by Nick Ryan
“Well, Major Nowakowski?” the Colonel asked with arch politeness. “Do you have any more questions for Sergeant Edge?”
The Polish Major flushed crimson with indignation. He blustered for a moment and then lapsed into simmering silence. He was pale with anger. Sutcliffe gave the man a cold contemptuous stare and then dismissed him from his thoughts. He turned his attention back to Edge and became brisk and business-like.
“You found the ford by accident?”
“I didn’t discover it, sir,” Edge said. “Kalina Nowakowski from the Polish Territorial Defense Force and survivors under the command of Captain Walker found the site. They escaped the Russians by drifting downriver while Sergeant Waddingham and I went inland to scout the enemy’s defenses.”
Sutcliffe looked thoughtful. His XO leaned close and muttered a comment in the Colonel’s ear. Sutcliffe nodded, then regarded Edge speculatively. “And what do you think our next move should be, Sergeant?”
Edge seemed surprised that he was asked, and equally surprised that the question required an answer. He had considered the military options from every angle during the trek from the river to rejoin the Squadron. There was only one clear solution.
“We outflank the bastards,” he said and then covered his blunt outburst with a belated, “ – sir.” Sutcliffe smiled thinly. Edge went on. “We hit them immediately while they are disorganized and without leadership, Colonel, and we slaughter them.”
Sutcliffe nodded. He looked impossibly tired. He was helped to his feet by an aide and moved to a map affixed to a whiteboard. He peered at the terrain for a long moment. The tent remained silent, broken only by the distant sound of revving engines. It struck Edge that the Colonel was hesitating. Sutcliffe turned back to him.
“We lost over a dozen Strykers today trying to take the bridge, as well as two Mortar Carriers. More than a hundred men were killed in the assault, and many more died when the Russian ground-attack aircraft pounced,” he lapsed into a long moment of reflective silence and then straightened suddenly as though waking from a bleak nightmare. “There are some amongst NATO Command who believe we should withdraw – pull back to Warsaw and abandon the attack against the flank of the Russian spearhead.” Sutcliffe didn’t need to glance in the direction of the tall German diplomat for Edge to understand that politics were in play. “But I’m not prepared to accept that the young men and women who died on the battlefield today gave their lives for nothing. It’s not the Cavalry way.”
Edge nodded.
The Colonel’s eyes flicked to Nowakowski.
“Major?”
“Colonel Sutcliffe?”
“We’re attacking the bridge again tonight.”
The Polish Major said nothing. He was still simmering with affront, still stinging from insult. He continued to glower at Edge in hateful silence.
The Colonel turned away from the map. He seemed filled with renewed grim resolve as he addressed the rest of the room. “Gentlemen, spread the word. We’ll reconvene in an hour from now for a briefing.”
Sutcliffe’s final words were for Edge. “Be back here in an hour. Tonight’s attack is based on your intelligence, so I want you on hand to share everything you saw. And bring Sergeant Waddingham with you.”
*
Edge spent the hour between leaving and returning to the TOC sitting with Waddingham under the shade of a tree. The conversation was desultory. A medic interrupted their companionable peace to inform Edge that Captain Walker was being evacuated. Then Kalina Nowakowski found the two men.
She came through the woods following a tire-worn trail from the Polish camp. She had washed and changed her uniform. She regarded Edge with cool professional detachment, but her voice was surprisingly soft.
“I heard what happened,” she said, indicating the distant shape of the TOC with a jerk of her head. “It’s the second time you have embarrassed my father.”
Edge said nothing. Kalina squatted down in the grass and looked away for a moment as if searching for words. She smiled thinly. “My father has ambitions of political power in Poland,” she explained. “He thinks he is the nation’s next Tadeusz Kosciuszko.”
Edge shrugged. His tone turned surly. “Never heard of him.”
“He was a famous Polish military engineer, statesman and military leader who became a national hero two hundred years ago. My father aspires to political power and sees his route to leadership through bold military victories. This war, for him, is an opportunity to make a reputation.”
“Your father is nothing but a strutting peacock,” Edge said with icy belligerence. “He likes to play at being a great general, but war is no place for amateurs. Your father is going to get a lot of soldiers killed – and you might be one of them.”
“He’s entitled –” she began the mild reproof.
“Entitled? He’s not even skilled enough to rank as a Lieutenant,” Edge’s voice brimmed with contempt. “And I’ll be damned if I’ll stand by and take the blame for his failings.”
Kalina’s cheeks flushed red. She rose slowly to her feet. “I didn’t come here to argue with you. I came to warn you. My father is a dangerous, vindictive and ambitious man. He won’t let anyone stand between his path to glory – not even an American Sergeant. You must watch your back. He will look for revenge.”
*
Edge stormed out of the TOC tent in a simmering, fiery mood; a volcano of rage on the brink of eruption. Sergeant Waddingham recognized the signs and knew well enough that Edge needed to vent his frustration, so like a lion tamer thrusting his head into the jaws of a savage beast, he asked with bemused mildness, “What do you think of the plan?”
Edge snarled but did not speak or slow his pace. He just stormed off through the woods towards the four vehicles of 2nd Platoon. It was late afternoon, yet the warmth of the day remained trapped beneath the forest canopy, tainting the languid air with the odors of sweat and fuel fumes.
“I’m looking forward to working with the Polish troops,” Waddingham enthused, goading Edge into a reaction. “They’re going to be right in the thick of the fighting tonight.”
Edge’s step faltered and for a moment it seemed he might turn and snap a comment. But instead he stiffened with restraint and marched on. Waddingham trailed in his shadow.
“Do you think Major Nowakowski will personally lead the attack? It would certainly make me feel more confident knowing his vast military experience and undoubted leadership qualities were guiding us forward when we engage the Russians,” Vince Waddingham grinned.
That was it.
Edge spun on his heel, spitting venom. His eyes blazed with malevolence. “Fucking Nowakowski is a useless fuckin’ show-pony. The damned fool is likely to get us killed!”
“Do you think?” Waddingham taunted him.
“Yes, I fuckin’ do!” Edge snapped. “Christ! The whole plan depends on that bastard. It’s madness. Utter madness.”
Waddingham shrugged and his tone sobered. “The river crossing…”
The Sypitki.
The plan the Colonel outlined for the night attack called for the column of Polish Wolverines to ford the river and then sweep west to crash upon the Russian flank, supported by three M1128 MGS’s loaded with sabot rounds and guided by Edge’s scout Platoon. To ensure surprise the 1st Squadron would first mount a feint attack on the bridge. The Polish column had grudgingly been given the critical outflanking role because the Wolverines were ‘amphibious’. The Strykers were not.
“Nowakowski’s a bastard,” Edge said savagely. “And I don’t trust him.”
Waddingham stared off into the distance. In truth he shared Edge’s misgivings. Major Nowakowski’s hunger for glory and his complete lack of combat experience might turn the attack into an abject disaster – and there was nothing anyone could do to prevent it.
He was about to say more when he saw the Squadron’s Command Sergeant Major striding towards them. The CSM was the senior enlisted NCO, and Colonel Sutcliffe’s right-hand man. He
was a big, burly veteran with a buzz-cut of grey spikes and a weather-worn face, creased as a city roadmap.
“You seem pissed,” CSM Perryman gruffed. He looked Edge up and down, his gaze challenging.
“I’m not fuckin’ happy,” Edge admitted.
Perryman shrugged. “No one is, including the Colonel.”
Edge frowned. “The plan was his.”
“No. The plan was a diplomatic deal. NATO had to be appeased.”
“NATO? You mean this cluster fuck is all because of politics?”
“Of course,” Perryman said. “But that doesn’t mean the Colonel wants you getting caught up in Nowakowski’s grand plan for glory. You’re to guide the Wolverines through the woods to the ambush point and nothing more. There’ll be no mad heroics, understand?”
Edge stared at the CSM and got a nod for confirmation. Clearly the Colonel was just as unhappy with the arrangements as Edge.
Edge understood. The Polish Major was pushing his own ambitious agenda for glory and using the fragile NATO alliance as a bargaining tool to make a name for himself.
Edge let his thoughts drift. In his imagination he saw the forest on the far side of the river that linked the shallow crossing point to the flank of the Russian’s dug in defending the road. He saw his Strykers moving forward and the Wolverines in their wake, creeping closer to the enemy as the minutes prior to attack ticked down. Then he saw the Polish Major waving his Wolverines forward impulsively, hell-bent on glory and triumph. In his mind he saw the Russians on the edge of the woods turn with their RPG’s and the sudden chaos as the Wolverines ran impetuously into the hail of missiles. The forest would erupt in fireballs and smoke and the element of surprise would be lost, along with any hope of capturing the bridge…
“What if Nowakowski leads his troops on mad charge for glory?”
“Let him,” Perryman said bluntly.
“And if I’m ordered to support his stupidity?”
“Ignore him,” Perryman said. “You don’t take orders from Major Nowakowski. You’ve been attached to his column to guide him to the enemy. You take your orders from Colonel Sutcliffe – and so do the MGS’s.”
*
Edge assembled the troopers of 2nd Platoon around him and explained their role in the upcoming attack. The men listened in stony silence. Then it was time for the pre-battle rituals. Soldiers stripped down their weapons and re-assembled them, re-loaded magazines, and attended obsessively to the myriad of small details that might make the difference between life and death in a battle. Men who carried M9 bayonets sharpened the lengths of steel to a razor’s edge and tested the blades by shaving hair from their forearms.
Then all four of the vehicles were given the same dedicated attention; engines were tuned, tire pressures checked, spare magazines for the 50cal machine guns loaded aboard and everything loose tied down or tightened. Finally the fuel tanks were brimmed full.
An hour before sunset, the four Strykers moved out. Keeping their speed low to avoid tell-tale rooster-tails of dust across the skyline, they took a wide swinging route to the river, hooking well to the east and then following the banks of the Sypitki until they reached the crossing point.
The vehicles parked well away from the riverbank behind a dense grove of trees. Every man was on alert. The rear doors of Edge’s Stryker swung open. Waddingham and the three other members of his scout team dismounted.
Edge led the scouts to the riverbank, creeping cautiously as the night closed in. The sun sat low in the sky and a chill breeze came hunting across the landscape, whipping through the long grass and rustling the leaves in the trees.
When they reached the bank of the Sypitki they found their own trail of scuffed footprints by the water’s edge, left behind when they had emerged from the river only a dozen hours earlier.
Edge and Waddingham crouched close to the water. Nightfall came crashing down around them. The trees on the far side of the river turned to dark silhouettes and the first stars appeared in the sky. The rim of the world was lit by the pale glow of last light.
“Once you’re across the river, I want you to take your men five hundred yards west, towards the Russian positions,” Edge spoke quietly. “Set up a perimeter and stay in contact.” He checked his watch. The 1st Squadron were scheduled to commence their feint attack on the bridge at 2015 hours, and the column of Polish Wolverines were due to reach the river crossing an hour after nightfall to ensure their arrival went undetected. “If it’s all clear in thirty minutes, I’ll bring the two ‘A’ section Strykers across as support. Hal Calhoun will remain with the last two Platoon vehicles on this side of the river to guide the Polish column across. Once everyone is over the river safely, well push north until we intersect the fire trail that you and I discovered last night. That will be the assembly point.”
Waddingham nodded. He had smeared his face in camouflage paint. He motioned his squad forward and the scouts waded waist-deep into the black burbling current of the river. Waddingham and Edge made a final time hack. “I’ll see you on the other side in half an hour.”
*
All the light had been bled from the western sky and now the night was dark. Edge glanced at his watch. Waddingham and his scout team had been gone for fifteen minutes. Hal Calhoun sidled up to him from out of the shadows and thrust a tin mug of coffee into Edge’s hands. He accepted it gratefully and turned to stare across the horizon for any sign of the approaching Polish Wolverines.
Nothing.
It was too early to fret. The column was not expected for another forty-five minutes… and yet Edge felt a faint twinge of apprehension. He shivered slightly and walked a slow path between the parked Strykers with Calhoun at his side. The troopers were waiting idly. Some read dog-eared paperbacks. Others penned quick notes to loved-ones back home. One of the scouts dozed fitfully. Every man had his own personal way of dealing with the anxiety before combat.
Edge left the tree-sheltered grove and walked down to the river’s edge. A sentry heard him coming. The man was laying prone in the tall grass by the riverbank.
“Anything?”
The scout shook his head.
The night was ominously quiet as though the world held its breath, anticipating the dreadful horror that would follow.
Edge stayed by the riverbank for several minutes, his ears straining for any sound that might presage danger. Fish splashed in the water and from somewhere in the distance an owl hooted and the night sky filled with the beat of huge wings.
Finally it was time. He cast the dregs from his coffee mug into the grass and walked briskly back to the waiting Strykers. “Mount up.”
Engines rumbled to life, belching black exhaust into the night. Edge drew Calhoun aside.
“The Poles should be here within thirty minutes. Bring them straight across the river. We have to be in position to launch the attack when the distraction around the bridge kicks off, so keep ’em moving.”
Hal Calhoun smiled. “You’re talkin’ to a Texan. Herding ornery cattle is in my blood.”
The two ‘A’ section Strykers moved down to the riverbank with Edge’s vehicle in the lead. The driver nosed the vehicle into the water, moving at slow speed and low revs, pushing a bow-wave. The river rose to the top of the huge tires and sprayed the air with rain-like mist. The second Stryker followed close behind, churning the loose muddy riverbed. Both vehicles emerged onto the far bank, streaming water, their chunky tire treads scrabbling for purchase.
Edge stood upright in the command hatch, issuing orders in a subdued voice while the driver sat hunched over his controls, steering through his DVE. The AN/VAS-5 Driver Vision Enhancer was a passive thermal imaging system designed for use in darkness or periods of degraded visibility during combat, but even with the technological assistance, stealth proved impossible. The forest on the fringe of the river was dense, the ground rocky and uneven. Every engine rev and every felled sapling in their path made Edge cringe.
Finally Vince Waddingham loomed out of the
darkness, glowing green in Edge’s night-vision goggles. He waved the vehicle to a halt and the silence of the night slammed down around them.
Edge dismounted from the Stryker and went forward. Waddingham leaned close to his ear and indicated the positions of his scout team. “We’re all clear. No sign of the enemy.”
Edge checked his watch.
The scouts moved another hundred yards deeper into the woods and Edge positioned the Strykers to overwatch their advance and protect the river crossing. Through the canopy of leaves the night sky filled with stars and the forest came alive with insects. It would still be a few minutes, Edge decided, before the rumble of the arriving Wolverines would drown out the silence. He walked the perimeter, moving between the scouts, and then came back to where Waddingham crouched.
The two men did not speak. They both knew the mission, and both understood the risks that came with the work. Edge’s stomach grumbled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten in hours. He checked his watch and grunted.
“It’s time.”
He listened hard into the distance, expecting to hear the approaching Polish armored vehicles. The night was unsettlingly quiet. Edge felt the first premonition of trouble slide in his chest. He went back to the Stryker, frowning.
“White Two, White One,” Edge called on the Platoon net. “Are the Polish Wolverines in position?”
“One, this is Two,” Hal Calhoun replied. “Negative. They have not arrived. Repeat. They have not arrived – and we’ve had no word from HQ about the cause of the delay.”
“Christ!” Edge cut comms in a sudden white-hot fit of fury.
He went forward to Waddingham, seething with anger. He swore bitterly. “The fucking Poles haven’t arrived! No one knows where they are!”
“You’re shitting me,” Waddingham snapped his head round.
It took all of Edge’s restraint to prevent himself from raising his voice to a shout. “They should have been here ten minutes ago.”