THE TEN THOUSAND

by Harold Coyle

  Slowly Big Al rose from his chair and walked over to the map showing most of Germany and the anticipated route of the 4th Armored Division. He made a show of studying it before slowly turning to face the captains, majors, and colonels seated before him. With his feet spread shoulder width apart, his left hand on his hip, and using his right index finger to point at the map, Big Al began. "It is 709 kilometers from here to Bremerhaven. That, for those of you still used to thinking like civilians, translates to 432 miles. In the States, it would almost be the same as driving from New York City to Cleveland, Ohio. During that trip the biggest threats you face are the Pennsylvania State Police. On a good day you could make that drive in eight or nine hours. But," giving great emphasis to the word "but," "this isn't the States. This is Germany." Turning around to face the map, Big Al placed both hands on his hips. "Germany is one of the most densely populated areas in the world. It has a long and proud history. It is one of the only European countries the Romans never conquered. It has been racked by great disasters, both natural and man-made. During the days of the Black Death, plague wiped out anywhere from a third to half the population. Whole villages simply died off. During the Thirty Years' War, a full one third of the population of Germany was again wiped out. And in World War II, what the Germans still refer to as 'The Last War,' they lost seven and a half million people, half of them civilians. They have not forgotten that, none of it."

  Turning around quickly, Big Al stared at the assembled leaders. "To the Germans, a people who have a deep and long sense of history, we are simply another marauding army ripping up their fields, threatening their homes, and endangering their lives. They don't give a damn whether or not we are right or why we are doing what we're doing. We're just another group of soldiers passing through." Toning his speech down slightly, Big Al folded his arms across his chest. "Now, we have some advantages. First, because the American Army has lived with the Germans for more than fifty years, they know us and understand us better than just about everyone else that has gone before. The area of operations we'll be rolling through is used to seeing American GIs and dealing with us. So for many of those people this will be nothing new. Many of the procedures we will be using, from the recording of maneuver damage to the purchase of fuel from the civilian sector, are the exact same ones we used during peacetime training maneuvers. We're doing that because we have a reputation for paying in full all of our debts and doing as little damage as possible. I am hoping that reputation will allay any fears the civilians have and keep them from interfering with our operations."

  Using his index finger, Big Al raised his voice as he jabbed his finger at his officers to emphasize his point. "That reputation, however, can be pissed away in a heartbeat if you and your people go through Germany like a plague of locusts or riding high and wild like Attila the Hun. Right now the media and the German people are neutral. I expect each and every one of you to do your best to keep it that way. We'll have more than enough to deal with when the German Army and Air Force get their acts together without having angry civilians chasing us with shotguns and pitchforks."

  Allowing that point to sink in, Big Al wandered about the front of the room, folding his arms across his chest, then, when he was ready, stopping. Placing his hands on his hips again, he turned only partway to face his audience. "It will come to a fight. Somewhere at some time during our drive, it will have to come to a fight. The German Bundeswehr, despite the internal problems that you are hearing about right now, will eventually get itself straight. When it does, it's going to come at us with a vengeance. The Germans are fighters, proud and fierce warriors who have a long history of fighting against great odds, under the most adverse conditions, and winning. Now I fully expect that some German commanders and soldiers will choose not to engage us. The more the better. But we cannot count on that. What we can expect is that the bulk of their commanders will heed their call to duty and obey their orders. And once battle is joined, once we're locked in mortal combat on German soil, those who were undecided will no doubt join in their fight. Just remember that the words to the German national anthem, 'Deutschland Über Alles,' written in the mid-1800s, are a call for Germans, all Germans, to forget their petty loyalties and doubts and rally to defend the idea of a free and united Germany. Like I said before, we're nothing special, just the foreign army that happens to be passing through their nation today."

  Big Al again paused to let his officers think about what he had said. While he did so, he looked at the map. When he spoke, it was almost as if he were thinking to himself. But he wasn't. "This brigade has a tough job. It's going to be the rear guard, not only for your own division but for the entire corps." Still staring at the map, Big Al stretched his arms out and made a big circle. "We're going to move through Germany like a herd of elephants. In the center, all of our supply trains and service support units will travel just like the cows and young do in an elephant herd. Outside, protecting the herd from all comers, the combat brigades will move, just like the elephant bulls, ready and vigilant." Pivoting, Big Al jammed his index finger into the air again. "You people are the bulls. Your job is not to collect trophies or conquer territory. You are there to protect those cows in the center. Because you all know, just like an elephant bull knows instinctively, that if the cows of the herd die the whole herd will cease to exist."

  In an effort to lighten the somber mood of the assembled officers, Big Al was about to mention that he got the elephant idea from watching a National Geographic show on television with his grandchildren. The sudden thought of those grandchildren, whom he might never see again, was brutally painful. While still looking at the audience, Big Al wondered how many of those upturned faces, all younger than his and dutifully attentive, concealed similar thoughts. He, of course, knew that most of them did. So he decided to shy away from the mention of families and children. This, he knew, was already becoming hard enough without bringing such thoughts to mind.

  Pointing his finger back at the map, Big Al picked up where he had left off. "It is 432 miles to Bremerhaven. That means that each and every M-1A1 tank in this command that makes it there will consume over 3,000 gallons of fuel. Fuel, ladies and gentlemen, not tactical genius or firepower, is going to make or break us. Remember that first, last, and always. We're going to suck dry every gas station between here and Bremerhaven, and still we're not going to have enough fuel. If you, the combat commanders of the Tenth Corps, fail to save the cows, we'll all die. Period."

  When he was sure that everyone had had sufficient opportunity to think about what he had just said, Big Al again toned down his speech as he prepared to wind it up. "This will be a team effort, one in which everyone must work together if we're going to hold it together and succeed. Blown bridges will need to be replaced by the engineers, or the herd stops. Air defenders will need to cover the herd from above, a tough job under the best of conditions made worse by the fact that we're moving. Maintenance units will need to keep up with the herd while doing their damnedest to deal with the many problems that will crop up as we roll north. And the medical services will be hard pressed when the time comes to deal with casualties while staying up with everyone else."

  Big Al stopped again after mentioning medical services and looked down at the floor. In the audience, seated amongst her peers, Captain Nancy Kozak knew what was coming. She had seen the face of battle and understood the pain and concerns that were running through Big Al's mind. Nothing, she knew, ever took away the pain. You could justify it. You could soften it. You could even occasionally forget it. But you could never rid yourself of the pain of watching people entrusted to your care die in battle. Every commander carried the memories of those soldiers he had lost like open wounds, forever.

  When he finally looked up, there was a reflective, thoughtful look on Big Al's face. As he spoke, it was in a soft, concerned tone that slowly began to increase in volume and harshness. "We're not all going to make it. War means fighting, and fighting means dying. You've all seen, I'm sure, my dire
ctive concerning the care of our wounded. I know that many of you do not agree with it. Well, to those of you who don't, to those who think that we need to drag our wounded about with us because you were raised to believe in some perverted warrior code that requires you to bring all your men out together or not at all, I say fuck you." Big Al's sudden use of vulgarity shocked most of the assembled officers, just as he had hoped it would. When he had their undivided attention, he made his point. "Some have used the Marine retreat from the Chosen Reservoir in November 1950 and the fact that they brought all their wounded and dead out with them in an effort to get me to change my mind. Well, I'll tell you like I told them. This isn't Korea and it's not 1950. Then the enemy couldn't even tend to his own wounded. Here today it's different. I have great confidence that the Germans will give our wounded the same regard and respect that they will give to their own. Both the German military and the civilian medical care system will be able to deal better with our wounded than our own medical units that will be almost continuously in motion. We'll keep those wounded that can make it, evacuate by air from Germany those in bad shape if that option becomes available, but if it comes to a question of life or death, we will turn our wounded over to the Germans, period."

  Looking at his watch, Big Al glanced over to Dixon, then across the sea of faces that were watching his every move. "I've used up enough of your valuable time. But I felt it was important that you hear this from me one more time. This will be the last time that I'll be seeing many of you before we reach Bremerhaven. Until then, good luck. My thoughts will be with you. God bless you all."

  On cue, Scott Dixon jumped to his feet and yelled, "Attention!" and saluted. Every officer in the room followed suit, leaping up and bringing their right hand up into a crisp, snappy salute. Big Al merely nodded in acknowledgment, quickly turning and leaving the room without further ado, hoping that none of the assembled officers saw the tears welling up in his eyes as he bid his soldiers farewell.

  CHAPTER 12

  18 JANUARY

  The mood of the citizens of Niederjossa matched the gray, sullen sky as they trudged through the slush and around piles of old dirty snow that covered central Germany. Few paid attention at first to the German Army Volkswagen staff car, its canvas top down, as it pulled into the town center of Niederjossa without any flourish, without any haste. Like the rest of the midafternoon traffic, the staff car simply negotiated the narrow and winding streets of the small ancient German town built on the banks of the Jossa River. The German Army captain and his driver paid scant attention to the comings and goings of the civilians as they went about their daily routine. He was more interested in making sure that the five medium trucks that were supposed to be following were keeping up. Motioning to his driver to slow down, the captain turned his head around to the right to look for the trucks. As he did, he could not help but notice the stares from the civilians who, shaken from their gloomy preoccupation by the appearance of the German Army, stopped to watch when they saw the small staff car roll by.

  As in most towns, there was a look of real concern on the people's faces. While everyone knew what was happening from the nonstop news coverage provided by the television and newspapers, the appearance of real soldiers, armed and ready for battle, on their streets could not be ignored. It had to be dealt with.

  Many Germans had no real interest in the arguments put forth by their government. The Americans, they argued, were a benign presence. They had been there for years, one old woman told a reporter, and if they weren't, then someone else would have been. Better the Americans, she said, than the Russians or the English. Like the old woman, many Germans could not really understand why the men in Berlin were being so stubborn, so uncompromising in their dealings with the Americans. Most hoped that it was all a big bluff that, when the final call came, both sides would back down from.

  The presence of real soldiers in their streets was to the people of Niederjossa proof that the government was prepared to make good its threats. And if that happened, the people of Niederjossa knew that the clash of arms would be played out in their town, right there in front of their own homes, before their eyes and the eyes of their children. It did not take a great leap of imagination either to picture what would happen when that clash came. Almost as soon as the Americans began flowing into Bavaria, television stations across Germany ran special reports that showed file footage from recent conflicts depicting the carnage that modern war leaves in its wake. Spliced in with older footage from the last war in Germany, the special reports had the effect of reinforcing the positions of those of the political center and left who were calling for immediate negotiations and efforts by the government in Berlin to defuse the situation. When the pleas of German legislators, news correspondents, local officials whose communities lay in the projected line of march, and concerned citizens fell on deaf ears, many decided to take matters in their own hands. So it came as no surprise to the captain when he saw several Germans, both young students on their way home from school and old women, stop in midstride and reach down to grab a handful of snow. Knowing what was next, the captain turned back to his driver and told him to speed up.

  While the captain was able to make it through the center of town without much trouble, the trucks following the captain's Volkswagen caught the full weight of the German civilians' anger. When the first truck rumbled into sight, the citizens of Niederjossa had snowballs in hand and were ready. The soldiers riding in the rear of the truck were exposed to the full fury of the volley of snowballs, since the canvas sides of the lead truck were rolled up to allow the soldiers sitting on the bench seats that ran down the centerline of the truck's cargo bed to look out. The soldiers ducked and covered their faces as best they could while the truck's driver attempted to speed up. His efforts, however, were frustrated by the driver of a car that had slipped in behind the captain's Volkswagen and the lead truck. The driver of the car slowed down in order to allow his fellow townsmen a chance to launch a second and third volley of snowballs at the exposed and defenseless soldiers. Only the driver of the truck, a senior sergeant seated next to him, and a gunner who had been manning the machine gun set on a ring mounted at the top of the truck's cab escaped the full fury of the snowballs, but not completely. Several still splattered on the windows of the cab, some with a pronounced snap, indicating that some of the more vicious peace-loving civilians had put stones in the center of their snowballs. One particularly well aimed snowball even came in through the opening where the machine gunner had been standing and hit the machine gunner square on the head.

  While the machine gunner jumped up to shake his fist at the shouting civilians and the sergeant tried to pull him back down into the cab, the driver of the truck inched closer to the slow-moving car until he lightly tapped the car's rear with the massive steel bumper of the truck. The driver of the car quickly understood the message. Knowing that the truck driver meant the first tap as a warning, the driver turned onto a side street as soon as he could, leaving the truck driver free to pick up speed and roll clear of the town center.

  Only after they had cleared the last of Niederjossa's houses did the sergeant slap the machine gunner on the head with the palm of his hand. Recoiling from the sudden slap, the machine gunner yelled out in perfect English, "Hey, what in the hell did you do that for, Sergeant Rasper?"

  "Because, Specialist Pape, I know you and you've got a big mouth."

  Still angry and upset, Pape looked down at the floor of the cab, and then back to Rasper. "I wouldn't have said anything in English. I just wanted to give them the finger."

  "That, you idiot, would have been just as bad. Germans use different hand and arm signals to communicate their displeasure with their fellow countrymen. Now if you can't do what you're supposed to and behave like a good little Nazi, I'll throw you in the back with the rest of the company." When he saw that Pape was finished pouting, Rasper stuck his thumb up. "Now get up there and see if the other trucks made it out and have caught up." While Pape cli
mbed back up to man his machine gun and check to their rear, Rasper looked down at his map and spoke to the driver. "Let's start picking up speed and see if we can catch up with Major Ilvanich. We're almost at the bridge."

  "Goddamned German Nazi sons of bitches. One town hails you like a hero and the next spits in your eye. I think the major's right. We should just say the hell with it, put on Russian uniforms, and let everyone hate us. At least we'd know what to expect."

  Rolling his eyes, Rasper shook his head and repeated his order. "Quit thinking, Pape, and get back up there."

  Ignoring the blast of frigid air that hit him as soon as he stuck his head up out of the cab, Pape grabbed the machine gun ring mount and pulled himself up. Planting his feet shoulder width apart on the cab's seat and bracing himself against the steel ring mount, Pape managed to get a good stable stance while the wind whipped at his back. Looking down the road back toward Niederjossa, he saw the last of the trucks carrying Company A, 1st Ranger Battalion, leave the town. Second Lieutenant Fitzhugh, whom everyone had begun calling Lieutenant Fuzz after the Beetle Bailey cartoon character, was in that truck bringing up the company's rear. Like the truck that Rasper and Pape were traveling in, Fitzhugh's truck had its canvas sides rolled up, exposing the soldiers of Company A. Wearing German Army uniforms and rank insignia, and riding in German Army trucks "borrowed'' by Major Ilvanich at a German Army reserve depot, all the Caucasian soldiers of the company were grouped into one platoon. Led by Fitzhugh and nicknamed the "Salt'' Platoon by Sergeant First Class Raymond Jefferson, the senior black soldier in the company and leader of the "Pepper'' Platoon, this platoon was the up-front platoon, the one that Ilvanich intended to use when pretending to be the commander of a German infantry company. Jefferson and all the black soldiers in the company were formed into what Ilvanich referred to as his sneaky devil platoon, which would slip around any enemy while Fitzhugh held the enemy's attention. Riding in two of the covered trucks in the center, Jefferson and his platoon, retaining their own weapons and uniforms, kept track of where they were and what was happening by watching through holes discreetly cut into the canvas sides covering their truck's cargo bed. The third truck, in the center of the column, carried extra rations, fuel, ammunition, and the American uniforms and weapons for Fitzhugh's platoon.