Tin Soldiers

by Michael Farmer

  “Wilco.”

  Not having sufficient combat power to achieve mass on the approaching formation, Waters wanted to slow them down and start them thinking about their own mortality and personal relationships with Allah. His gunner was good. With go-to-war ammunition, manufactured to much higher specifications than the rounds they trained with on the gunnery ranges, they could start dealing some destruction well outside of three thousand meters. It might buy them a little time.

  “Tiger Six, Anvil Five.”

  Staff Sergeant Ike McCloud, Estes’s gunner, had just picked up the approaching formation and notified his boss.

  “I’ve got them, Anvil Five. I’ve passed the contact higher. The task force now has priority of indirect fires. We’re working on getting some artillery . . . break . . . Anvil Six, Tiger Six.” Estes’s patience with Malloy was gone. “Anvil Six, Tiger Six. Get those platoons over here. Now!”

  No response.

  Malloy ignored his commander’s voice. His tank shook with the nearby impact of another in a series of artillery rounds. This wasn’t how it was supposed tobe. . . .

  He called over his company command frequency. “All Anvil elements, remain in place! Monitor your original sector. Acknowledge!”

  Each of the platoons, unable to monitor the events transpiring on the task force command net, in turn acknowledged receipt of the message.

  Something inside Dan Malloy, something that had been a little twisted his entire life, which had bent significantly during the past twenty-four hours, finally snapped. Another shell impacted two hundred meters away. Malloy secured his hatch and sat down in the tank commander’s seat, closing his eyes and squeezing them shut as tightly as he could. Crossing his arms over his chest, Malloy hugged himself and rocked back and forth. Just make it go away, just make it go away, just make it go—

  “Anvil Six, Anvil Five, over!”

  Inside the turret of A-66, Malloy shook his head in denial. No. If he didn’t listen, it wouldn’t be real.

  “Sir,” called Malloy’s gunner, “the XO is calling you. Sir? Are you all right?”

  The urgency in Waters’s voice could not be missed. “Captain Malloy! Captain Malloy! Answer the radio, sir!”

  Something in Waters’s tone finally reached Malloy, touched the last vestiges of what had once made Dan Malloy want to be a leader of men. “An . . . Anvil Six, over,” he replied in a shaky voice.

  “Anvil Six, Anvil Five. I’ve got twenty-plus tanks and BMPs closing on our position. We need those platoons! You’ve got to move them now, sir!”

  In the darkness of the turret, Malloy shook his head wildly, cold sweat flying from his face. “Negative, negative. You’re looking at 2-35’s sector! We’re under attack. I need them here. Can’t . . . can’t send them.”

  Waters calmed himself. Something was seriously wrong with Malloy, but he didn’t have time to psychoanalyze the man. “Sir, you’re not under attack. The enemy is currently to my northwest. They’re about to attack our flank. You’ve got nothing in front of you.”

  No response.

  Shit, thought Waters. Why did I ever decide to become an officer? “Sir, the artillery hitting your position is an attempt to keep you from reinforcing this flank. The enemy is trying to isolate us. . . . you’ve got to move those platoons, sir—now!”

  A few moments later, Waters got his final message from his commander. “Negative. Steel Five . . . Muddy . . . you guys will be okay. I just can’t risk this command by sending them to you. Out.”

  Waters sat back, incredulous. The tank reverberated as his gunner fired at the approaching formation. Next to them, HQ-66 fired their opening salvo. How did it ever get this screwed up? wondered Waters.

  Hopping up to task force command, Waters called in the situation to Estes.

  Rob Estes couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He’d royally fucked up last night leaving Malloy in command. He shook his head. No need beating himself to death now. It was pointless.

  Standing in his turret, binos to his face, Estes watched the artillery falling behind the attacking Republican Guard forces. “Stand by, Anvil Five . . . Lightning, this is Tiger Six. Drop one thousand and fire for effect.”

  The artillery would force the attackers to button up, making it more difficult for them to maintain command and control as drivers swerved around impact areas and the crews lost sight of one another in the dust and confusion. Further, the fires would degrade their communications systems as it shredded antennas off of some of the vehicles. They might even get lucky and take out a vehicle or two. What the indirect fires weren’t going to do was stop the armored formation bearing down on them.

  To the north, Estes saw a puff of smoke as an Iraqi BMP fired a wire-guided antitank missile in their direction. “Driver, back up! Back . . . back . . . stop! Gunner, fire and adjust!”

  Mentally reviewing everything that was going on in his sector, Estes made his decision. He couldn’t fight the task force, his tank, and Anvil. “Anvil Five, Tiger Six. You’re now in command of your company. You know what to do.”

  It took a moment for the message to sink in. “This is Anvil Five . . . roger.”

  Looking north again to the location of the BMP, Estes saw several more had joined it—they were forming a firing line. Estes quickly saw their strategy. Use artillery to separate him and Waters from outside support. Continue the attack with the tanks to keep them occupied. Put BMPs outside of their M1A1s’ main gun range and then take him and Waters out with the BMPs’ AT-5 missiles. With a range of four thousand meters, the AT-5 missile gunners could sit back and pick them off. Fuck that. He wasn’t going to make it easy for the bastards.

  Estes called his Mortar Platoon. The unit’s six 120mm tubes could fire high explosive rounds in ranges exceeding seven thousand meters—and they could do it fast. “Thunder, Thunder, Tiger Six. Fire mission follows. Ten PCs in the open, grid . . .”

  Waters took a deep breath. How would the men of Anvil respond to his message? It went against everything they inherently believed in and fought for . . . against the fiber of what made America’s military the envy of the world. Loyalty. Professionalism. Ethics. He knew he had no choice. Muddy bent his head as if in prayer. With great deliberateness, he began the transmission that would change Anvil Company forever. There would be no turning back after this.

  “Guideons, Guideons, Anvil Five. Per Tiger Six’s order, I am taking command of this company. Blue, move now to—”

  A voice screamed over the radio. The message had restored a spark to Malloy. “Waters, what is this? I’ll court-martial you! This is my command! We’re moving back to . . . to consolidate. Our position here is untenable. You will stay off of my net and report to me when we’re complete with our withdrawal! Do you read me, over!?”

  Waters ignored Malloy. “Blue . . . move now. Acknowledge, over.”

  Blue One inwardly struggled as he listened to the exchange between his immediate superiors. A smart kid, he was only two months out of the Armor Officer Basic Course at Fort Knox—but this scenario wasn’t one of the classroom “What would you do, Lieutenant” exercises taught in the schoolhouse. The company commander’s word was supposed to be like the word of God. Then again, Lieutenant Waters was the epitome of what he’d been led to believe an officer should be. What finally made the decision for the young platoon leader was his gut. Something was going on with Captain Malloy. Something . . . just wasn’t right.

  “This is Blue One. We’re moving, time now.”

  “Blue One, Anvil Six. You aren’t moving anywhere or it’s your ass, mister!” Malloy interjected.

  Waters hung his head in dejection. What the hell else was he supposed to do?

  As if in answer to his question, a voice called over the radio. “Anvil Five, Anvil Six-Golf.”

  What the hell? Malloy’s gunner?

  “Anvil Five, over.”

  “This is Anvil Six-Golf. We monitored Tiger Six’s transmission and confirm that you have the ball. We’re prepared t
o follow your lead, over.”

  A million questions jumped into Waters’s mind. No time. “Roger, Anvil Six-Golf. Blue, move now.”

  The response was immediate. “Blue One, moving.”

  “White, forget the fuel. Move to an attack by fire position to the right of Blue, oriented northwest. Acknowledge.”

  “White One, wilco.”

  Waters knew his company was going to be stretched thin on the right side. Switching to task force command, he called Dillon. “Steel Six, Anvil Five, over.”

  “Steel Six.”

  “This is Anvil Five. I’m repositioning my eastern two platoons to the far west side of our company position. . . . Can you cover our right flank? Over.”

  “This is Steel Six. Roger, we’ve got you covered. . . . Good luck, Anvil Six.”

  It took Waters a moment to realize Dillon had addressed him as a company commander. “Roger, thanks. Out.”

  In the turret of A-66, the situation had calmed. The gunner faced his former commander, the Beretta 9mm pistol in his hand pointed directly at Malloy’s chest. “Now, sir, what I want you to do is hand your weapon to the loader. There’s no need for things to get any uglier. I don’t think any of us wants to see lead flying around inside of this turret. If need be, we’ll tie you up and put you on the back of the tank in the bustle rack.”

  Another artillery round impacted near the tank, shaking the crew. Every man clearly heard the razor-sharp shrapnel from the 152mm high-explosive shell pinging against the steel exterior.

  The gunner looked at Malloy seriously. “I don’t think you’d like it out there, sir.”

  3rd Brigade, 4th ID TAC, South of Anvil Battle Position

  22 October, 0810 Hours Local

  The Bradley screamed across the desert floor in the direction of the approaching dust clouds. O’Keefe was irate and pointing into the turret. “Sir, get down! Inside the crew compartment! Now!”

  Jones ignored his gunner as he tried to make out details to the north. It was just too far. Another couple of minutes. Movement to his right caught Jones’s attention. Armored vehicles, moving at high speed.

  The turret of the M2 suddenly spun towards the approaching force. Staff Sergeant O’Keefe had dropped inside and was scanning the fast-closing formation.

  “Sir, we might have a situation.”

  Jones reached a hand down to his commander’s override handle and returned their gun’s orientation to the north. “No worries, Sergeant O’Keefe. That’s the brigade reserve. They’re moving up to backstop.”

  Sheepishly, O’Keefe again stood in the turret next to Jones. “You might tell me these things in the future, sir. I’m a little young to be dropping dead of a heart attack.”

  Jones nodded and continued staring north, trying through sheer force of will to penetrate the cloud of dust and smoke in the distance. Hang on, men. Hang on.

  Anvil Battle Position, Northern Kuwait

  22 October, 0812 Hours Local

  Hearing yet another main gun detonation to his left, Waters waited to make his call. Looking that way, he saw HQ-66 disappear momentarily in a cloud of smoke and dust. Following the glowing trail of the tank’s sabot, he saw a T-72 explode as Estes’s gunner found his mark. For the moment, their only concern was the Iraqi tanks. The Mortar Platoon had destroyed two BMPs with their earlier fire mission and forced the remainder of the long-range missile shooters to displace.

  “Tiger Six, Anvil Six, over.”

  “Tiger Six, over.”

  “Tiger Six, Anvil Six. The reinforcing tanks are en route. Estimated time of arrival is one zero minutes, over.”

  Ten minutes. Waters knew that wasn’t what Estes had wanted to hear. Jesus, the bastards were within twenty-five hundred meters now—nearly two companies of T-72s, with more behind them.

  As he listened to the Estes’s voice, it was clear he didn’t think the two reinforcing platoons would make it in time to do much good. “Roger . . . break . . . Knight Six, Tiger Six.”

  “Knight Six, over,” came the immediate reply. Stuart had been glued to the radio. Despite his team’s fatigue, he’d gotten them to REDCON-1 status—engines started and weapons prepped—as soon as he heard the first report of contact to the northwest. He’d just been waiting for the call to move.

  “Knight, move to attack by fire position Lima Two. Be prepared to engage and destroy two companies of tanks with reinforcing mech infantry . . . acknowledge, over.”

  Stuart quickly scanned his graphics. Looking at the symbols overlaid on the map, he found Lima Two. A sinking feeling hit his stomach. Lima Two was four kilometers behind Estes’s position. From there his team could keep the attacking Iraqis from penetrating farther . . . but he could do nothing to help Estes and Waters.

  “Tiger Six, Knight Six. Request to shift Lima Two north, over.”

  Estes could hear the pleading note in the request. Stuart wanted to move up and save his commander’s bacon. Estes couldn’t allow that, as tempting as it was at the moment. By the time Knight arrived, his team would be caught in the open by the approaching Republican Guard forces. No, he’d put them where they could do some good.

  “Negative, Knight Six. Occupy Lima Two. Orient north by northwest. Acknowledge.”

  “But . . .”

  “Mike! Acknowledge, damn it!”

  The voice answering Estes’s call had lost all vitality.

  “Knight Six . . . wilco.”

  Estes’s tone softened. “Thanks, Mike. Now move out.”

  The artillery fires had slowed their attackers, but now the Iraqis had gotten beneath them. The FSO was trying hard to adjust them back on—but with little luck. Hitting a moving formation with howitzers was damned difficult.

  Estes and Waters had taken out six T-72s between them. Their M1A1s had proven better than the T-72s at long range, but now the Iraqis had closed within their tanks’ effective range. It was turning into a knife fight. Shoot. Move. Shoot.

  Sparks flew from the front of Waters’s tank. Without being told, the driver slammed the transmission into reverse to get out of whatever enemy sight they currently occupied.

  “Crew report!”

  The driver grunted from the front compartment. “Driver up. Moving left behind that clump of rocks!”

  “Loader up, sabot loaded!”

  “Gunner up . . . sabot indexed! I think I see him, sir! Lasing . . . I have a good range. . . .”

  As Waters began to issue the command to fire, he and the gunner saw something approaching the enemy tank as if in slow motion. It appeared to be headed over the top of the T-72, but a last-minute adjustment dropped the projectile into the side of the Iraqi tank’s turret. The vehicle shuddered once as a warhead drove deep inside the vehicle and blew it sky-high.

  The gunner’s voice came back confused. “Sir . . . I think a TOW missile just took out that tank. We don’t have any mech infantry up here, do we? What’s going on?”

  Looking behind them, Waters saw a lone Bradley. He was happy to have any support at all, but had hoped to see a cluster of combat vehicles in the Bradley’s wake. Nothing followed.

  “It looks like the cavalry’s arrived—sort of,” said Waters.

  “Target! Good shooting, O’Keefe,” Jones yelled to his gunner. They’d been at their TOW’s maximum effective range—maybe a little outside it. “Fire and adjust.”

  “Roger.”

  Jones could barely hear his gunner. O’Keefe’s voice was calm and quiet, difficult to make out over the noise of their fighting vehicle. Since they’d pulled within range of the Iraqis, the young NCO had been in another world. He was detached . . . mechanical.

  Jones had seen enough combat in his time to recognize the symptoms. War affected different men in different ways. Some went to pieces. Most were scared shitless, but fought despite the fact. A few—a rare few—were in their natural element. They were like a major-league pitcher in the middle of a no-hitter: nothing distracted them. Pure focus. O’Keefe was in the zone.

  As t
he driver moved to a position off the flank of Estes’s tank, Jones felt as if the air had been sucked from around him. The thundering roar of a tank main gun followed in the sabot round’s wake. Jones reached to the top of his CVC, expecting to feel a crease in the kevlar shell.

  Directly in front of them, a T-72 had managed to close within fifteen hundred meters undetected. This is it, thought Jones. Their only onboard weapon that could kill the tank was a TOW missile. Unfortunately, they’d had to lower the hammerhead in order to move. By the time they stopped and elevated the launcher again, the tank crew could pump more than one round into them—one tank round would be more than enough against their Bradley. Their vehicle’s 25mm chain gun could be fired quickly, but it wasn’t designed to penetrate heavy armor. Their time was up. The colonel patted his pockets. Where the hell did I put my smokes? he thought.

  O’Keefe opened with the Bradley’s cannon, startling Jones and causing him to drop the pack of cigarettes he’d just located. A steady stream of depleted uranium 25mm rounds hammered at the turret ring of the enemy tank. No effect, other than a lot of sparks. Well, at least they’d given the bastard something to think about, maybe made him stain his shorts. Jones saw the T-72 make its final lay on their Bradley as if in slow motion.

  The tank suddenly belched flames. O’Keefe continued pouring rounds into the enemy vehicle until it lurched to a stop. A hatch flew open on top of the tank. A shaking hand reached up, then dropped back inside as the tank’s onboard ammunition blew in a fireball that reached two hundred meters into the desert sky.

  Jones looked at his gunner. Sensing his commander’s stare, O’Keefe looked at him and shrugged. “Twenty-five millimeter depleted uranium. Good stuff.”

  Jones could only nod in reply.

  In the back of the command Bradley, Tom Proctor stared helplessly at the operations map. Even if the brigade reserve was called forward, they wouldn’t make it in time to prevent a penetration from occurring here.