Sword Point

by Harold Coyle

  Instead of a sledgehammer hitting the Soviets in the flank, the two attacking teams collided with the enemy one or two vehicles at a time.

  The only thing that prevented complete disaster for the armored battalion was the fact that the Soviets were equally confused and muddled due to the firing into their flank from Team Bravo, obstacles that had not been cleared, scatter able mine fields that had been laid down by artillery, and their own artillery- and vehicle-generated smoke.

  For the next twenty minutes a series of small battles erupted between vehicles lost on the valley floor of the eastern part of the W. The clusters of tanks and Bradleys rolled on toward Team Delta's position, cutting across the path of the Soviet vehicles attempting to move south. Most engagements were therefore flanking shots. In this kind of fight, tanks had the upper hand. Their main gun could defeat anyone and everyone they ran into. Their armor could defeat at least some of the weapons being used. Whenever a Bradley bumped into a T-80 and saw it first, the Bradley commander would fire his smoke grenades and back off into the nearest hole. This, however, was not always a good idea in the swirling melee on the valley floor. In more than one case, a Bradley backing up to avoid one T-80 tank backed into the sights of another unseen T-80 or BMP. The same happened to the Soviets.

  Gunners, their eyes glued to their thermal sights, were normally the first to spot a target. Screams of "T-80twelve o'clock!" or "Two BMPs dead ahead!" galvanized the rest of the crew. Tank and Bradley commanders had no time to think. It was simply a question of fight or flee. Normal crew duties and fire commands fell by the wayside as target reports from the gunners were followed by either "Driver, back up!" or Fire! "Unable to command or control anything, and knowing hat he had no hope of doing either until he reached the positions where Delta had been, Dixon concentrated on fighting with his tank and surviving.

  Maxwell, his gunner, was quick to pick up targets. "Tank-twelve o'clock!"

  In their excitement and the heat of the moment, the crew lost track of the fire commands. Hearing the target report from Maxwell, Wilard responded with Up" as he armed the gun and cleared the path of recoil.

  Dixon, hanging on, yelled, "Fire!" even though he was unable to get his eye up to the sight.

  Maxwell screamed, "On the way!" as he pulled the trigger. Firing and impact were almost simultaneous, due to the close range. Dixon, popping his head out of the open hatch at the moment Maxwell yelled,

  "Target!" watched the Soviet tank they had just engaged blow apart as their tank passed it.

  Maxwell's scream of "Two BMPs — twelve o'clock!" brought him back.

  Wilard, knowing that HEAT was the preferred round for BMPs, but having already loaded a Sabot round, yelled out, "Sabot loaded!"

  Since there wasn't time to unload the Sabot round, Dixon ordered, "Fire HEAT. Load Sabot."

  Maxwell, responding without thinking, again yelled, "On the way" and fired.

  His announcement of "Target!" was followed by the cry "HEAT indexed" as his hand reached up and switched the ammo-select lever from the Sabot position to the HEAT position.

  Wilard, following through with Dixon's last order, loaded a HEAT round and announced, "HEAT loaded."

  Again Dixon ordered fire. Again Maxwell fired and responded, "Target!"

  Dixon reached down, caught Wilard's arm as he was loading the next HEAT round and ordered him to load Sabot. Dixon did not want to run into a Soviet tank while they had HEAT in the tube. Sabot would take anything out, no sweat. HEAT was, at best, questionable when it came to the T-80 tank.

  The battle fought by Dixon and his crew was repeated time and time again in other MIs and Bradleys as they stumbled forward in the smoke toward the far ridge. Dixon could feel his heart pounding in his chest. He gasped for breath, almost hyperventilating in the effort.

  The air he breathed was corrupted with the acidic smell of chemically produced smoke, burning rubber, diesel and flesh, and burnt cordite from the firing of the tanks.

  Every stitch of his clothing was soaked with sweat. Questions without answers raced through Dixon's mind: How much longer can this last? How much longer can I last? Where in hell is everyone? The tank rolled on, unstopping and seemingly alone as the horror show continued.

  As it climbed up onto the high ground where Team Delta's position had been, Dixon's tank came out from under the cloud of smoke-to be greeted by the sight of two BMPs off to the right. Dixon grabbed the override and began to issue a fire command, but stopped. The BMPs were not moving, just sitting there. It was obvious that they were destroyed. Letting go of the override, he turned his attention back to the direction they were moving in. Only the chance glimpse of movement through the corner of his eye alerted him to the fact that he had been wrong about the BMPs. Without further thought, he grabbed the override again and jerked it around, yelling his fire command, "Gunner, HEAT! Two BMPs!"

  Wilard corrected him. "Sabot loaded." Maxwell followed with "Identified!"

  Again without thinking, Dixon yelled, "Fire Sabot. Load HEAT!"

  Once the gunner was on target and heard the loader yell, "Up," he ranged, screamed, "On the way" and fired. The Sabot flew over the BMP.

  In the confusion, Maxwell had not changed the ammo-select lever from HEAT, where it had been set for their last engagement, back to Sabot.

  Both Dixon and Maxwell knew what had happened.

  Dixon repeated the order to load HEAT. Wilard responded with "HEAT up!" followed by Maxwell's cry of "HEAT indexed-on the way!" The second round hit dead center. Its jet stream entered the target's side, cutting through the BMP, which blew up in a shower of sparks and flame, the explosion of on-board ammunition literally ripping it apart.

  A thud followed by a wave of heat across Dixon's back rushed into his partially opened hatch. He looked up to see that the second BMP had fired an AT-4 antitank guided missile at them. It had hit the side slope of the turret. There was, however, no visible effect within the turret. Dixon yelled, "Target-next BMP!"

  The loader yelled out, "HEAT loaded!"

  The gunner, eye glued to his sight, reached up and made sure the ammo-select switch was on HEAT. He didn't trust himself anymore and wanted to be sure. Maxwell announced, "HEAT indexed-identified!" to which Dixon yelled, "Fire HEAT!"

  The gunner's "On the way" was followed by a second thud. As the tank recoiled from firing, Dixon turned to his left to see a third BMP sitting on the crest of the hill. When he heard the gunner yell, "Target," he grabbed the override, jerked the turret to the left and issued a new fire command without bothering to look back at the BMP just destroyed.

  The BMP commander began to back down, firing his 30mm. cannon at Dixon in desperation. This did not deter Dixon, who continued to bring the turret around. Just as the gunner yelled out, "Identified!" the side and turret of the BMP was lit up by a rapid series of small explosions and sparks. Then the BMP blew up.

  Dixon popped his head up out of the turret and looked to his rear to see who had killed the BMP. Two Bradleys, their barrels still smoking, were coming up fast behind Dixon's tank. Behind them came an M-1. For the briefest of moments, Dixon felt relief. He was drained, mentally and physically. His body shook from excitement and the effects of adrenaline.

  He looked at his watch. Only twenty minutes had passed since he had given the order to move. We made it, he thought. At least some of us made it.

  Not many, however, did.

  Headquarters, 10th Corps, 9otbabad, Iran 1925 Hours, 1 August (1555 Hours, 1 August, GMT)

  "The commitment of the second-echelon divisions by the Russian 17th Combined Arms Army into the 25th Armored Division's sector commenced shortly after twelve hundred hours. Penetrations along the FEBA were sealed of by local counterattacks and commitment of the division's reserve."

  Forty words organized into two sentences during the evening briefing to the corps commander summarized the battle that had consumed the 3rd of the 4th Armor.

  What had happened that day, however, was no longer of any concern
to the corps except that it had set the stage for the next phase of the battle.

  The real emphasis of the evening briefing was on the options available to the corps as a result of the day's fighting. These options were simple: the corps could remain on the defense and allow the Soviets to attack again; it could order the divisions to conduct local counterattacks to restore the original front line; or it could begin the corps counteroffensive. For several minutes, Lieutenant General Weir discussed all three options with the operations officer and the intelligence officer. He played the devil's advocate, attacking each option from various angles. There was no clear consensus on what was the best option. The operations officer preferred to limit the next day's operations to local counterattacks by the divisions. He felt that the situation was not sufficiently favorable for commencement of the corps counteroffensive.

  The intelligence officer was even more conservative. His people were still sifting through the glut of information, some of it contradictory, that they had received from various sources ranging from satellites to spot reports sent in by soldiers on the forward edge. He wanted more time to clarify Soviet dispositions and intentions.

  In the end, however, only the corps commander's opinion mattered. As a commander, he and he alone was held responsible for the success or failure of his unit. For several minutes he sat staring at the map, slightly slouched down in his chair, his arms propped up on the table, the fingers of his hands intertwined. When he had decided, he turned to his operations officer. "We attack. H-Hour will be twenty-one hundred hours tomorrow night." Standing up, he faced his assembled staff. "I'm tired of waiting for the Russians to decide what they're going to do and reacting to them.

  From here on in, we are going to make him react to us. Does anyone have any questions?"

  No one answered.

  "Good! Remember, think north!"

  Chapter 20

  When you want to do battle, muster all your forces, not neglecting any of them; a battalion sometimes decides a battle.

  — ARTHUR WELLES LEY, DUKE OF WELLINGTON

  North of Miabad, Iran 1830 Hours, 2 August (1500 Hours, 2 August, GMT)

  Ed Martain's eyes darted from his instruments to the ground they were skimming along. His damaged F-15E shook and vibrated every time he attempted the simplest maneuver. Only by reducing speed could he reduce the vibrations. But to do so only meant that it would take them longer to make it back across the forward line of their own troops. For better or worse, he pushed his aircraft as far as he dared. In the backseat, Martain's wizzo sat tight-lipped. Most of his equipment was malfunctioning or simply out.

  Whatever happened to him depended on Martain. There was nothing he could do except check their six, or rear, and pray.

  The mission, like most of the others, had been hastily planned and came too soon after their last. At Bandar Abbas the ground crews were literally falling over from exhaustion as they tried to turn the squadron's aircraft around in preparation for the next strike.

  Maintenance crews did their damnedest to keep a high number of planes on line, but they were fighting losing battle as scheduled maintenance services, postponed too many times, were finally beginning to take their toll. This, coupled with losses to ground fire, had brought Martain's squadron down to seven operational aircraft. The squadron had been slated to be replaced and pulled back to Egypt for rest and recovery, but the latest Soviet offensive had caused that plan to be shelved.

  The current mission had been going fairly well until they neared the target. Coming in at one hundred feet to hit a supply dump, the flight of two aircraft making the run found themselves flying over a Soviet recon unit sitting in a wadi. The lead plane got through before the ground fire reached a high level of intensity or effectiveness, but Martain, in the trail aircraft, was not nearly as lucky. His plane caught the full force of the Soviet ground fire, which knocked out the right engine, tore great holes out of the wings and the control surfaces and screwed up most of the electronics. Fortunately, just before he entered the worst of the fire Martain had dumped his entire load of bombs, exacting a large measure of revenge but doing little else. The punishing ground fire could not be avoided. That they were still airborne was nothing short of a miracle.

  "Hang in there, Frank, we'll make it. If I gotta hold this thing together with my bare hands we'll make it." A sudden shudder shook the aircraft.

  "I sure hope you do a better job holding on to this plane than you did holding on to that blonde back at Langley. "

  Martain was thankful for the wizzo's effort to relieve the tension. He looked down at his left leg for a moment. He had been hit. Some dumb Commie dogface, firing wildly, and probably with his eyes closed, had drilled him.

  The wound, in his upper thigh, was bleeding and painful. Martain hadn't bothered to tell his wizzo. Things were, after all, bad enough without heaping on more problems. Martain moved his leg slightly and was rewarded with a sharp pain that racked his entire body.

  Biting back the urge to scream, he answered his wizzo's taunt.

  "Thanks, pal. I really needed that vote of confidence. But I don't think you appreciate the situation. As I remember-"

  His story was cut short by the wizzo's scream, "Two boggles, five o'clock!"

  Martain cranked his neck around to the right and searched for the enemy. He caught a glimpse of them as one of them began a sharp dive in their direction. "Shit! No way in hell we're going to get away from them. Hang on and get ready to punch out." With that, Martain began to increase their speed and slowly turn away from their potential attackers.

  The vibrations of the aircraft increased and were joined by a violent bucking. Martain could almost feel the frame pulling itself apart. The increased vibrations caused him a great blinding pain. He had no idea how long he could keep control. Ten seconds? Ten minutes? However long it took, he was hell-bent on pushing the plane and himself to the limit. The last thing he wanted to do was eject behind enemy lines.

  If he did, he had no doubt how it would end for him. With the wound he had, he wouldn't be able to escape or evade. Ejection was a last resort.

  "What are they doing?"

  His wizzo, body twisted and head bobbing from one side of the cockpit to the other, endeavored to keep track of their attackers. "I lost them. Can't see the has There they are! Christ, they're right fucking on top of us!"

  Martain couldn't fight the urge to turn and look. If he was going to get spattered, he at least wanted to see the sonofabitch that did it.

  As he began to turn, the wizzo cried out again. "Oh my God, oh my God! They're ours! They're ours!"

  Two French Mirage fighters nosed forward, taking up station on either side of the crippled F-15. The pilot of the Mirage on the left, sun visor up and oxygen mask hanging from his helmet, smiled and waved at Martain, then gave him a thumbs up, signaling that everything was all right, that they would escort him in. Martain relaxed, sweat still rolling down his face. Despite his pain, he forced a smile and waved back. Yeah, everything will be OK now. We got it made, we got it made.

  Clearing his throat, he continued the story that had been cut short.

  "Like I was saying, Frank, I don't think you appreciate the situation back at Langley. There I was…"

  North of Miabad, Iran 1830 Hours, 2 August (1500 Hours, 2 August, GMT)

  Slowly, and in a stupor, the young Soviet lieutenant made his way through the wadi that was littered with a maze of tangled and burning wreckage. Fifteen minutes before, that wreckage had been a reconnaissance battalion.

  In a flash it had been wiped away, smashed. Now it was nothing more than a collection of corpses and stunned survivors. Some of those survivors were attempting to save or help those who were wounded.

  Others, in shock or simply despondent as a result of the speed at which disaster had struck, sat or wandered about in a daze. Even the lieutenant, a platoon leader and a veteran of many fights who was accustomed to seeing death, was appalled at the magnitude of the disaster. That, and the f
act that he was the senior surviving officer, was numbing to all who survived.

  When he came to the place where, just before the attack, the battalion commander had gathered the company commanders to issue orders for that night's operation, he stopped and attempted to clear his head. His thoughts turned to the series of events that had led to the destruction of the unit.

  Despite the fact that everyone knew better, the battalion had set up in a wide wadi. While the wadi kept them below ground level and therefore hidden from sight except when someone passed directly overhead, the vehicles were packed in too closely. All was fine until two jet aircraft, American F-15s heavy with bombs and missiles, flying low and fast, began to approach the battalion's position. With the company commanders away from their units, some of the junior officers had ordered the aircraft engaged because the F15s looked as if they were preparing to attack the battalion.

  The wild firing had damaged one of the F-15s, but not before they both released their bombs, resulting in catastrophe for the battalion.

  Perhaps, the lieutenant thought, we can still carry on with the mission. In the vain hope of finding something that would tell him what their mission was, he began to search the charred remains of the bodies that had been the battalion's leadership. The stench of burned flesh and the sight of bodies ripped and burned beyond recognition, however, was too much for him. Wiping his hands on his tunic as he backed away from the corpses, he fought the urge to vomit. Whatever it was that the division had wanted from them, someone else would have to do it.

  In his confusion, it never occurred to the lieutenant that perhaps Division did not know that the battalion was now combat ineffective and no longer executing its assigned mission.

  Five Kilometers North of Aliabad, Iran 1945 Hours, 2 August (1615 Hours, 2 August, GMT)