by Harold Coyle
A young captain of cavalry, who commanded the mechanized cavalry units in this area, lightly tapped Guajardo on the shoulder to get his attention, then pointed to the north, toward the road. Taking his time, and making a great show of a calmness that he really didn't feel, Guajardo hoisted his binoculars to his eyes and began to search in the direction indicated by the captain.
At first, Guajardo didn't see what the captain was pointing at. Then, as if it simply had popped out of nowhere, he saw a dark green vehicle moving down the road. With his binoculars, he studied the vehicle. It was a Bradley, probably the scout version. If that was so, there had to be another, somewhere near. Following the road back to the north, Guajardo searched for another vehicle. He saw none. Perhaps it was halted, covering the lead vehicle from a concealed position. Without stopping his search, Guajardo asked the cavalry captain if he saw any other vehicles.
The captain responded with a curt no, he did not.
Guajardo grunted. Perhaps, he told the captain, the scout vehicle was being overwatched by attack helicopters. Still searching, the captain responded that he had thought of that, but saw no dust or shaking vegetation that normally betrayed the presence of a hovering helicopter. Again, Guajardo responded with a grunt. "Perhaps," he said, "we have a careless scout."
The captain of cavalry lowered his binoculars, scanning the horizon with his naked eyes before responding. "Perhaps, Colonel, that is true.
The only way to be sure of that, sir, is to fire."
Guajardo, his binoculars still riveted to the enemy scout vehicle, didn't react at first. Then, understanding that the captain was seeking permission, he turned his head, calling over his shoulder while still holding his binoculars up. "Then, Captain, perhaps you should do so."
Unfamiliar with the proper etiquette for starting a war, the captain snapped to attention, saluted, and responded to Guajardo's comment with a resounding "Si, Colonel."
As the captain of cavalry issued the order to open fire, Guajardo chuckled.
In time, he knew, after they had been brutalized by combat, such giddiness would be gone. Only then, when the enthusiasm of the first battle had been washed away by blood, would he know if his soldiers could do what was expected of them.
Though he knew where the Panard recon vehicles were hidden, Gua jardo could not see them as they pulled out of hidden positions and into their firing positions. Even after they fired, throwing up plumes of white smoke and dust from the muzzle blast, Guajardo still could not see the two vehicles.
Neither, he noted, could the American. Both Panards had fired within a second of each other. And both missed. The round of one Panard impacted on the road just in- front of the American Bradley while the round of the second hit the shoulder of the road to the left of the Bradley.
Even before the dirt thrown up by the near misses began to fall back to earth, the Bradley jerked to the left. For a second, Guajardo caught a glimpse of the Bradley's commander as he dropped out of sight and pulled his hatch shut. It was obvious that the driver, seeing the explosion to his immediate front and not the one to the left, had reacted instinctively and without guidance from his vehicle commander, for his maneuver was taking the Bradley right into the guns of the Mexican Panards. Of course, Guajardo thought, maybe the Bradley driver did know what he was doing. After all, standard drill in an ambush was to turn into the ambush.
That possibility, however, was quickly dismissed when the Bradley began belching smoke from its on-board smoke generator. Rather than hide the Bradley, which the white billowing smoke would have done if the Panards were behind it, the smoke now silhouetted the Bradley, making it an ideal target. Not that the smoke was necessary. The first round that had impacted to the front of the Bradley had landed short because the commander of the Panard that had fired it had made an error in estimating the range. By turning toward the Panard's position, the Bradley had closed the range, eliminating the ranging error. The commander of the Panard, unable to see the strike of his first round because of the muzzle blast and the dust kicked up by it in front of his vehicle, fired a second round without making any corrections. Thus, the actions of the Bradley's driver, and the failure of the Panard's commander to make any corrections, established a perfect ballistic solution for the Panard's second round.
Striking just below the driver's hatch on the Bradley, the Panard's 90mm high-explosive antitank, or HEAT, round detonated. A HEAT round has a shaped-charge warhead which, when detonated, forms a superheated, pencil-thin jet stream of molten metal molecules. These molecules, which come from the metal cone in the warhead that forms the jet stream, can exert over 125,000 foot-pounds of pressure against a single point. In the case of the Bradley, this force easily defeated the vehicle's aluminum armor. In a span of time that lasted less than a second, the superheated molecules in the jet stream from the Panard's round literally pushed the molecules of the Bradley's armor out of the way. Once inside the Bradley, the superheated molecules of the HEAT round, now joined by molecules from the Bradley's own armor, cut through anything that stood in their way, including the chest of the driver. As it ripped through the crew compartment of the Bradley, the jet stream cut through anything it made contact with, igniting fires as it went. When the stream hit one of the TOW antitank guided missiles stored in the Bradley, itself a HEAT
round, and penetrated the thin aluminum skin of its warhead, a chain reaction was initiated.
From where Guajardo stood, the impact of the 90mm round on the front slope of the Bradley, followed by secondary explosions, was spectacular.
One second the Bradley was there, blindly charging for all it was worth toward the Panards. In an instant, a sudden flash and a great puff of thick black smoke obscured the Bradley. Then, before the puff of smoke disappeared, the Bradley shuddered and threw off a coat of dust, like a dirty metal toy that had been hit by a hammer. Almost instantaneously after that, the hatches on the turret and in the rear of the Bradley blew open, venting great sheets of flame that leaped up for a split second, then disappeared. Still, the Bradley rolled forward, trailing thick, dirty white and black smoke from numerous openings. A second series of internal explosions, caused by the detonation of more warheads stored on board, caused the Bradley to shudder again. This time, as the sheets of flame, which were caused by the burning of the TOW missiles' rocket fuel, appeared, the Bradley slowed, veered to the left, then rolled to a stop.
The lone scout was dead.
The scene elated the captain of cavalry. "We have done it, Colonel Guajardo. We have killed the Bradley. And with only three rounds!"
Watching the burning Bradley, Guajardo's response was cold. "Four rounds, Captain. Your Panards fired four rounds. The second round of the other Panard flew over the Bradley. The commander of that vehicle either overcompensated, adding too much of a correction, or did not take into account the fact that the American, headed toward him, was reducing the gun-to-target range." Turning away from the burning Bradley, Guajardo looked into the eyes of the surprised captain of cavalry. "Either way, you need to talk to both of those commanders. They were in ambush. They should have known the exact range to the road before the American came.
Such errors in the future will cost us dearly if we do not make corrections now. Is that understood?"
Snapping to attention, his face showing confusion because of what he took to be a rebuke, the captain of cavalry responded with a crisp "Si, Colonel."
After an awkward moment, Guajardo placed his right hand on the captain's shoulder. "It was a good kill, Captain. I do not begrudge you that. But it was only one kill. The American 16th Armored Division alone has 316 Bradleys. If we hope to make an impression upon them, we must make every shot and every life count. You understand, don't you?"
The captain of cavalry looked down at his feet, then up to Guajardo's eyes. "Yes, Colonel, I do. Forgive me for being so foolish. This is, you see, my first battle."
Grasping the back of the captain's head, Guajardo shook it. "You do not need to apologize
. This is new to all of us. Now, quickly, move your people before those other 315 Bradleys come thundering down on us."
20 kilometers south of nuevo laredo, mexico
1315 hours, 9 September
"Colonel Dixon, the 9th Cavalry is in contact!"
The sudden announcement, blurted over the helicopter's intercom, caught Dixon dozing off. Up since 0200 hours that morning after less than two hours sleep, Dixon had been on the move since then. He had been on hand in Laredo when the Mexicans had blown up two of the three bridges on the Rio Grande in the faces of the Special Forces teams that had tried to seize them at H-Hour, 0400 hours. After that, he had driven south of Laredo to watch the river crossing of the 2nd of the 13th Infantry, lead unit of the 2nd Brigade. When he saw that all was going well there, he had flown over to Roma, where the 1st Brigade had its forward command post, to see how their.initial operations were going. Only after Dixon had been satisfied that all was in order did he return to the division tactical command post, or TAC CP, located outside of Laredo, to monitor the battle and confer with the corps G3 over a secure land line.
Arriving at the TAC CP shortly after 1000 hours, Dixon had been off again by 1200 after receiving an update from the division assistant intelligence officer, his own current operations officer, and conferring with Big Al, the commanding general, whom Dixon had met coming in as he was going out.
It was not surprising, then, that the steady beating of the helicopter's blades and the rhythmic vibration of the engine were all that was needed to put Dixon to sleep. Blinking his eyes, Dixon looked about for a moment in order to get himself oriented. Once his head was as clear as it was going to get, he hit his intercom button. "Say again that last report, Chief."
His pilot, Chief Warrant Officer 3 Bomaster, realized, from Dixon's voice, that he had been asleep. "We just heard a spot report over the division command net that 1st of the 9th Cav had made contact. No grids or specifics were given, sir."
Taking a deep breath, Dixon pulled the map case that had partially fallen off of his lap up to where he could see it. In one corner of the map case was a small card that had the call signs and frequencies of selected division units on it. Finding the frequency for the 1st of the 9th Cavalry Squadron's command net, he reached over to the command and control console of the helicopter, and set that frequency on one of its FM radios.
As soon as he did, the silence of the headset he wore was shattered by a string of excited conversations. The use of illegal call signs, and familiarity with the voices, made it easy for Dixon to identify who was talking on the radio. The squadron commander, using his nickname Scout 6, was grilling his A Troop commander, who responded to the call sign Alpha 6. Every now and then, the squadron operations officer, with the handle Scout 3, would cut into the conversation with a question. The operations officer, however, was for the most part ignored, as squadron commander talked to troop commander.
"Alpha six, say again the location of the ambush, over."
"This is Alpha six. I do not have a six-digit grid on it. We have only an initial contact report, over."
"This is Scout six. As I recall, an initial contact report includes location and nature of contact. If you have that information, then pass it on.
If not, tell me, so I can get division off my back, over."
There was a pause. From the squadron commander's tone of voice and questions, Dixon could tell that he was about to lose his temper. Not that he blamed him. It was obvious, from the short conversation that Dixon had already heard, that the troop commander was waffling, that one of his lead elements had screwed up and been caught, and that the troop commander was in the process of trying to cover either his own stupidity or that of one of his subordinates. Dixon could almost picture the A Troop commander, sitting in his command post, trying to come up with at least some kind of useful information to mollify his enraged squadron commander.
The urge to protect his troopers, not to mention his own pride and career, Dixon knew, was strong. While such sentiment was laudable and acceptable by many in peacetime, in combat, when timely and accurate reporting meant the difference between success and failure, there was no room for such sentiments. Failure equaled lives lost for nothing and that, to Dixon, was intolerable. Unable to restrain himself, Dixon was about to key the radio and turn the screws another notch. The squadron commander, however, beat him to the punch.
"Alpha six, this is Scout six. Okay, lad, answer me, yes or no. Do you know where the contact took place, over."
"This is Alpha six. Negative."
"Do you have contact with the element in contact or anyone who can observe them, over."
"This is Alpha six. Negative."
"Do you have any idea of the size, location, or nature of the enemy force that was engaged, over."
"This is Alpha six. Negative."
There was a pause. When the squadron commander came back, he did not bother to hide his anger. "Alpha six, do you fucking know anything?
Over!"
Again, there was a pause before the troop commander replied. When he did, his voice was low, almost sheepish. "This is Alpha six. Roger.
A scout track from the Alpha two one element moving south on the main red ball called in that he was under fire. Alpha two one has been unable to contact him after that report. Over."
The squadron commander articulated the anger that Dixon felt. "You mean to tell me that you had one Bradley, all by itself, running down the main road? That you may have pissed away the lives of five men just to find out there's Mexicans out there who are willing to fight?"
After a moment, a moment that Dixon knew had to be the most difficult one in the life of the young A Troop commander, he came back and answered his squadron commander. "This is Alpha six. Affirmative.
Over."
Having heard enough, Dixon turned the radio off. For a moment, he merely stared out the window of the helicopter, watching the sparse vegetation of northern Mexico go by. Why, he thought, did every war have to start the same way? Why did young soldiers always have to pay with their lives so that their leaders could learn their trade? As much as Dixon felt sorry for the troop commander, he knew that he had to go. Not only had he sinned by sending out a single vehicle on recon, he had tried to cover up his mistake. Officers, especially cavalry officers, who thought that it was permissible to submit false or inaccurate reports in combat could not be tolerated. Too many lives rode on the decisions that were made based on what the cavalry reported. Besides, after the verbal beating and public humiliation the troop commander had received on the open-air radio net, Dixon knew the troop commander's confidence would be broken beyond repair. So, to the five scouts who everyone was now assuming were out there somewhere killed or wounded, Dixon added a sixth casualty, the troop commander, who would become a psychological casualty, probably for life.
In the current operations van, located in the division main command post, Cerro turned the FM radio frequency from the cavalry squadron command net back to the alternate division command net. Like Dixon, he had been listening to the squadron commander, eavesdropping as they called it. Like Dixon, he was depressed after listening to the conversation, but not for the same reasons. The A Troop commander, Cerro felt, had been incredibly stupid. Relief, Cerro felt, would be too good. For what the commander had done, anything less than public castration would be too light a punishment. The thought of sending a lone scout out into hostile territory was, doctrinally as well as in terms of common sense, nothing less than criminal.
No, it was not the fate of the scouts or their troop commander that concerned Cerro. It was the death of innocence that depressed him. Right up to H-Hour, just before the Mexicans dropped the bridges into the Rio Grande, there had been division staff officers who had believed that the Mexicans, knowing full well that it would be futile to resist any American military initiative, would do nothing. After all, as the division G2 pointed out, in 1916, when Pershing chased Pancho Villa into Mexico with three U.S. Army brigades, the Me
xican Army had done nothing other than put on a show of force. This attitude, with reports from J-Stars and long range ground recon teams, which had reported that major Mexican units had already withdrawn south, had encouraged the feeling that this exercise would be a piece of cake. The G3 plans officer, a major of great intellect, had thought that the division would push south to Monterrey unopposed, occupying and patrolling its assigned sector while the two governments negotiated. When all the media hype had died down, which he estimated would take no more than six weeks, and both sides could reach agreement without losing face, he had predicted, U.S. forces would declare the operation a success, disengage, and withdraw north.
The shedding of blood, on both sides, however, made such a scenario unlikely. As the sinking of the HMS Sheffield and the Argentine cruiser General Belgrano during the Falklands War had demonstrated, once
blood has been shed and the resulting national passions unleashed, talk of logic and common sense is drowned out by the cries for revenge and victory to justify the sacrifice. Blood, once spilled in the name of God and country, could only be satisfied with more blood. That the Mexicans would have allowed the Americans to enter their country unopposed had, in Cerro's mind, been a foolish notion to begin with. All that remained to be seen, at this point, was how much Mexican pride was worth, how much the American government was willing to sacrifice to support an ill-chosen policy, and how much of a sacrifice the American public would tolerate once it found out that there could never be a clean, decisive victory.