by Harold Coyle
Lewis watched the situation board as he listened to the reports and the orders.
The S-3 responded without hesitation, "Oscar Sixeight, this is Mike Four-four. I roger your last transmission. What is your current situation? Over."
"Mike Four-four, this is Oscar Six-eight. Five tanks and two Bradleys left that I know of. Enemy tanks are now passing to-"
There was a break in the transmission, then a moment of silence while everyone waited for the XO of the tank company to continue. But he did not.
The S-3 tried to reestablish contact. "Oscar Six-eight, this is Mike Four-four. Say again all after enemy tanks passing. Over." There was no response. Odds were that the XO's tank had also been hit. God, Lewis thought, I don't even know that kid's name.
Reports were no longer clear, concise or, for the most part, even rendered.
The battalion-command net was now cluttered by a series of short, incomplete radio calls between the battalion commander, the S-3 and the surviving company commanders. When both the battalion commander and the S-3 failed to reestablish contact with the tank-company commander, they tried to contact the mech-team commander on the western flank.
That effort also failed. Assuming that both the company in the center and the one in the west were overrun, Alpha Company, the mech company in the rear, was ordered to swing to the left and cover that area. No doubt the enemy was attempting to blow through the battalion there.
That maneuver, completed in less than ten minutes, ran head on into the bypass effort of the follow-on Soviet battalion. The focus of the battle now shifted slightly to the west as Bradleys went to ground and disgorged their infantry, preparing to fight T-80s. Bravo Company, on the eastern side of the sector, was running out of targets. The battalion commander, seeing the same thing that Lewis did, ordered it to shift farther to the west, move behind Alpha Company and swing around to the north, heading off another Soviet bypass attempt. As with Alpha Company, Bravo ran into the Soviets in the dark as the battle continued to slide to the west.
Lewis watched and listened, wondering how much longer this could go on.
Smithson, ever attentive to the reports, kept wiping off the grease-pencil numbers on the battalion status board and entering a new, lower number.
Turning to the S-2, Lewis asked how much more the battalion could expect to encounter. The S-2 did not answer, merely shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. Lewis understood. No one, neither the people on the ground nor the people in the TOC, could follow what was happening anymore. Whatever ability the battalion commander had to influence the battle had been lost when the last company was committed.
It was now up to the tank and Bradley commanders.
As they listened to the calls and the fragmented reports, Smithson stepped back and looked at the status board for a moment, then turned to Lewis.
"Let's hope this was worth it."
Lewis did not answer. He watched the figures change, each loss hitting him like a blow. No, it can't be, he thought. It isn't worth it.
Fifteen Kilometers Northwest of Qotbabad 0435 Hours, 3 August (0105 Hours, 3 August, GMT)
The pilot of the AC-130 began to bring his huge aircraft to bear on their target. Called Spectar, the AC-130 carried three 20mm. mmiguns and a 75mm. automatic cannon. It was the modern version of Vietnam's
"Puff the Magic Dragon," grown bigger, more sophisticated and far deadlier. Slowly the pilot angled the plane over until they were flying along a shallow bank to the left. His eyes were on the projected sight to his left as he superimposed it over the target area. When he had done so, he held the aircraft steady for a second, making sure that all was aligned and correct before he announced his intent to fire.
From his position on the outer perimeter, Ilvanich listened to the drone of the propeller-driven aircraft above, wondering what it was doing and why it lingered so long over them. It sounded like a transport preparing to drop paratroopers. That, however, made no sense here. What was left of his regiment was already surrounded and under continuous fire from artillery, mortars and a steady stream of air strikes. Though no enemy ground attack had been launched in hours, there was no doubt that that would eventually happen, just as soon as the Americans had finished pounding the regiment into pulp. Having had its supply line cut, Ilvanich's regiment could no longer influence the battle, and the Americans knew it. They were therefore in no rush to waste any more manpower in eliminating the decimated Soviet regiment.
Firepower and air strikes would do the trick.
The air strikes were the regiment's greatest problem. The men had no cover, other than hastily dug foxholes. At first, they had been able to keep the enemy planes at a respectable distance with man-portable, shoulder-fired surface-to-air missiles. These, however, were rapidly used up, and the Americans were quick to sense this. By late afternoon American ground-attack aircraft called Thunderbolts lazily flew over their positions, attacking anything that moved or appeared to be worthy of attack. Ilvanich sat helpless as he watched the evil-looking aircraft swoop down and fire 30mm. explosive rounds at individual foxholes. It was this sight more than anything else that convinced him that this time all was lost.
A sudden sharp ripping sound jerked Ilvanich's attention back to the strange aircraft flying overhead. From one point in the sky three solid streams of tracers stabbed through the darkness. Like great evil fingers the tracers searched out positions on the far side of the regiment's perimeter. For a moment he thought the Americans were using some type of laser or energy beam. The endless chain of explosions, however, told him that the aircraft was firing conventional miniguns.
Ilvanich stood up and watched, transfixed. Wherever the tracers touched the ground there was a maelstrom of explosions. It was as if God were reaching down with a giant hoe and methodically digging them out. Of all the instruments of death he had seen, this one was the most sinister and horrible.
Lieutenant Malovidov came running up from behind.
"What is that thing?"
Without taking his eyes from the horror unfolding before him, Ilvanich replied in a hushed, resigned manner, "That, Comrade Lieutenant, is the angel of death heralding the beginning of the end."
Malovidov, angry at the response and anxious for a reasonable answer, came around to Ilvanich's front and shouted at the senior lieutenant, "Damn you! What do we do? I'm tired of your shit. Tell me, what do we do?"
Ilvanich looked at the junior lieutenant and thought, What does he expect? We have come to the end of the 391 line. We die, you stupid bastard, that's what we do.
That thought did not bother Ilvanich. He had been ready to die for a long time. In fact, after Tabriz and the firing squad, he had actively sought an honorable death in battle. Only death could cleanse his troubled soul and wipe away the images of blood spattered on the courtyard wall, images that were burned into his mind, images that visited him nightly. Death, however, eluded him. While he stood there, the circling aircraft stopped firing.
Darkness and almost total silence returned to the battlefield as the American plane lumbered away to the south. Again death has cheated me, Ilvanich thought. There is little for me to do but continue.
Turning to Malovidov, he focused on the problem at hand. "No doubt, my friend, in a few moments the Americans are going to commence a heavy artillery bombardment, after which they will begin their long-awaited ground attacks."
"Can we hold them?"
"I have no intention of finding out, Lieutenant Malovidov. By the time they go over the top, I intend to be several kilometers away from here with as many men as we can get out."
In amazement. Malovidov asked, "We are leaving? We are running?"
"Yes, we are leaving. At least I am leaving with what is left of the company. Do you wish to stay and join your comrades over there?"
Ilvanich pointed to the side of the perimeter that had been raked by the American aircraft.
"No, I'll go. But Lvov, what about Lvov?"
"We take the bastard with us."
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"What if he refuses?"
Ilvanich smiled. "So much the better. He will die a hero's death as we break out. Come, it will be light soon and there is much we must do."
The sudden hail of small-arms fire caught Duncan and his men off guard.
Instinctively they sought the protection that the bottom of their foxholes offered. After a few moments, the volume of fire began to drop. Duncan slowly raised his head and peered over the top. As he did so, the sound-powered phone leading from the platoon leader's foxhole buzzed. Duncan picked it up and yelled, "Duncan."
"What the hell are they doing?"
Duncan looked out of his foxhole again. The firing continued to subside.
"I think they're getting ready to pull out, Lieutenant."
"They're attacking?"
"No, just trying to break contact." Then a thought struck Duncan.
"Hey, Lieutenant, call the Old Man and tell him to let them out."
"What? You mean let them get away?"
"No, let them out in the open. Let the bastards get out of their holes and get them in the open where we can take them out. Beats the shit out of digging them from their holes."
The lieutenant thought about it for a moment before responding. "Yeah, that sounds good. Get the platoon ready to move while I talk to the CO."
Duncan gave his platoon leader a "Roger" and turned to Sergeant Hernandez.
"Get ready to move out. We're going to go hunting Commies."
The breakout had been easy, too easy. Ilvanich, along with half a dozen men, were taking up the rear, watching to see whether they were being followed. Malovidov was in the lead, moving the company toward a rock-strewn ridge three kilometers to the west. Between the two lieutenants the remnants of the 3rd Company struggled to carry their wounded comrades and keep up with the point element. Of all the men, only Lvov had protested. Calling Ilvanich a traitor and a coward, he had demanded that they remain in place. A sergeant offered to silence the captain for good.
Ilvanich, though tempted, ordered the sergeant to keep Lvov quiet but alive. The sergeant did so with great zeal, stuffing a dirty rag into the captain's mouth and binding him.
"Move it! Come on, let's go. Keep it moving." Duncan pushed and yelled and did everything but pick up and carry those who were dragging behind. Not that the men needed much urging. They were all as eager as he to get in front of the fleeing Russians and finish them.
After a quick study, Duncan and his platoon leader had figured out that the only place the Russians could go was to the west, where a rocky ridge offered them protection and where they could hide during the day before they began their trek north. After having done the same thing for a month, Duncan knew what to look for.
He was sure he was right. Now all they had to do was beat the Russians to the ridge and set up there, and they would have them in the open with no place to hide.
He stopped for a moment and looked to the east in the gathering light, then to the west. Less than a kilometer to go. A rifleman, panting and covered with sweat, came up behind him and paused. "Who told you to stop, soldier? Move your ass or Ivan will move it for ya."
The crack of small-arms fire and explosions of grenades at the front of the column startled Ilvanich. He turned and watched the company disperse and drop to the ground. Desperately the men scurried for whatever cover they could. There was not much. They were in the open, less than two hundred meters from the first line of rocks that would have meant safety. But those same rocks, instead of providing a hiding place for his men, concealed the enemy that was bringing effective fire down on them.
Dropping to his hands and knees, Ilvanich began to make his way forward.
His path was blocked by men trying to dig in with their helmets and by the bodies of those caught in the first volley. When his movement drew fire,
Ilvanich froze in place and hugged the ground. Although his face was pressed to the dirt, he could see one of his men crawl up behind the body of a fallen comrade, prop his rifle up over it and, using the body as cover, begin to return fire. The Americans soon located the soldier and began to concentrate their fire against him. Ilvanich listened in morbid fascination as bullets thudded into the body being used for cover. The soldier's lone stand lasted less than a minute. Ilvanich saw a stream of bullets from a machine gun climb up the body of the dead 394 soldier and hit the live soldier in the face, sending him sprawling.
This is madness, Ilvanich thought. He looked around. There were dead and wounded everywhere. The moans and screams of the wounded were momentarily drowned out by a sudden burst of fire and the explosion of a grenade.
Ilvanich decided there was nothing more to be gained from continuing the uneven contest. For a moment he considered grabbing his rifle and charging.
He would at last be able to end his nightmares in a manner befitting a soldier. But he hesitated. If he got up and charged, his men would follow.
And, like him, they would be cut down to no purpose. How easy it would be to end it now, he thought. I have wanted this. But not for them. I cannot do that to my men.
The sound of approaching helicopters in the distance finally convinced him the time had come. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a dirty white rag and stuck it into the muzzle of his AK. Yelling to his men to cease fire, he began to wave the white flag.
Duncan saw the flag as he sensed the slackening of return fire. For a moment, he wanted to ignore it. He wanted to continue firing. For the first time he and his men had the bastards pinned with nowhere to go.
Finally he had the chance to avenge his old platoon leader and all those they had left in their smashed positions on that day long ago.
This was his moment. He stopped firing, though, as did the rest of the platoon. Each man in his turn looked down at his enemy, now humbled and helpless. Whether it was out of mercy or a simple desire to stop the senseless killing, all firing stopped long before the platoon leader gave the order.
When all the men who could stand finally stood up, Ilvanich counted eleven men. A few others, including Junior Lieutenant Malovidov, were wounded and could not stand. As Ilvanich made his way forward, he saw Lvov, still strapped to the makeshift stretcher he: had been carried on. He was alive.
Ilvanich carefully moved over to the captain, watching the Americans as they 395 approached. When he reached Lvov, he knelt down and looked into his commander's eyes.
"Well, Comrade Captain, we have come to the end of the line. At least you have." With that, Ilvanich reached down into his boot and pulled out a knife. "You will finally be able to give your father, the great Party man, the only thing that will make him proud of you, death in battle. Goodbye, you miserable bastard."
Duncan watched from his position as the Russians began to stand and throw down their weapons. He ordered the 1st Squad to gather the prisoners while the 2nd Squad swept the area and checked the wounded and the dead. He stayed with the 3rd Squad, covering the other two. As he did so, the actions of one of the Russians caught his attention. He watched as the man, obviously an officer, went over to a wounded man on a stretcher. The
Russian bent, then knelt. For a moment, Duncan thought he was trying to help the man.
He was about to direct some men to help the Russian when he noticed a sudden glint of sunlight from a piece of metal the Russian pulled from his boot. The Russian then put it to the wounded man's throat. The bastard's pulled a knife! Without hesitation, Duncan brought his rifle up and fired a burst, hitting the Russian in the shoulder and knocking him backward. He watched for a moment until the Russian he had hit began to move. Two of Duncan's men ran over, grabbed the knife from the Russian and made him stand up. Duncan cursed himself. Shit, the bastard was only wounded.
The idea of killing one's wounded appalled Duncan. Animals, we're dealing with animals, he thought.
As the Americans marched Ilvanich off, he looked at Lvov, now being treated by an American medic. He shook his head. Lenin was right, he told himself.
There is
no God.
Chapter 21
Look at the infantryman's eyes and you can tell how much war he has seen.
— BILL MAULDIN
Ten Kilometers Northeast of Tarom 0630 Hours, 3 August (0300 Hours, 3 August, GMT)
The men began to stir and pick themselves up from the floor of the trench.
Already they could feel the rumbling of the ground caused by the advancing enemy tanks. Had their ears not been ringing as a result of a fifteen-minute artillery barrage, they would have heard the tanks as well. Even as he shook off the dirt and the dust, Captain Neboatov called repeatedly to his outposts for reports, but got only static in return. Sensing that any further attempt was futile, he let the hand mike drop. The first enemy tank was yet to crest the hill before them, but Neboatov knew what the outcome would be. As the senior surviving officer and the acting battalion commander, he had little more than a company's worth of men and BMP fighting vehicles to hold a front that required a battalion by doctrine.
Psychologically, neither he nor his men were ready for the onslaught.
For the first time since entering Iran, Neboatov's regiment was on the defense.
A war, Neboatov knew, is not won by defending. But defend they had to.
Stubborn resistance by the Americans, punctuated by numerous counterattacks, failure of the attack by Soviet second-echelon divisions and an inability to clear the American Air Force from the skies had crippled the 17th Combined Arms Army, robbing it of its offensive capability. With great reluctance, the commander of the 17th CAA had ordered the remnants of the army's first-echelon divisions to assume a defensive posture while a frantic effort was made to gather up enough forces to continue the offensive. Neboatov's unit was part of that defense.
Neboatov had deployed his "battalion," the remnant of the 1st Battalion of the 381st Motorized Rifle Regiment, on the reverse slope of a ridge.
By doing so, he reduced his fields of fire but prevented the enemy from hitting his positions directly. In addition, the enemy vehicles could be dealt with a few at a time as they crested the ridge. That was what Neboatov had planned and expected.