by Leigh Kimmel
"Apparently Colonel MacMillan was trying to stop a small group of mechanics from rushing the west gate and running off. He couldn't stop them so he pulled out his sidearm and shot some girl in the back. When I was up there at Mustang TOC the MP platoon leader was reading him his rights and placing him under arrest."
"You've got to be shitting me." Fontaine couldn't believe it.
"No sir. Major White is in charge now, but he ain't doing much to fix the situation."
"White is a fucking moron. What about the SPO? What's he doing?"
"Don't know sir. Nobody's seen him. I think that he took off too. It's a total disaster. As I came back over here there was abandoned vehicles and equipment everywhere, even weapons. What do you want to do sir?"
"I've called a meeting with the other HHC commanders from the other battalions. The field trains elements haven't run, and they are basically looking for guidance. I'll get those guys squared away, in the meantime I want you, Top, and the Support Platoon leader to go out and recon these potential battle positions." Fontaine pointed to positions he had drawn on his operations map. "What are your questions?"
"How much time before our first elements start to arrive back here?"
"Not sure. The support elements could arrive within the hour. The combat units sometime after that. Is that clear as mud?"
Pfeil smiled. "Roger sir. I'll go get Top and Harry and go get started on our recon. I'll be sure to knock this out fast and get back here." Lieutenant Pfeil was starting to think that his dad had been right, and that he should have gone to medical school instead of joining the Army.
"Thanks Bill. Just stay close to the radio in case there are some changes."
"Hooah. I'll give you a radio check before heading out." Pfeil plopped the helmet back on his head, picked up his carbine, and headed out into the early morning darkness.
* * *
"I don't think that this is such a great idea. I think we should try a little harder to get contact reestablished with brigade headquarters and try to get the maneuver elements organized. This is not going to accomplish anything." The HHC commander for 1st Battalion 503rd felt strongly about his opinion. He thought that Captain Fontaine was proposing a suicidal course of action for them and the men under their command.
Captain Fontaine gathered all of the HHC commanders within the brigade together and explained his plan to them. The division was in retreat, no one was in contact with the brigade commander or his headquarters, and the infantry battalions were either destroyed or running with their tails tucked firmly between their legs. Fontaine wanted to establish strong-point defenses at key choke-points located within valleys and ravines that the Posleen would have to pass through. This would buy enough time for the surviving combat units within the brigade to get their shit together and get back on the line. Nobody gathered inside of Fontaine's command post was arguing with the general concept of his plan, just the personnel available to execute it.
"Listen Dale, we've got to do something to slow the enemy advance down until the brigade gets reorganized. We can't just bail out of here like these FSB fucks." Fontaine was trying his best to reason with Captain Johnston.
"But you are proposing setting up defenses within the brigade sector with Field Trains personnel. You are aware that we are commanding a bunch of cooks, fuel handlers, truck drivers and mechanics right?"
"Okay Dale, don't forget about your clerks, commo guys and medics. Seriously though, I am painfully aware that we don't have any combat troops running around here, but we are all soldiers, and we all have trained with our rifles and wear camouflage suits for a reason. Our guys can handle this." Fontaine looked around the tent at all the other commanders that were assembled. None of the others argued, they were just happy to have someone come up with a plan.
The commander from 44th Engineers finally spoke up. "Dale, I think Rick's right. We've got four full-blown battalion field trains here in the BSA with just under a hundred personnel in each one. We've got almost a battalion's worth of people here amongst ourselves. If done right, we could kick some serious fuckin' ass back here. I say we do it."
Captain Johnston looked down and spat on the ground. "Okay, I guess I'm in. Who's going to lead this operation? Somebody's got to command this goat-fuck."
* * *
"HEY! I'VE GOT ROOM IN THE BACK! YOU GUYS GET IN!" Steve Murphy waved both of his arms and tried to get the attention of some dismounted infantry that were running past his vehicle.
Captain Murphy had backed his track into a vehicle fighting position so that it was oriented rear-end to rear-end with Delta One Two. Delta One Two was a Bradley from 1st Platoon, and it was commanded by Staff Sergeant Ko.
After Murphy had given the order to withdraw back to the company assembly area, Sergeant Ko reported that his vehicle had blown its transmission and couldn't go anywhere. Steve, was not about to abandon a vehicle so he raced down to Ko's location under a hail of fire and backed in. Murphy's gunner, Staff Sergeant Whitmore, leaped from the track and went to work disconnecting Delta One Two's universal joints while Staff Sergeant Ko attached a tow bar to his company commander's Bradley. The two NCO's worked as fast as they could while Murphy nervously waited and monitored the progress of his company's withdrawal.
Sergeant Holmes was running up the hill as he saw his company commander waving his arms and yelling at him. He stopped and turned around to face Cartright, Miller, and Smigelski.
"Come on let's go! Better to ride than walk!" The entire fire team started toward Captain Murphy and Delta Six Six.
Sergeant Whitmore worked the ratchet in his hand quickly while he shined a light into the vehicle's engine compartment with a maglite clenched between his teeth. Finally, after endless minutes of feverishly cranking on a handful of bolts, the last nut fell free and he pulled the joints loose. With the ratchet still clenched in his greasy fist, he squeezed himself between the side of Delta One Two and the wall of the fighting position until he got around to the back of the vehicle. Just as he rounded the back, he found Sergeant Ko emplacing the last safety pin into the massive tow bar that connected his vehicle to Captain Murphy's.
"You ready to move man?" Whitmore yelled.
"Yeah, I'm ready to go. Let's get the hell outta here!" Sergeant Ko clambered up on top of his track and started toward the turret.
Sergeant Whitmore didn't miss a beat. He climbed up the side of Delta Six Six in record time, jumped in the gunner's hatch, and jammed the CVC on his head.
"We're ready sir!" Whitmore wiggled himself back through his hatch and down into the gunner's seat.
"Just a second Whit, let's get these guys first."
As Sergeant Holmes and his fire team reached Captain Murphy's vehicle, a Posleen railgun stitched the ground in front of Miller, almost scoring a hit. He squeezed his eyes shut and started running harder.
"You guys get in through the troop door! I can't lower the ramp with the tow bar hooked up to One Two!" Steve yelled down to them. "Give me an 'up' when you guys are inside!"
Captain Murphy watched as four of his soldiers started boarding his track, and was a bit surprised to see them assisting an Indowy into the back of the vehicle with them. Oh well, he had seen a lot stranger things in the last twenty-four hours.
Holmes banged on the turret shield door with the butt of his M203 as the last of his small group entered the troop compartment of the vehicle, and started closing the armored door. "WE'RE UP SIR!"
"Okay Simmons get us the fuck out of here!" Steve said over the intercom.
The driver responded by putting the vehicle into gear and easing it forward. Since he was towing another Bradley behind him, he didn't gun the engine, fearing that it might shear a pin and disconnect the tow bar. The vehicle's engine strained as it worked to drag the other track up the side of a fairly steep incline. Simmons kept adding more pressure to the accelerator until the two vehicles started to creep up the side of the hill.
Delta One Two still had turret power, and Staff Sergea
nt Ko was slinging lead, killing anything on four legs as his track was dragged slowly up the ridge.
"Dragon Steel, Dragon Six, over."
"This is Dragon Steel, send it, over."
"Dragon Steel, go ahead and fire immediate suppression on the FPF, time now, over."
"Roger Dragon Six, fire immediate suppression on FPF, out."
Steve looked over the back deck of his track to see Ko firing down the slope at the Posleen normals until his guns went dry. Around him the last of his command was cresting over the hill to the other side where the surviving Dragons were assembling to move out, and link up with the rest of the battalion somewhere down the road at Checkpoint One One. It felt like a hot knife in the gut to see how few of them were left now. But at least the ones that were still alive would get clear; he hoped.
"Dragon Six, Dragon Steel, shot, over."
"Dragon Steel, Dragon Six, shot, out."
The air was filled with metal and plasma as Steve's track crawled up the ridgeline at a seemingly glacial pace. His heart raced, as he looked back and forth at the advancing hordes down below, and the relative safety of cresting the hill up above. Where the fuck was the goddamned artillery?
"Dragon Six, Dragon Steel, splash, over."
At last! "Dragon Steel, Dragon Six, splash, out."
The first 155 millimeter WP rounds started impacting and exploding all along the line. Each round made a beautiful white puff of smoke that showered the immediate vicinity with burning white phosphorous. The final protective fires created a wall of death that separated the ravenous carnivores and the retreating infantry.
As the rounds detonated among the attacking aliens, they covered their victims in burning goo. The unlucky Posleen caught in the barrage shrieked as the white phosphorous burned them unmercifully. The fires were so effective and concentrated that the Posleen were forced to break and run. It didn't last long though, the God Kings rallied them in a matter of minutes, and the attack continued.
Through it all, the heavy rounds continued to fall, and inflicted a terrible toll, allowing the last of Delta Company to escape by the skin of their teeth.
When Steve crested the hill he could see the remnants of his command lined up on the trail down in the open valley, ready to roll out. There were five Bradleys left in the company, including Delta One Two that he was towing. He had one tank, which was out of fuel and was being dragged by the M88 recovery vehicle from his maintenance section. The first sergeant had his M113, and so did the medics and the mechanics. The tool truck was down there, along with his and the first sergeant's Humvees. The rest of his vehicles were either destroyed, or had retreated with the battalion aid station after shuttling casualties back. All of the vehicles were packed with surviving infantry, and wounded. The wounded were sprawled out on litters and seats in the vehicles, while most of the able bodied grunts rode on the tops of the tracks and the tank. Rucksacks and equipment were piled on and strapped to vehicles in total disarray, and the whole scene resembled a gypsy caravan rather than some sort of military unit.
He drove up to take his position in the middle of the formation before giving the order to move out. As he did so he looked at each of the vehicles and the soldiers riding on them in order to get a quick mental headcount. He was a bit astonished to see dozens of Indowy riding on top of his small fleet of vehicles along with his troops. It was a tight fit to be sure. The Bradleys and tank could not move their turrets because they had so many riders.
Steve shouldn't have been so surprised to see the Indowy with his men, since all throughout the second half of the battle he had seen Indowy running around with his troops, hauling equipment back and forth for them, and repairing damaged fighting positions. The hairy little creatures had been assisting him and his men throughout the latter part of the fight, and now they were retreating with them. So be it. It looked as if there was enough room for everybody.
"Guidons, guidons, this is Dragon Six. Let's move out. Keep the formation tight, and come up on the net if you have any problems. White Four, you've got the lead. Six, out."
0612 Hours May 19th, 2002
Manchu Field Trains
Brigade Support Area
Lieutenant Colonel Smith had his driver pull the Bradley up next to the Field Trains Command Post, right next to the HHC commander's Humvee. He pulled off his CVC and rubbed a hand through his closely cropped hair without removing his nomex glove. He looked back in the bustle-rack of the turret, and had to dig through a large drip pan, some empty ammo cans, a chock block, some empty Doritos bags, an oil can, and a case of MRE's before he found his Kevlar helmet. Once he did, he plopped it on his head and fastened the chin strap in place before dismounting the vehicle.
He jumped down onto the hard clay and felt the reassuring weight of his nine millimeter pistol slap against his side, held securely in its cheap black shoulder holster. He gazed off into what passed for the direction of "East" on Diess, to witness a somewhat beautiful sunrise as the golden globe in the heavens cast its light upon the rolling hills and mountains of this hostile, alien world.
The drive from Checkpoint One One had been a long one. The enemy had been left behind in the dust, and they hadn't been shot at for the last three hours or so. Colonel Smith had taken this opportunity to plan his next moves, and to try and reorganize his command. But as each moment without immediate life-threatening danger passed, the adrenaline flowed a little slower, and fatigue gradually settled in. He hadn't slept in days and the lower lids of his eyes felt like they were stuffed with cotton. His head repeatedly bobbed and jerked back upright as he caught himself dozing off. It was getting harder and harder to concentrate, and he figured it wouldn't be long before the hallucinations started, just like they did back in Ranger School.
The sunlight of a new dawn did wonders to clear the head and to wake a person up, but the "Great Heat Tab in the Sky" could only help so much.
"I need a cup of damned coffee." He said to himself as he started toward the entrance of the FTCP.
He opened the tent flap and entered to find the training NCO, Sergeant DuBois sitting in a folding chair with his legs propped up on a field desk, arms across his chest, asleep. Corporal Ahn sat next to him, talking on the radio while writing something in the log. The pot-belly stove was running and the inside of the tent was noticeably warmer than it was outside. Captain Fontaine stood there, staring at his operations map posted on the wall with a Styrofoam cup of cold coffee in his hand.
When Fontaine noticed that the colonel had walked in, he spit some tobacco juice on the ground and offered his right hand for handshake. "Welcome to Shangri-la sir."
The colonel, too tired for humor, politely smiled and shook his subordinate's hand. "Thanks Rick. What's the situation back here?"
"Well sir, we've basically got it under control now. I've taken command of the other field trains elements and we've deployed them roughly along this line." Fontaine pointed out the positions on his operations map while he briefed the battalion commander. "I've designated this line as 'Phase Line Katana.' We've kicked out LP/OP's forward, and we've managed to get a large number of crew-served weapons oriented on decisive chokepoints throughout the sector back here."
The colonel studied the map with its scores of grid squares and contour lines. The positions that Captain Fontaine had prepared were tactically sound, but they weren't supported by obstacles, dug in, and most importantly, occupied by infantrymen. The whole thing stunk of desperation.
"What about fires Rick?"
"Sir, I've got every surviving piece of tube artillery and mortars within the brigade situated in firing points to our rear. They have been resupplied, refueled, and provided with a fires plan. They are ready to shoot." Fontaine replied.
"What are their numbers? What have we got left?" The colonel was starting to fade, he had to force himself to concentrate.
"2-17 Field Artillery is intact. They've got eighteen tubes of 155 millimeter self propelled guns just now pulling into their positions. I
've got them setting up caches of rounds as we speak. We've got all the mortars from the Manchus. Headquarters Four Four blew a pack, so they've had to dismount one of the tubes, but they still have six guns total. All of the 81 millimeter mortars from 1st of the 506th made it back, and there are four of six tubes of 81 mike mike from 1st of the 503rd."
The colonel stood there silent for just a moment. He took off his helmet and yawned before pulling off his nomex gloves and rubbed his bloodshot eyes.
"Do you want a cup of coffee sir?" Fontaine asked.
Colonel Smith just grunted in the affirmative.
"Sergeant DuBois, could you get the colonel a cup of coffee please?" Captain Fontaine gently tapped the NCO on the shoulder, waking him from a light sleep.
DuBois opened his eyes and squinted hard until they focused and he could make out who was in the room with him. He saw his battalion commander standing there studying the map and Corporal Ahn dutifully passing radio traffic along.
"Roger sir. I'll cook up a batch." His voice cracked as he answered. He then went into the back of the M577 to find a canteen cup and the small propane stove.
"Sir, what's the official count? What's our total combat power?" Fontaine asked.
Colonel Smith reached into one of the many pockets of his olive drab nomex suit and retrieved a 3x5 card, with notes scrawled on it.
"The last count had us at five tanks, eleven Bradleys, and fifty-something infantry. We've got less than one-third of the combat power that we had yesterday. We're in pretty bad shape. There are only three tracks left in Bravo Company; Captain Rodriguez didn't make it. Lieutenant Christiansen is in charge there."
"Jake the Snake bought it? Jesus." Fontaine was shocked, Captain Rodriguez was not just a crude individual who scratched his butt and farted a lot, but he was a warrior and a regular killing machine. He was the last one anyone expected to die. The news came as quite a blow.
"Delta Company has a tank, five tracks, and some infantry left, and Captain Murphy is the only officer left in the company. Delta Tank has the rest with Lieutenant Hively in command. There just aren't enough of us left to cover our section of the battalion line, let alone covering the rest of the brigade sector." The colonel folded up his 3x5 card and put it back in a pocket. "Have we regained contact with anyone else outside of the battalion?"