Sword Point

by Harold Coyle

  The appearance of British Challenger tanks, however, was unexpected.

  Having trained themselves so long for a confrontation with Americans and expecting to see the familiar form of the M-1 tank pop over the ridge, Neboatov and his men were momentarily transfixed as the first tanks of the 7th Royal Tank Regiment crested the hill, oriented themselves on the scene that greeted them on the far slope and began to charge forward. As a result, it was the British, not 381st MRR, that fired first. The impact of a high-explosive round on the BMP to Neboatov's rear sent him sprawling back onto the floor of the trench. He lay there for a moment, stunned.

  Collecting his thoughts, he listened to the changing noise of battle.

  Tanks fired their main guns, and the chatter of machine guns and the pop of antitank guided missiles joined the cacophony. The earth about him shook.

  Neboatov rolled over and looked up as a Challenger, racing for the Soviet rear, rolled over his trench. He was showered with chunks of dirt and dust torn from the lip of the trench. When the tank was gone, Neboatov, still on his hands and knees, spat the dirt from his mouth and wiped his eyes with one hand.

  Hesitantly, he got up and peered over the front edge of the trench.

  Enemy infantry had already dismounted, deployed, and were entering the trenches to his left. Smallarms fire and grenades could be heard close to where he was. Added to this was a noise that sounded like a wounded cat crying out in pain. Neboatov had read that Scottish troops always played their bagpipes when going into battle, but until that moment he had never believed anyone would do so on a twentieth-century battlefield. The strange, piercing music that cut through the other sounds seemed, to Neboatov, to be a death knell. The end was near.

  In less than two minutes the battle had degenerated into hand-to-hand combat. Enemy tanks had bypassed him, destroying what was left of his BMPs.

  Whatever chance he had had of stopping the enemy was gone. As he watched, no longer able to influence the battle, Neboatov's emotions swung from despair to rage. With nothing else to do, he picked up his rifle, kicked the two soldiers lying at his feet on the floor of the trench and ordered them to follow. It would be a small and short counterattack. But at least they would try. That was all they could do. Try.

  From the brigade commander's vehicle, Major Jones watched the 7th Royal Tank Regiment and the battalion of Scottish infantry roll through the Soviet positions and continue north. Though he still wished he were with the lead elements of the regiment, at least he had the rare satisfaction of seeing that all his efforts had finally borne fruit.

  Normally the staff officers, working well to the rear, in small groups under less than optimum conditions, never saw the end product of their work. They merely went from one task to the next, sometimes not fully understanding the full purpose of their labors.

  Jones, using his role as a liaison officer to his advantage, made sure that he spent as much time with the 33rd Armored Regiment as was prudent. Today was one of those days when he had to be there. Nothing, nothing the corps staff or the Soviets could do, would have kept him away. History was being made that day, history that he was now part of. As he watched the battle and listened to its noise and to the reports coming in from the unit commanders, he thought of his father.

  For the first time in his life he felt that he was finally his father's equal, that he had earned his way in the Army, the regiment and his family.

  Headquarters, 10th Corps, Qotbabad, Iran 1015 Hours, 3 August (0645 Hours, 3 August, GMT)

  Lieutenant General Weir paced his office like a caged lion. Despite his best efforts, he could not contain his nervousness. Everything was going so well, it was unreal. The Soviet offensive, so long anticipated, had come and failed. The speed at which events were unfolding was far greater than anyone had expected or could have hoped for. The 25th Armored Division had absorbed the brunt of the Soviets' main effort, consisting of four Soviet divisions, while the 55th Mech Infantry Division had parried a supporting attack by one Soviet motorized rifle division. Though brutalized by two days of battle, the 25th Armored had held and given better than it had received. As a result of those efforts, the 16th Armored Division, reinforced by the 33rd Armored Brigade, and held back from the initial battles, had commenced the Allied counteroffensive. The 55th Infantry Division, suffering little during the defensive battles, had joined that offensive at dawn.

  Initial reports from both units were encouraging. The Soviet security zone and main defensive belts had been breached. All depended now on the outcome of a series of tank battles, then under way, between the attacking Allied forces and the Soviet reserves. If the outcome was favorable, the Soviets would have nothing left in Kerman Province capable of stopping the Allies.

  Weir's main problems were the timing of follow-on operations and logistics.

  The 17th Airborne Division had been alerted to be prepared to make a combat jump with two brigades, one at Kerman and one at Rafsanjan, while holding its third in reserve. The drops would be made on order, timed to cut off the withdrawal of Soviet forces. If the paratroopers were dropped too late, they would bag nothing. By the same token, they must not be dropped too soon, lest the advancing ground forces be unable to reach them before the Soviets wore them down. The recent destruction of the Soviets' 285th Guards Airborne Regiment had served to remind everyone of that danger.

  Resupplying the drive north was another problem. In the rush to prepare for the great expenditure of ammunition anticipated in the initial defensive battles, fuel had not been the highest priority. Now, with a breakthrough possible, every effort was being made to bring that valuable commodity into Iran and forward to the units. The last thing Weir intended to do was miss the chance of a lifetime because his tanks ran out of gas.

  Weir stopped his pacing for a moment and looked at the small situation map in his office. He pondered the change of fortunes for the Allied forces.

  Well, old boy, he told himself, the Navy can put their boats away. A week ago I wouldn't have given Bob Horn a nickel for our chances. Now there'll be no evacuation by this Army. We are here to stay. All I need is a little time to grind those other people up a bit and get us some chips for our negotiators when they go to the table.

  Moscow, USSR 0945 Hours, 3 August (0645 Hours, 3 August, GMT)

  The officer from STAVKA finished briefing the Politburo on the current situation and left the room.

  The eleven grim-faced men sat and considered what they had heard and what it meant. The 17th Combined Arms Army had failed to achieve a breakthrough and was, in fact, now being attacked. On the authority of the Front Commander, the 17th CAA had assumed a defensive posture. Most of the STAVKA briefing officer's answers to questions put to him by Politburo members had been prefaced by the caveat "It is hoped.. "

  The General Secretary looked at each member before he spoke. "It is time to open negotiations with the Americans. We have gained much and must ensure that it is not lost."

  The Minister of Defense sat up, slapped his hand on the table and bellowed, "No! We must not give in. The army is still within striking distance. We must not stop now."

  "We have tried twice, and failed twice," the General Secretary said.

  "This failure was far more costly. Why do you think we could succeed where we have already failed twice?"

  Turning to look at the other members as he spoke, the Minister of Defense replied, "Comrades, we have not employed all weapons at our disposal. We must try again, this time with chemical weapons and, if necessary, tactical nuclear weapons. Quick surprise strikes will paralyze the Americans and allow us to drive to the strait, achieving our final goal."

  All watched the General Secretary, waiting for his response, which was: "We have discussed this before. We decided on our goals and methods before we began this enterprise. I will not change them now. The political repercussions from employing either chemical or nuclear weapons would be far too great. Years of diplomatic efforts and achievements would be sacrificed for the gain of a few k
ilometers of dirt. The use of such weapons is not justified by the stated purpose of our intervention in Iran. No, we will not change the rules now. Besides, I do not trust the United States. You know their history, Comrades, as well as I do. Like a wounded animal, they will rise out of the ashes and seek revenge in a blind rage that will plunge us all into darkness. No, I will not lead our people into a holocaust as our fathers did. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs will immediately open negotiations as previously discussed."

  The members of the Politburo sat there for several minutes. The Minister of Defense, seeking support or at least continuation of the discussion, looked toward each member in turn. As he did so, each man, in his turn, either turned away or cast his gaze down-except the last one, the Foreign Minister. In his eyes the Minister of Defense saw condemnation and unbridled hatred. Throughout the previous winter, when the plans for the invasion of Iran had been discussed, only the Foreign Minister had stood firmly against the idea.

  He had taken much abuse and placed himself in a very precarious position by resisting the will of the other members. The General Secretary, to sway the Politburo to stop the war, had just used the same words that the Foreign Minister had been condemned for using when he tried to prevent the war. Now, in his moment of triumph, the Foreign Minister, staring at the man who had been the architect of the disaster that they faced, took no pride in being vindicated. That little victory had been purchased at the expense of tens of thousands of dead and wounded.

  Finally realizing he was defeated, the Minister of Defense went silent.

  There was no support for a continuation of the war. It had been decided.

  The battle would now be waged over a felt-covered table in a quiet room in Geneva.

  Hajjiabad, Iran 1015 Hours, 3 August (0645 Hours, 3 August, GMT)

  The figure walking between the rows of body bags was hardly recognizable as an officer, much less a major. He had no helmet or hat. His hair, stuck together by dirt and oil, was matted and ratty.

  The face was haggard, with sunken eyes framed by dark circles. Three days of stubble surrounded the expressionless mouth. The uniform matched the man. The tank crewman's coveralls were ripped, dirty and stained with oil, sweat and blood. The only equipment he wore was a pistol in a shoulder holster and a protective mask strapped to his hip.

  His boots showed spots where the black had been worn off. Major Dixon walked along the line of body bags slowly, looking. He stopped at each and bent down to peer at the name tag tied to the end of the bag. Not finding the one he wanted, he would go to the next, then the next, then the next, then the next.

  The men of the graves-registrations detail paid him no heed. They had much to do and not much time. Bodies, already left in the sun for several days, were putrefying in the heat. As two men on the detail brought a body to the rear of their truck, they would stop while the sergeant in charge checked the name tag, looked on his list and made a check mark. The two men then went to the rear of the truck, where one counted as they swung the body bag back and forth until three was called off. In unison, the two men would swing the body onto the bed of the truck, where it made a loud thump as it hit.

  When Dixon found the one he was looking for, he stopped. The tag had "NESBITT, JACK R. 176-35-8766" written on it. For a moment he looked at the bag, not knowing what to do now that he had found the body he was looking for. Leaning over, he began to pull down the zipper.

  As soon as he did, Dixon was sorry. The stench that rose from the bag made him gag. He stopped, covered his mouth with one hand, then continued until the zipper was halfway down. He stopped again, then looked at the body.

  What he saw bore no resemblance to the man he had shared so many times with, good and bad. Dixon knew all there was worth knowing about the man in the bag. He knew his wife, his children, his dreams, his fears, his joys, his plans. Nesbitt had become a part of Dixon. He was more than a good sergeant, he was a friend. Now he was gone.

  Slowly, carefully, Dixon closed the bag, then sat next to his friend.

  Unable to restrain himself, he began to cry. He buried his head in his dirty hands and cried without shame or restraint. So many men about him needed to be cried for, to be remembered. Good men, every one. So many.

  The thumping drew his attention to the detail. Dixon raised his head and looked to see what was causing the thumping. He wiped his eyes of tears and watched for a moment. Suddenly, what the men of the graves-registrations detail were doing hit Dixon. He felt himself go cold and numb inside.

  Slowly, the numbness was replaced by a rage that began to build, a rage that overcame all restraint and logic. He rose mechanically and walked over to the truck, drawing his pistol as he went, his face frozen in a mask of hatred. Tears blurred his vision as he walked 404 up to the sergeant, who paid no heed until he heard the click of the pistol's hammer being cocked.

  Turning, the sergeant looked into the muzzle of a .45 caliber pistol being pointed into his face by a dirty major with tears in his eyes.

  "Jesus! Are you fucking crazy?"

  In a low, emotionless voice, Dixon said, "These are my men. The next body thrown into the truck will be followed by yours."

  All eyes turned to watch. The sergeant, visibly shaken, tried to reason with Dixon. "Sir, these guys, they're dead. I mean, they're dead, they can't feel nothing."

  Dixon neither moved nor changed his tone. "These are my men, Sergeant. You will treat them with respect, or yours will be the next body on the truck."

  The sergeant looked into Dixon's eyes. There was hate in those eyes.

  Hate that knew no bounds. "Yes, sir, we will be more careful, my men and I. Now please, sir, put down the gun?"

  With the gun still pointed at the sergeant's head, Dixon slowly eased the hammer forward. Then he put the gun back into its holster and walked a few meters away, stopped, turned and stood there. For a moment, no one moved.

  Then, seeing that the major was not going anywhere, the sergeant ordered his men to continue loading. This time, they were careful to lay each body out on the bed of the truck. The major stayed throughout the afternoon watching until they were done. It was not until the last truck left that

  Dixon turned and walked away.

  Geneva, Switzerland 0830 Hours, 6 August (0739 Hours, 6 August, GMT)

  The two men and their assistants entered the room from doors at opposite sides. Each of them took his place at the table facing his counterpart. The Soviet ambassador opened his briefcase, pulled out a folder and arranged his notes. The American ambassador was handed a folder by one of his assistants.

  The Russian began by reading a prepared statement. It declared that the Soviet Union protested the use of aggression by the United States to interfere with an internal matter that concerned the Soviet Union and the legitimate government of the People's Republic of Iran. For twenty-five minutes the Soviet ambassador enumerated, in chronological order starting with 6 June, what he described as the acts of aggression on the part of the United States, as well as several alleged war crimes committed by U.S. forces in Iran and in international waters, all in violation of international accords and treaties. The Russian ended with a demand that all U.S. forces withdraw immediately and that the United States pay, through the United Nations, all war damages caused by "this imperialist war of aggression."

  As the Soviet ambassador spoke, the American ambassador had fought back his anger. Throughout the entire harangue, he had sat there stony-faced, listening and waiting. Now, opening his folder, he read from a single sheet of paper: " "The United States and her allies demand the immediate and unconditional withdrawal of all Soviet forces in Iran within thirty days. Upon completion of those withdrawals, a provisional government will be reestablished in Tehran under the supervision of the United Nations. Within six months a convention, again under UN supervision, composed of members elected by the Iranian people, will meet and draft a constitution for the establishment of a permanent Iranian government."

  With that, the American closed
the folder and looked at the Russian.

  The Russian, pounding his fist on the table, began to spout righteous indignation, accusing the American ambassador of unreasonable demands and not negotiating in good faith. He was about to read off another prepared speech when the American ambassador startled everyone in the room by rising, picking up his folder and turning to walk away.

  Flabbergasted, the Soviet ambassador asked why he was leaving. The American told him it was obvious that the Soviet Union was not interested in serious negotiations; the United States, therefore, intended "to seek resolution of the conflict through other means."

  Convinced that the American was bluffing, the Russian let him walk out.

  He did not intend to show weakness by crawling to the Americans in order to negotiate. His orders had been to negotiate from a position of strength and to maintain the upper hand at all times. The Americans would be back. It was, after all, their way.

  The Soviet ambassador's resolve gave out that evening when the staff at the consulate informed him that the American had left his hotel en route to the airport. In a hastily arranged meeting at the airport, the Soviet ambassador and the American ambassador worked out an agenda, drafted a cease-fire proposal and began serious negotiations.

  Epilogue

  Nothing but a battle lost can be half so melancholy as a battle won.

  — ARTHUR WELLES LEY, DUKE OF WELLINGTON

  Kilometer Marker 385 Along the Military Demarkation Line, Iran 0450 Hours, 5 October (0120 Hours, 5 October, GMT)

  The BRDM armored car moved slowly as it entered the demilitarized zone.

  Major Vorishnov hated to enter the DMZ at any time, but especially at night.

  Lanes had been cleared through the mine fields, but that did not mean they stayed cleared. The Iranians had the habit of slipping into the DMZ at night and moving mines about. A week did not go by without a soldier dying in a supposedly cleared lane.