On Israeli bases, on the other hand, Harry fits right in—particularly if he wears Israeli fatigues with “foreign observer” on them and officers’ epaulettes with a captain’s rank—as he has permission to do. A lot of the Israelis have beards and I even saw a couple of guys with ponytails.
At least I think it says ’foreign observer.’ That’s what Oren told me.
******
Harry and I were carried aboard the plane wearing hospital gowns and lifted into a couple of the built-in stretcher racks that line the walls. According to the dragon lady major we’re on a Medevac flight from Tel Aviv to Ramstein Air Force base in an air force C-9 Nightingale. It’s a real hospital plane and even has a special fold down table and floodlights for use as an emergency operating theatre. All the rest of the plane’s casualty racks are filled with more than fifty seriously wounded Israelis.
Every one of the men being evacuated is in a stretcher rack including me and Harry. On board with us are a half dozen or so white haired Israeli medical corpsmen, all volunteers someone has decided are too old and creaky for active duty in the field, and a couple of Israeli translators. Also on board are an American surgeon and a bunch of American nurses and corpsmen. It’s a full flight and the plane, like all the others coming in from Ramstein, will immediately turn around and come back with another crew for another load of Israeli wounded.
******
Our flight took a little over four hours with the medics constantly bustling up and down the aisle checking monitors and administering drips and meds. Right after we took off a craggy faced little American colonel with an incredibly foul mouth stopped to visit with us. He had a combat medic’s badge on his fatigues showing multiple awards.
“Hey, how you boys doing?” he says as he held out his hand. Name’s Dombrowski. Joe Dombrowski. My friends call me Big Joe and any friend of Guns is a friend of mine. He told me to make sure you get treated right and no one fucks with you. You need anything?”
“Yeah? Thanks colonel, actually I do. I need a seat and a pillow. Lying face down on this goddamn stretcher ain’t cutting it. Besides, I need to get up and take a piss. And who’s Guns?”
“Who’s Guns? Shit man, that’s Chris Roberts, fer Chrissake. General Roberts to you assholes, Guns to me. You fuckers are working for him. Jesus Christ. You mean you two guys are working for Guns and never heard how he got his nickname?”
Big Joe helped Dick get to the latrine and got me a pillow so I can sit on the edge of my bunk if I get the urge. And then he told us all about the boss and how he’d come to know him.
Dick and I just laid there and listened and periodically said intelligent officer stuff like “No shit?” and “Whoa."
****** Sergeant Dov Lindausky
We are moving north across the desert deeper and deeper into Jordan with Benny in his usual CO’s position in the center front of our company’s twenty-two tanks and four APCs. I’m Benny’s designated “wingman” for the left side of his tank. That’s why my tank is next to his in the center of our company’s two kilometers wide skirmish line of tanks and APCs.
A “wingman” in our brigade means the tank or APC responsible for keeping another tank from being surprised by a missile equipped enemy infantryman on its left side and rear. It’s a concept we developed from the air force where having a “wingman” is quite conventional and works really well in combat.
Usually each tank in an armored battalion like ours has an APC as a wingman because the APCs have more machine gunners and are more likely to see infantry threats because they have better visibility. The APC and tank fight and maneuver as a team. We’re an exception, a two tank team, because our entire battalion, and each of its companies, is seriously “tank heavy” with many more tanks than APCs.
What this really means, of course, is when Benny’s personal tank is advancing or maneuvering it gets a little less protection against infantry armed with anti-tank missiles than the tanks that have APCs as their wingmen and thus more eyes watching out for threats. The tank to my left, for example, has its own “wingman,” an APC to its left rear commanded by an old orthodox guy from Jerusalem named Shenav who brags all the time about his son who got promoted to colonel last year.
My crew and I like the arrangement—Shenav knows what’s what on our left and having someone as competent as Benny protecting our right is better than having an APC over there that is some other tank’s wingman.
There is no way to hide the fact we are on the move. Huge clouds of dust and smoke are billowing up from behind our treads. Behind us, eight or nine hundred meters back, I can see the tanks and APCs of our Delta Company sending up their own long line of billowing dust and smoke. Further behind Delta in the distance are the dust lines of Ezra and Charlie. Altogether in our four companies we are eighty-seven tanks and thirty-six APCs.
And right behind Charlie Company is our little headquarters company, Alpha, with its two mobile SAM vehicles, the battalion aid station APC, two air and artillery control APCs, and a couple of field supply APCs each carrying additional 105mm rounds and five hundred gallon tanks of water and emergency fuel. There is also a headquarters platoon with the two personal tanks and two APC wingmen of our battalion commander and his executive officer, and a recon platoon equipped with four of the rebuilt Bradley fighting vehicles we got a couple of months ago.
Each of our battalion’s companies, except for ours because we are in the front, is staying back in an effort to avoid the heavy dust thrown up by the companies moving ahead of it. Dust is an enemy because it screws up our equipment despite all our filters and constant maintenance; it doesn’t mess up our fighting ability because our infrared driving and targeting gear for night operations lets us see right through it.
Shaul, the only member of our crew who is in the regular army and not a reservist, is our tank’s full time mechanic and absolutely hates dust because it screws up the equipment. He is our tank’s “owner” as well as its driver – when we’re not around he spends his time keeping our tank fully maintained and ready to go into combat at a moment’s notice. It’s his name painted on our tank, not mine. I’m just the tank commander; Reuven is the loader and Issak is the gunner.
We were just flowing past both sides of a little Jordanian village with about ten mud and stone houses when, all of a sudden, my earphones and those of everyone else in the battalion crackled with a message from the commander of the recon platoon moving about five or six kilometers ahead of us.
“Three of Three Alpha Eyes One to Three of Three One. Attention. Alpha Eyes One confirms Scout helicopter report of a large enemy armored force coming south on the main road; estimate brigade strength or larger. Enemy force is southbound on the north-south road located about four klicks to your right. Estimate your contact sixty to ninety minutes. Suggest immediately adopt Tactic Twelve Right and Cover. Suggest stop moving as soon as possible so dust dissipates. Over.”
Oh shit. I knew it was too good to last.
That was a message from Yosef, the recon platoon leader, to Sami. We all heard it and every one of us knows exactly what it means. Almost instantly Sami, the battalion commander who’s traveling with his personal wingman in the battalion commander’s traditional position in the headquarters platoon on my company’s right flank, gave an order. He gave it quickly because he, along with me and everyone else, had been constantly scanning one of the new global positioning electronic maps we were issued last year. It shows the terrain around us and the position of each of our battalion vehicles on it. For the past three weeks we’ve been practicing using the electronic maps in conjunction with our on-board GPS systems.
“Number Three Battalion. Three one. Execute Twelve Right on Three One with Best Medium Spread. Form on Bravo Company halt. Cover when reach positions. Ladders authorized for company commanders only. Bravo position sets range. Load for armor. Fire on my command only. I repeat, fire on my command only.” He immediately repeated his order two more times.
Sami has ordered one of t
he maneuvers we practice constantly. He has ordered our Bravo Company skirmish line of tanks and APCs to wheel to the right using his tank as the axis and then continue moving forward line abreast on his tank until he orders us to stop. The tanks and APCs of the companies coming up behind us will execute a similar move and form up on our right in the best positions their commanders can find. When we get to our positions we’re to cover ourselves with our camouflage nets. While we’re doing that Benny and the other three company commanders are going to climb their tank-mounted pole ladders to observe the potential battleground and tell the rest of us what they see. From the text and radio messages coming in it appears the rest of the battalions will also spread out along the road to the south of us.
Man, this little village is really going to get dusted when we go past. We’ll never hear the end of it if someone runs into one of the houses and there are people in it.
If Sami’s plan works, the one suggested by the recon platoon lieutenant, the entire Third Battalion will be under camouflage nets and strung out in a ten kilometer long line overlooking the road on which the enemy armor is traveling. It’s a race against time.
****** Major Dick Evans
Our hospital plane obviously received a priority “straight in” clearance to land from the Rhine-Main tower. I could tell because we didn’t bank or turn at all before the wheels came down and we landed with a short tire screech and commenced high speed taxiing.
The rear ramp door started coming down as soon as we stopped taxiing and a bunch of American military personnel began pouring in. I could see Big Joe standing at the ramp pointing and giving loud and profane orders as the medics and orderlies rushed into the plane. The most seriously wounded Israelis are going first, and rightly so. It means we’re gonna be last and, to Harry’s chagrin and profane complaints because he wants to walk off, we’re going to be carried off just as we were carried on.
“Cool it Harry, goddamn it. It’s their procedure and they’re sure as hell not going to change it for you. So shut the fuck up.”
Shit, my ribs are hurt again. I don’t even want to try to walk off and I don’t want any more pain pills if I can avoid them. The ones the Israelis gave me got me so groggy and sloppy that I peed a little on my hospital gown when Big Joe helped me get up so I could stumble my way to the latrine instead of pissing in that goddamn little tin thing they wanted me to use.
“I know goddamn it. But I shouldn’t even be here. Shit, I’m not really wounded and you know it. I should of asked Roberts to let me stay in Israel…. You know what? If they give us a convalescent leave I’m going to try to hitch a ride back to check up on our apartments and see how Si and Solly are doing. You want to come with me?” Okay. Now I get it.
“Bullshit, Harry. You want to go to Jerusalem and have Deb tickle your tummy again.”
Hmm, that’s not altogether a bad idea. I wonder how soon I can get out of here to wherever Joanie is these days?
Harry looked at me sort of funny – and then he nodded and we fist-bumped and roared with laughter as Big Joe brought a bunch of serious looking teenagers in air force fatigues down the aisle to carry us out. The kids were looking at us as if we’d lost our minds; Joe was smiling.
****** Sergeant Dov Lindausky
I can finally see the outline of Islamic vehicles in the distance. They’re headed this way and aren’t throwing up dust so they must still be sticking to the road. That’s what Sami reported on the battalion net about ten minutes ago. Their arrival is not a surprise. I knew they were close even before I saw them because a few minutes ago I’d seen Benny and Sami hurry down their pole ladders and lower them.
“It looks good, guys,” Sami said on the battalion net. “They’re on the road and the sun will be in their eyes. Don’t forget we’re going to let their advance elements go by untouched. No one is to fire until I give the signal. Repeat. No one is to fire until I give the word.” I wonder what nationality they are. Probably Syrians.
“Yosef, lower your ladder, dammit.”
“Sorry Sami. The damn handle is stuck. I’m working on it.”
A few seconds later I could clearly see the first part of a long line of approaching vehicles coming down the road. They were led by an old French-made AMX-13 light tank. They’ve obviously got their recon unit up front even though there isn’t much of a gap between it and the main column.
It’s an Iranian, by God. I recognize the flag.
Almost instantly Sami came on and confirmed it. “Attention Three of Three. They are Iranians. A shit-pot full of them. Everyone hold fire until I give the word. Firing Tactic is Seven Wide Spread Maximum; break at Ezra Company. Repeat Firing Tactic is Seven Wide Spread Maximum; break at Ezra Company. Hold fire until I give the word. And nobody moves—not one inch.”
It’s movement that attracts the eye as every soldier knows; just the wave of a tank commander’s hand or someone moving his turret or bobbing his head is all it takes to fuck up an ambush and get yourself and your tank killed.
We’re on the far left of the battalion line and closest to the enemy. Our 105mm cannon is loaded with an armor piercing round and already aimed up the road almost as far as possible. So is, I am sure, everyone else’s. Sami’s order means my tank’s assigned sector for targets will be among the most distant armor in range on the far left. Only the handful of Bravo Company tanks to my left will take targets further on up the road.
Tactic Seven with a wide spread is one of our basic war-fighting tactics. It means that everyone in the battalion with armor killing capacity takes a specific pre-assigned sector of the enemy line in front of us such that the killing capacity of the battalion as a whole is fanned out across the widest front to cover maximum number of potential targets. Each of us will shoot our primary target and then immediately re-aim to take out the target next to it on the right and then the next and then the next. That will continue until we run out of targets or ammunition or are ordered to move. Or get hit and knocked out.
All we can do now is hope that the Iranians don’t spot us and keep moving along the road deeper and deeper into our kill zone. Once they fill it and Sami gives the word we’ll rapidly target every enemy tank or APC on almost ten kilometers of road; and, hopefully, we’ll get what the Americans who used to be at the armor training center called a ’clean sweep.’ Or did they call it a pot shot? I don’t remember.
Chapter Twenty-one
I stood absolutely still in my turret and watched in fascination as the pair of old French-made AMX-13 light tanks at the head of the Iranian armor column passed right in front of me at about eleven hundred meters and proceeded on down the road towards Israel. Immediately behind them came medium and heavy tanks, hundreds of them. They were clanking along bumper to bumper without an APC in sight, just periodic flatbed trucks carrying infantry with handheld SAMs in case of an air attack. The Iranian tanks were a hodge-podge including some Russian T-80s and a number of ancient American-made M-47s and British Chieftains that were probably left over from the end of the Shah’s reign many years back. It’s a wonder they even run.
My God, that’s at least an entire division’s worth of tanks. I can’t believe they haven’t seen us. And where the hell are their APCs and our air force?
Finally. Yes, there they finally are. Now I can see some APCs coming in the distance. It won’t be long now before the last of their tanks are in our kill zone.
Okay. I think I’ve got it. The Iranians must be running their tanks single file on the road to reduce their maintenance requirements and leave room for the others to get around if one stalls—and they’ve put their tanks up front in the expectation that sooner or later they’d run into our armor because they think we’re as road bound as they are. Or maybe they sent a recon unit or another column down the road before we got here and think the road is clear. Nothing else makes any sense.
“Wait for it. Nobody moves. Wait for my command.” That’s what Sami has been saying constantly for at least ten minutes.
Suddenly Sami’s voice changed. “Three of Three standby …. Pick your targets …. Standby … Pick your targets” … Fire! Fire!”
Then time seemed to be standing still as Reuven and Issak loaded and fired as fast as they could and our tank bucked back and shuddered with each shot. The noise was deafening and it seems to go on for ages. All I could do was stand in the turret bracing myself with my binoculars to my eyes listening to Issak and Reuven chant “Target … Up … Firing!” over and over again.
Issak and Reuven don’t need me to help select their initial targets; I’m looking for the “lucky” enemy tanks in our zone, the ones that got missed in the initial firing.
******
Less than five minutes later and the scene is absolutely unbelievable and horrific—hundreds of burning and disabled Iranian tanks and armored personnel carriers line the road in each direction for as far as the eye can see. Most of them are along the road although a few made it off the road on the side away from us in a futile effort to escape before they were hit. As you might imagine, because there is no wind the road is still almost totally obscured in a cloud of heavy black smoke both from the burning armor and the smoke grenades some of the Iranian tanks had time to pop before we killed them.
Sami obviously made a smart decision. He kept our assault helicopters and the air force from attacking the Iranians until the end of the bumper to bumper column of Iranian armor filled our kill zone. Waiting so long allowed as many as a hundred Iranian tanks to safely pass through our kill zone before he finally gave the order to open fire. But they sure as hell aren’t going to survive for long. I and everyone else on the battalion net could hear Sami call our air in on them as soon as we opened fire and began destroying the main part of the column.
Some of the Iranian tanks popped smoke and tried to fight back and some tried to get off the road and escape into the distant desert. But the smoke they popped didn’t do them any good because our night sights could see right through it. Most of them were hit and killed before they could find a target for their guns. As far as I can tell, not a single Iranian tank in our kill zone got away safely, at least not any I can see through the black cloud of oily smoke covering the road.
Israel's Next War Page 20