Team Yankee

by Harold Coyle

  Reynolds turned and looked at Bannon. The colonel's face hadn't changed expression. If he were feeling the same things, he wasn't showing it. Reynolds studied Bannon for a moment, sensing the shock and uncertainty that showed on the captain's face. He had seen it before, in Vietnam, so Bannon's reactions didn't surprise him. "Well, Captain, let's see if those buckets of bolts you always brag about are worth the money the government spent on them.

  Get your company in MOPP level II, stand by to occupy your fighting positions, and stay on the net, but don't call me unless you need to. I expect the cavalry will come screaming back through that passage point like a whipped dog. Be ready to cover them and get them out of the way as fast as you can. You got any questions?"

  Bannon took in what the colonel was saying. What was there to question? This was what all the training was about. All their preparations were for this moment. Now all they had to do was put it into action. "No, sir, no questions."

  "Well then, get moving and good hunting." Without waiting for a response, the colonel turned and began to move back to his jeep with a quick, purposeful pace. He did not look back.

  Reynolds was setting the example, and he expected Bannon to follow it.

  As Bannon turned back toward the PC where he had left the platoon leaders, a new series of artillery concentrations began to impact closer to the Team's positions. Additional Soviet artillery units were joining in, hitting the cavalry's rear positions. The latest series impacted just behind the hill on the other side of the valley. "Hell, the colonel could be cool and walk,"

  Bannon thought. "This is my first war and I damn sure don't care about impressing anyone with my calm right now." He broke out into a slow run, weapon, protective mask, and canteen bouncing and banging against his body as he trotted through the trees to the PC.

  As he neared the PC, Bannon could see the platoon leaders, Uleski, and the first sergeant watching the colonel's jeep go tearing down the logging trail, throwing up stones and disappearing in a cloud of dust. They had heard the jets and the artillery. Bannon slowed down to a walk, caught his breath, and moved up to them. All eyes turned to him.

  "All right, this is it. The Russians are laying into the cavalry and when Ivan finishes with them, we're next. I want everyone in MOPP level II. Leave the nets over your tracks but clear them away from the front so that you can move forward into position quickly. First Sergeant, take the PC and fire team from the Mech Platoon that are designated to man the passage point and get down there. Lieutenant U, you'll stay up here with the ITVs and fight them with 2nd Platoon if necessary. I'm going to move my tank down to the right of 3rd Platoon and fight from there. Other than that, we do it the way we trained and planned. Stay off the air unless you have something really critical to report. Anyone have any questions?" He looked into each man's eyes, just as the colonel had done to him. He saw the same dark thoughts he had reflected in their expressions. Only the first sergeant, also a Vietnam vet, wore the stern, no-nonsense look he always did. For a few moments there was silence, broken only by the continuous crash and rumble of the artillery in the distance. "All right, let's move out and make it happen." Without waiting for a response, Bannon turned and began to walk towards his tank. As the colonel had done for him, he was setting the example for his people. He suspected that they would do the same with their tank commanders, and their TCs would, in turn, get their people moving. At least, that's what he hoped would be happening.

  The drumbeat of the impacting Soviet artillery continued, growing louder but less intense.

  The Russian gun crews must have been getting tired of humping rounds by now, and the rate of fire was slowing down. The distant rumble was joined by the noise of Team Yankee coming to life. The PC's driver cranked up its engine, revved it up, and began raising the rear ramp. The crews of the ITVs and of Bannon's tank, 66, also cranked up their engines.

  As he neared his 66 tank, Bannon could see Sgt. Robert Folk, the gunner, in the cupola. Folk had his combat vehicle crewman's helmet, or.CVC, on and was manning the M2 machine gun, ready for action. Bannon tried to yell to him to dismount with the rest of the crew so they could tear down the net. The noise of the engine, the muffling of outside noise through his CVC, and Folk's preoccupation with trying to see what was going on to his front frustrated Bannon's efforts.

  It wasn't until Bannon started climbing up on the front right fender that Folk noticed his commander. "Let's get this net off! You and Kelp get out here and help me with this net.

  We're moving." Without waiting for a response, Bannon dropped down to the ground again and began to pull down the support poles and spreaders that held the net up. Whether Folk heard him or not was unimportant. As soon as he saw his captain tear at the net, Folk took off his CVC, leaned over toward the loader's hatch, and, with his left hand, slapped Kelp, the loader, on top of his CVC. Kelp looked up at Folk who pointed to Bannon, who continued to tear at the net. Getting the message, Kelp also removed his CVC and climbed out to help.

  "Let's get this net down and stowed, just like we do during training. Only let's do it a little faster this time, OK?" Neither man answered. The expression on their faces was the same that had been on the platoon leaders'-stunned disbelief.

  Folk dropped to the ground and circled the tank, pulling up the net's stakes as he went. Kelp started to pull down the supports and spreaders that were on the tank. With the stakes out and the poles down, the hard part began. The net caught on everything, including the crewmen taking it down. Tugging seldom did any good. One had to find what the net was caught on, pull it free, roll it up a little until it caught again, and repeat the process. Trying to hurry only seemed to make it worse. Despite the delays, the crew finally gathered the net up into a pile on the bustle rack and secured it. They hadn't done the neatest job of stowing it, but it was probably one of the fastest.

  Before they climbed in, Bannon told his crew to get their chemical protective suits on. This was MOPP level II. As Folk and Kelp dug their suits out of their duffle bags, Bannon walked forward to the driver's compartment and told Pfc.

  Joseph Ortelli, the driver, to climb out and get his suit on. As Ortelli reached over to kill the engine, Bannon stopped him, not wanting to run the risk of screwing something up. The last thing he needed was a tank that wouldn't restart. It was running, and he didn't want to mess with anything that was working properly.

  As Bannon pulled his chemical suit on, the crew watched him. He took his time to ensure that he didn't fumble and fall. He had always been told that calm, like panic, was contagious.

  Now was a good time to find out. Besides, it had been a long time since they had trained in their chemical protective clothing and he had to figure out where all the snaps and ties went.

  The heavy protective clothing was a necessary evil of modern war. When Bannon was finished, he turned to Folk. "We ready to roll, Sergeant Folk?"

  Folk looked at him for a moment. "Yes, sir. We're ready." Folk's tense expression relaxed slightly.

  "Are all weapons loaded and on safe?" Bannon's second question caused the relaxed look to be replaced by one of embarrassment as both Folk and Kelp stopped pulling at their suits and looked at each other. "I take it that that's a big negative on my last question."

  Sheepishly, Folk replied that it hadn't occurred to him to do so because they were in an assembly area with cavalry still out in front. All the range safety briefings and all the times the men had been harangued about keeping weapons clear and elevated except when on a live fire range were coming home to haunt them. Bannon couldn't blame the men. In their first battle, he could only expect them to do what they were taught in training, no better, no worse.

  Stopping for a moment, Bannon leaned back on the side of the turret and looked at his crew. "Alright, guys, here it is. We're really at war. I don't know what's happening yet, but from the sound of that artillery you can bet the Russians are letting the cavalry have it. The cavalry is out there to buy us some time and let us get our shit together. That'
s what they get paid for. When the Russians finish with the cavalry, we're next. What I want you to do is to calm down and start thinking. Remember what we did in training and do it now.

  Only think! There are a couple of habits we picked up in training that you're going to have to forget about. Do you understand what I'm saying?" With a nod and a glance sideways at each other, they gave their tank and team commander a subdued but nervous, "Yes, sir."

  "Alright, finish getting your suits on. We're going to move over to the right of 3rd Platoon and take up a position there. If nobody has any questions, let's get moving."

  By the time the crew of 66 was finished and mounted, the rest of the crews and tracks in the headquarters position were in their chemical gear and mounted. The first sergeant, now mounted in the headquarters PC with his jeep following, had already pulled out of position and was moving down the logging trail. Bannon noticed that all the tracks were running. Everyone was cranked up and ready to move. As the cavalry's covering force battle would take hours, possibly a day, there was no sense in leaving the tanks running. All that would do was burn diesel, something the M-I was very good at, and create a tremendous thermal signature, another trait of the M-I. The savings in diesel would be worth a small violation of radio listening silence. Besides, it might be good for at least the leadership of the Team to hear their commander issue an order and give some advice. Unless the Soviet radio direction-finding detachments were fast, it would do no harm. Checking first the remote box to ensure that the radio was set on the Team net, Bannon keyed the radio and paused for a moment to let the radio come up to speed. "ALL BRAVO 3 ROMEO ELEMENTS-THIS IS ROMEO 25-IT IS GOING TO BE AWHILE BEFORE THOSE OTHER PEOPLE GET HERE-SHUT DOWN AND SETTLE DOWNCHECK YOUR SYSTEMS AND LOCK AND LOAD ACKNOWLEDGE-OVER."

  The platoons checked in and acknowledged. Uleski, in the 55 tank, simply stood up in its cupola, turned toward the 66 tank and waved, indicating that he understood. The ITVs did not respond but shut down. With nothing more to do there, Bannon turned around in the cupola and faced to the rear.

  Locking the push-to-talk switch on his CVC back so he could talk to the driver on the intercom and hang on with both hands, Bannon began to back the tank onto the logging trail.

  As he leaned over to the right side of the cupola, watching the right rear fender as 66 moved back, Kelp popped out of the loader's hatch and leaned over to the left, watching the left rear fender. Once on the trail, the tank made a pivot turn to the right and started forward toward 3rd Platoon.

  The drive down to 3rd Platoon was a short one, only about 700 meters. But it felt good to be in the tank and moving. Standing in the TC's hatch of a tank, rolling down a road or cross-country, was always an exhilarating experience for Bannon. He never tired of the thrill. Despite all the pain, misery, and headaches tanks could give him, it was fun being a tanker. It is the little joys in life that keep one going, and right now Bannon needed a little joy.

  As they moved along the trail Bannon watched to the left, catching an occasional glimpse of the 3rd Platoon tanks. Their nets were still up but were propped up clear of the exhaust to keep them from melting. When 66 cleared the last of 3rd Platoon's tanks, Bannon ordered Ortelli to turn left into the forest and move down a small trail cut by a combat engineer vehicle that had dug the Team's positions. As they had not planned to fight from here, 66 was taking one of the alternate firing positions from the 33 tank, now to their immediate left at about seventy-five meters. The 33 tank would now have only its primary position to fire from and one alternate firing position to its left. The 66 would not have an alternate. If 66 were detected and fired at while in this position, the best Bannon could do would be to blow smoke grenades, back out of sight, and hope that whoever had shot at them gave up before 66 reoccupied its firing position. Rather than stay back and hide in the forest, Bannon eased the tank into the firing position where he could observe the village, the valley, and the hills across the valley. The walled farm was just off to the right, out of sight in the small valley.

  Satisfied with his position, he ordered Ortelli to shut the engine down and to get out with Kelp to cut some camouflage. Folk came up to the TC's position to man the M2 and monitor the radio while the rest of the crew camouflaged the tank.

  Ortelli took the ax and began to cut some branches as Kelp and Bannon draped the camouflage net over the rear of the turret and back deck. They didn't put up the supports or stake it down; all Bannon wanted to do was to break up some of the tank's outline. Finished with the net, Kelp and Bannon began to place the branches dragged over by Ortelli on the side and front of the tank not covered by the net.

  They were careful to ensure that the gunners' primary sight was not blocked and that the turret could be traversed some without knocking off the camouflage. When they were finished, Bannon stepped back a few meters to view their handiwork. The 66 looked like a tank covered with branches. Someone looking hard would be able to see it, no doubt about that. But, with a little luck and some harassment from the air defense artillery, the Russian pilots would be moving too fast to take a hard look. Satisfied that they had done the best they could, the crew remounted and waited.

  Bannon stood in the turret and watched to the east, taking off his CVC and laying it down on top of the turret. The radio was turned up so he could hear any traffic being passed. He began to listen to the noise of the battle to his front. The massive bombardment continued but had died down some. The noise of the impacting artillery had been joined by new sounds and faint cracks of new high velocity tank cannons firing. The cavalry probably was returning artillery and tank fire. That meant the enemy was out and coming. There was no way to find out what was going on out there. For a moment Bannon was half tempted to switch his auxiliary radio receiver over to the cavalry's frequency. But doing so would have meant leaving either the battalion or the Team net. Were he still up on the headquarter's position, that would not have been a problem because Uleski could have covered the vacated net. Thinking hard, but not coming up with a solution, he resigned himself to the fact that until the battalion started to pass information down, he would be in the dark. He felt it was more important to be near 3rd Platoon in case Garger blew it than to know what was happening.

  Now the waiting began. It wasn't even 0830 yet. The last hour had gone fast but had been emotionally draining. Everything had changed that morning. Wars, once started, take on a life of their own, and what occurs and how they end are seldom controllable by either side.

  World War I, World War II, Korea, and Vietnam all took twists and turns no one foresaw.

  Bannon had no reason to doubt that this one was going to be any different. Those thoughts were disquieting. His mind needed to be diverted to something less ominous and more comprehensible.

  He put on his CVC, muffling most of the noise of the unseen covering force battle. He locked the push-to-talk switch back into the intercom position. "Sergeant Folk, have you run a computer check yet this morning?"

  "No, sir, we haven't."

  "Well, let's make sure we don't get any surprises during the first engagement. I intend to go home a veteran and collect some of those benefits Congress is always after. How about you, Kelp?"

  Kelp stood on the turret floor and looked up out of the loader's hatch at Bannon with a grin.

  "I'm with you. My uncle was in Nam an' he's always tellin' me how rough it was. By the time we get done kickin' ass on Russian tanks, I'll be able to tell 'em what a real war was like."

  Bannon left the CVC keyed to the intercom position so that the rest of the crew could hear their conversation. "Well, if Ortelli can keep this beast running and Sergeant Folk can hit the targets I find him, you and I should do pretty well, Kelp." Both Ortelli and Folk chimed in, vowing that they were going to be the ones waiting for Bannon and Kelp. After a couple more minutes of banter, Bannon judged that they were in a more normal state of mind, and he started them on the crew checklist. He read the list, item by item, and watched as the crewman responsible performed his c
heck. Like an airline crew preparing for flight, the crew of 66 prepared for combat.

  He began to feel more comfortable, and the crew seemed to be less tense. For the first time this morning he felt at ease. It would be possible to relax awhile, both physically and mentally.

  Bannon took his CVC off again. To his front he could see pillars of black smoke rising in the sky, joining together high above the horizon, and drifting away to the east. Burning tanks. A lot of them. No doubt about that. Hundreds of gallons of diesel together with ammunition, rubber, oil, and the "other" burnable material on a tank provides plenty of fuel when a penetrating round finds its mark.

  The noise of the battle was more varied now. The initial massive bombardment was replaced by irregular spasms of artillery fire. The artillery batteries shifted their fires to hit targets of opportunity as they presented themselves. Irregular cracks, booms, and thuds were joined by a rapid chain of booms as an artillery unit fired all its guns simultaneously. He began to wonder how long the cavalry could maintain the tempo of the battle they were involved in.

  Modern war consumes ammunition, material, and, worst of all, men at a frightening rate.

  Rapid-fire tank cannon coupled with a computerized fire control and laser range finders were capable of firing up to eight aimed rounds per minute at tank-sized targets at ranges in excess of 2000 meters. Guided munitions, fired from ground launchers or helicopters, had a better than ninety percent probability of hitting a target at 4000 meters. Soviet multiple rocket launchers could fire hundreds of rockets in a single volley and destroy everything within a one-by-one kilometer grid. Chemical agents produced by the Soviets were capable of penetrating exposed skin and attacking the body's nervous system, crippling the victim in seconds and killing him in minutes. All the implements of war had become more capable, more deadly. All were designed to rip, crush, cripple, dismember, incapacitate, and kill men faster and more efficiently. In all the armies arrayed across the continent, the only thing that technology had not improved was the ability of the human body to absorb punishment.