blue One . . . I want to
speak to Blue One. Standing by.”

  Blue’s platoon sergeant held back the reply that was on the tip of his tongue. Monitoring the exchange, the platoon leader, who had been working his platoon’s move on their internal frequency, hopped up to the company net.

  “This is Blue One, over.”

  “Blue One, Anvil Six. Have I not made it clear that I want you on the company command net, not one of your assistants? Over.”

  “This is Blue One. I was attempting to . . .” The young lieutenant thought it over. Screw it. There’s nothing I can say that he’ll listen to. “Roger, Anvil Six.”

  “Then make it so in the future, mister. SITREP on your move.”

  “This is Blue One. We need five minutes. The fueler didn’t make it to our position until twenty minutes ago. My last tank has completed fueling and we’re almost ready to move, over.”

  Second Platoon continued with the bad news. “This is White One. We’re waiting for the fueler that’s at Blue’s position. Only one of the fuel trucks showed up. The other broke down en route. Do you want us to wait for it or move now, over.”

  Malloy’s terse reply was cut off as artillery fires began pounding the Anvil position.

  Waters had monitored the exchange. His other radio was set to task force command so that he could maintain communication with his wingman, Estes.

  As the artillery fell to their east, his gunner called over the intercom. “Sir! I’ve got dust to the northeast. It’s coming out of the wadis—vicinity TRP Alpha-Two. Stand by . . . contact, tanks, northeast!”

  Waters dropped into the turret and looked through his sight extension.

  Oh, boy. The unmistakable shape of a large formation of armored vehicles could just be seen emerging from the cloud. “Got it. Let them close to thirty-seven hundred meters before engaging.”