They had tortured a few citizens in Parsons, who had all but told them that there were about a hundred men in the Harman Valley. Battlefield interrogations always brought the best intelligence. He seriously doubted the rabble could inflict any real casualties on his own forces.
* * *
“To the Russian and American tanks, it was the scourge of the war,” said the general in a hushed tone as he,Tyce, and Bill Degata arrived at the Center position.
“I think it’s more like the scourge of my war,” said SSgt. Diaz. “I never saw so much gun grease in my life.”
“Well, you just wait, SSgt. All that maintenance, oiling, and cleaning on the 88 and the Quad-50 will pay off.”
Tyce rubbed his hand across the barrel of the big gun, his red lens flashlight showed the shiny, oiled mechanisms. He could clearly read the German word “RHEINMETALL” stamped down the side. He was going over the motions he would use as the weapon’s new loader, and he wanted to see the breech mechanism one more time. Things were all unfolding as best they could and now he would have to do his part in the dark. He wondered if some German kid on this very gun had done the same thing eighty years before, his gut twisting in knots as he awaited a different kind of Russian tank in a war that now seemed long ago.
“The Russians were so scared of it, it’s said they nicknamed it nozh dlya masla, or the ‘butter knife.’ Its high-velocity shells were designed to send a flak round up in the air to shoot down American and British bombers. The Germans learned early in the war that if they gave it a good shell, it could slice through most of the tanks on the battlefield. They later mounted it on their heaviest tanks, the Tiger and King Tiger.”
“Let’s hope it slices through these Russians like butter, too,” said SSgt. Diaz.
The nighttime critters had come out. Tyce and the men sat on the edge of the breastwork they had dug for the big cannon just above their log cabin command post. They were all tense inside, but the evening’s sounds were familiar and put them at a sort of ease. These were the sounds of their homeland.
“We’ll see,” said the general. “I’ve been sitting on this historic stuff for many years and always thought about what I would do in an invasion. When I heard through the grapevine that there was some resistance popping up, I knew I had to lend a hand one more time. Let’s just hope those shells we made under the Russians’ noses are worth a damn. Without the time to craft some fins or sabot petals, we’re relying on the guns’ sheer might.”
“What are sabot petals?” asked SSgt. Diaz.
“Well, they allow us to make the shell into a sort of dart. The way we had to make them is more like a bull—”
“Dragon Skewer, this is North,” came a crackled but hushed voice over the radio. It was Lieutenant Zane.
The general had named the German 88mm gun position “Dragon Fire” to inspire the men in the coming battle. Only no one could pronounce it in German, Drachen Feuer, and kept saying “Dragon Skewer” instead. Tyce heard the latter was supposedly the name of some Japanese anime character. “But she’s hot,” the soldiers had said, “and she carries this really, really big battle-ax.” From then on, there was no turning it back; the nickname was now officially “Dragon Skewer.”
He had also given the men’s positions, dug in and concealed across the valley, the names Kursk-North, Kursk-Center, and Kursk-South. Kursk was the name of a famous Russian tank battle from World War II.
The Russians had won the battle of Kursk, and when he briefed the men on it, he got a glint in his eye as he channeled some of the general’s energy and described how the Germans had been too bold and had been defeated by the Russians piecemeal, just like he intended to do. The Russians had lured them in, then hit them hard in their advancing flank.
He explained that the tables were now turned, and this Russian commander they were facing was also too bold, just as their German counterparts had been over seventy years before.
So they would steal the name of one of Russia’s glorious battles and use the same tactics against them. The trap they had laid, and the gun they were going to use, deserved some historic references, Tyce thought. The history lesson and the motivation of tying their smaller valley fight in Harman, West Virginia, to that of a larger, massive, famous tank battle was just the ticket. The “Kursk” thing hadn’t worked, either.
The men liked that Tyce was trying to tie in history and had learned tricks from previous wars to use against the Russians, but ultimately the duty of regimental historian was probably best left to the general. So Tyce stuck with inspecting every last detail, motivating his men and manning a whopping big gun.
“North, this is Dragon Skewer, go ahead.” said Tyce.
“Roger, sir, I see dismounted movement ahead. They are about a platoon abreast, coming into the tip of the Y now.”
“Roger, I copy. Report once they have hit the trigger line.” Tyce was well aware that North was in a dangerous position. But that’s why they had the best camouflage. Their position, by design, was about to be overrun. The men would have to remain completely undetected in order for the plan to work.
“Dragon Skewer, this is Center, I can confirm. I now see about twenty-four dismounted Russian infantry. They are already on both sides of the river. The main force looks to be just behind them. I think I can make out one of the BTRs,” said another hushed voice. It was Sergeant First Class Garrison from Lieutenant Zane’s B Troop Bradley section.
“Skewer copies all,” said Tyce giving in to the new name.
The waiting was killing Tyce, but there was no other way. If the plan worked, Tyce and the men would make their smaller force appear much larger and stronger to the Russians. But first came the surprises.
The minutes ticked by.
If things worked the way they had planned and rehearsed it, there would be radio silence for just over ten minutes.
At the thirteen-minute mark, Tyce began to worry.
“Hope we don’t kick off at unlucky thirteen,” said SSgt. Diaz, who had come in behind them and was shielding her watch to check the time.
Tyce was about to tell her to go down below and check on her machine gun fighting section once more when the radio quietly came alive, breaking the still air.
“Dragon Skewer, this is Center . . . clear to fire . . . the enemy has crossed phase line red!”
SSgt. Diaz was looking through the AN/PAS-13 thermal sight system they had rigged onto the old German cannon.
“Major . . . I can confirm . . . I can see the targets. Just where we predicted. They are at max range, er . . . it’s on phase line red.”
“Roger. Fire when ready.”
Diaz took a second more, carefully turning the small adjustment wheels on the underside of the big 88mm gun. Diaz had oiled and lubed the gun as the general had instructed, and the excess grease on the camouflage-painted gun made thin, shiny rivulets down the cold stamped steel in the glimmer of the moon. SSgt Diaz, as a heavy gunner herself, was a natural to fire the weapon.
“Time to find out if those rounds you loaded were worth a crap,” said SSgt. Diaz, a big grin barely visible as she jerked the handlebar trigger.
Boooom!
The cannon let out a tremendous roar, followed by a loud clang as the barrel jerked backward and the spent copper shell casing fell from the gun onto its metal outriggers.
The still of the night was broken, and the Russian infantry and the lead BTRs started firing—more out of alarm than anything, because none of the fire was directed at them. It seemed to be wild shooting.
“Dragon Skewer. Center. You sure got them going, as you said they would. Missed by sixty meters. The BTR is now stopped. But your fire came extremely close to some of the dismounted Russian soldiers. So no up or down adjustments required, just go right about sixty.”
SSgt. Diaz was back up in the gun quickly making and fine-tuning the sights with the adjustment given. She turned the small dial on the gun six clicks and then pointed at Tyce. Tyce grabbed another shell. They were d
own to seven 88mm projectiles. Tyce was glad Diaz couldn’t see him in the darkness. He was starting to perspire heavily, and his prosthetic leg was beginning to wobble. They didn’t need the whole attack failing because he dropped a round or lost his leg hobbling around to grab rounds in the dark.
* * *
“What the fuck was that!?” yelled the Russian colonel into the radio.
“Sir . . . it flew over the lead vehicles’ heads. It sounded like a high-speed shell. A heavy artillery piece of some kind.”
“Fucking impossible,” said the assault colonel.
The vehicles opened up their guns on the hills. No one had seen a muzzle flash, so they fired blindly toward anything they thought might conceal a high-velocity gun. A clump of trees, a darkened farmhouse, anything to stop this new threat.
The colonel ordered the men to cool it and only fire at identified targets. With all the noise, their outgoing fires were preventing anyone from hearing any incoming shots and identifying its location.
“Find and destroy that fucking gun. But no wasted shots.” he yelled into the radio.
* * *
“Up,” said Tyce as he slammed another 88mm shell into the big gun’s breech. The back hatch closed onto the shell automatically with a heavy clack.
Without waiting, Diaz pulled the handlebar a second time, and with a boom, the mighty gun fired the second tungsten penetrator downrange.
Since Diaz and the gun had no real armor-piercing rounds, the tungsten they were able to craft in the middle of the night at the metal foundry was essentially just a really hard bullet. Like a big steel fist, it would slam into the target, but at over two thousand feet per second. There was no way to tell if it would succeed, and nothing to do short of doing what they were doing now: trying the impossible and hoping for the best.
Spaang! came the sound of high-speed metal on metal.
They both looked at each other in the dark, a look of pure glee across their faces.
“A hit!” Tyce said, overjoyed and giving Diaz a high five.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Their momentary celebration was interrupted as three 30mm rounds struck the trees they were standing under and sent searing-hot shrapnel in all directions. It was probably just searching fire, because no more rounds followed, but it was enough to knock Tyce backward. He was blown literally off his feet and momentarily stunned by the concussions. Diaz was not as lucky.
Tyce shook his head and crawled over to where she lay motionless. A three-inch piece of steel stuck from her arm, and even in the darkness he could see she lay in a pool of her own blood.
CHAPTER 24
Ned’s Center position was manned by a small group of twelve of his special forces soldiers. The rest of his men had set up a defensive position at Tyce’s actual HQ. They’d redistributed a bunch of their ammo to the other positions, but kept a few AT rockets and had crafted a lot of improvised explosives. They were dug into small fighting holes that were only thirty feet off the east side of Route 72, near a green highway sign that read DAVIS 19 MILES. They peered anxiously through their NVGs at the green silhouettes of the BTR-90s who were firing occasionally into the hills trying to find Tyce and the German 88.
“They seem pretty well distracted,” he whispered to the soldier in his dugout. “I’d say part one of the plan is working.”
The nearness of the enemy’s armored vehicles made their adrenaline pump. But they were ready. Major Asher’s orders had been tight. They had done no fewer than three full battle rehearsals, and so far, the route the enemy vehicles had taken was consistent with their predictions. As they had guessed, the infantry passed right by them fixated on whatever their vehicles were firing at, and were now about 150 meters in front, reluctant to get too far off the road in the dark pine forest. They appeared not to be really checking the area over much, and they also looked like they had no night vision. The vehicles’ drivers were clearly more anxious, bounding swiftly from cover to cover. The sounds of Tyce’s gun seemed to have increased their pucker factor.
The second German 88mm round had scored a hit. It hadn’t penetrated but had ricocheted right off the front slope of the armored hull. From the sound of it, it had hit with tremendous force. Enough that the vehicle stopped just in front of Center’s position while its crew, stunned, tried to make out what had just happened.
“Go,” whispered Captain Blake.
Captain Blake watched his men. A specialized sapper team he’d hand selected, led by his trusted Sergeant, Sergeant Dean, followed closely by two corporals, Franklin and Miller. The three leapt from their small fighting hole and ran toward the parked BTR-90.
They got within a few feet, and Sergeant Dean’s NVGs flared up when Corporal Miller lit his Molotov cocktail. As the alcohol in the old Jameson bottle burned brightly in the otherwise dark night, Sergeant Dean’s NVGs washed out, and he ripped them off and pulled his carbine to his shoulder to cover the other two.
In the moonlight, the big silhouette of the BTR-90 was now plainly visible to the naked eye. Dean’s stomach churned as he realized they would also be visible to the dismounted Russian infantry just in front of the vehicle.
Corporal Franklin jumped onto the vehicle and threw a huge homemade grenade down the open hatch. It was crafted from an empty 10-pound can of pork and beans, the gunpowder left over from making the 88mm high-velocity shells, and a fistful of heavy horseshoe nails from the farm. The boys had nicknamed the thing “the Whopper.” As it tumbled down through the turret, Franklin could clearly see the BTR-90’s commander inside illuminated by “the Whopper’s” sparking fuse and the red vehicle lights, still trying to assess the damage from the German 88 hit. Franklin then motioned to Miller, who handed him the lit Molotov. When he looked back inside, he saw a commotion as the crew scrambled to douse “the Whopper,” as he threw the Molotov behind it, jumped off, and didn’t look back.
As the two men ran back to their fighting hole, a loud but muffled explosion took place behind them, followed by a grisly gout of flame blasted twenty feet straight up from the top of the BTR’s hatch like the tail of a comet. Then began a series of detonations as the ammunition inside the BTR began to explode, lighting up the entire valley.
The three men pulled their carbines up, watched the raging flames, then looked at one another, awestruck and silent, then back to the fire.
* * *
“Fuck me!” said the Russian colonel aloud. Frantic radio reports were now coming in from multiple vehicles simultaneously.
“Sir, vic 2 just got hit. It looks like it was anti-armor. I heard the round. It sounded like a high-velocity shell. Sir, it must have penetrated. Vic 2 is burning. I can’t see anyone getting out. The rounds are cooking off inside. It looks like they’re all dead . . . burned,” came the report.
“Okay, okay. No death reports on the radio. Why are they shooting over the lead vehicles? That means they can see all our lead vehicles and troops. Now listen, we have to advance. No more slow searching. The enemy is somewhere in the hill to our frontage. The middle of the valley splits at the end. In the middle is a hill mass. That hill has some heat spots on it. Sight in, and continue your attack now. Weapons free. We will have reinforcements soon.”
He knew none were coming, but he could hear the men’s voices wavering, and he couldn’t take a chance that they would lose their nerve at this critical moment.
* * *
“Dragon Skewer, this is Center. They have taken the bait. They are continuing past my position in force and headed right toward South. They are advancing rapidly now. The dismounted troops are moving at a fast jog, too.” said Ned.
Tyce crawled over to the radio. His head still felt like it was filled with a hundred buzzing bees, “Copy all . . . Continue as planned,” said Tyce thickly, his tongue stuck to his mouth and the words coming slowly, “Call the headquarters . . . confirm South is all set up.”
“Roger, you all good to go up there, sir?” asked Ned.
Tyce couldn’t concentrate
well enough to answer again, and he ignored the last transmission. He crawled back over to SSgt Diaz and shook her. After a few seconds, a deep moan came from the hefty woman. She rolled over onto her back, sat up, and stared at Tyce blinking, her face covered in dust and dirt.
“What the fuck was that, sir?” she said in a dopey voice.
“We got hit.” Tyce managed to squeak out.
She looked at her arm. “Would you look at that!” She pointed to the shrapnel and blood pumping from the wound and pouring down her arm. “Fuck me.”
“It’s going to be OK, Staff Sergeant.” Tyce tried to reassure her.
“Doubt it.” she said and proceeded to rip the chunk of metal free from her flesh. Tears of pain flowed down her cheeks leaving streaks in the dirt, “Ow.” she said quietly.
Tyce’s wits were starting to return, and he could think a little more clearly, “Anyhow, I don’t think they have our position. Otherwise they’d be pumping more rounds at us.
The radio squawked up again, “Dragon Skewer. This is Center. Another two vehicles just passed. I say again, two more BTRs crossing phase-line Red. They’re in your kill zone, sir. Need you to blast them. Do you receive me?” Ned’s voice sounded a little more desperate.
Tyce grabbed the radio, “Roger, Center,” Then turned back to Diaz, “We have to get the gun back in action. Are you OK to keep firing?”
“Don’t think so,” she said tearing off part of her shredded uniform sleeve and wrapping it twice around the bleeding wound. “My right arm doesn’t seem to want to work.”
“Okay.” Tyce made a move toward the gun, then halted himself, “What about loading? Can you still carry the rounds to me?” They had staged the rounds in a little dugout pit covered with logs a good twenty meters back. It was common military practice to keep the ammo and the gun separate so if one took a hit it didn’t destroy the other.
Diaz didn’t reply, she just stood up, ran over, and grabbed one of the heavy 88mm rounds and hobbled back, her wounded arm dangling by her side.
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