Team Yankee: A Novel of World War III (Revised & Expanded Edition)

CHAPTER 2 FIRST BATTLE

Both Colonel Reynolds and Captain Bannon stood there transfixed, staring at the point where the two Russian jets had disappeared up the valley. Bannon’s mind was almost numb. He kept trying to convince himself that maybe he hadn’t really seen two Russian jets, that maybe he was mistaken. It had to be a mistake, he told himself. “We can’t really be at war. That isn’t possible. We can’t.”

As if in response to Bannon’s desperate effort to deny the reality of their situation, a crash and rumble like distant thunder rolled over them, causing the two commanders snapped their heads back toward the east. From where they stood, they could only see the hill across the valley. But neither man needed to see beyond that to know what the distant noise was. An endless chain of distant crashes and rumblings caused by hundreds of guns could only be the Soviets’ preparatory bombardment on the cavalry’s forward positions.

Bannon turned and looked at the colonel who continued to stare east as if he were trying to see through the hill across from them. The numbness and shock Bannon had felt was giving way to a sickening, sinking feeling. They had failed. The primary purpose of the US Army in Europe was to prevent war. Deterrence. That’s what was supposed to happen. But it had failed. Something terrible had gone wrong, and they, NATO, the United States, the United States Army, his unit, and he had failed. Now they had to fight. They were at war. And at that moment, Bannon felt very alone, very unsure of himself, and very scared.

Eventually Reynolds turned toward Bannon and took to regarding him with an expression that betrayed nothing. If he were feeling the same things, he wasn’t showing it. Reynolds, on the other hand, saw the shock and uncertainty on Bannon’s face. He had seen that very same look before, in Vietnam, so Bannon’s reactions didn’t surprise him.

“Well, Captain, let’s see if those buckets of bolts you always brag about are worth the money the government spent on them,” he muttered in same gravely tone of voice he often used when addressing a subordinate. “Get your company in MOPP level II, standby to occupy your fighting positions, and stay on the net, but don’t call me unless you need to. I expect the cavalry will come screaming back through that passage point like a whipped dog. Be ready to cover them and get them out of the way as fast as you can. Any questions?”

Bannon took in what the colonel was saying. What was there to question? This was what all the training was about. All their preparations were for this moment. Now all they had to do was put it into action. “No, sir, no questions.”

“Well then, get moving and good hunting.” Without waiting for a response, the colonel pivoted sharply on his heels and began to move back to his jeep with a quick, purposeful pace. He did not look back. Reynolds was setting the example, one he expected Bannon to follow.

As Bannon turned back toward the PC where he had left the platoon leaders, a new series of artillery concentrations could be heard impacting closer to the Team’s positions. Additional Soviet artillery units were joining in, hitting the cavalry’s rear positions. The latest series were coming down just behind the hill on the other side of the valley.

“Hell, the colonel could be cool and walk,” Bannon muttered to himself. “This is my first war and I damn sure don’t care about impressing anyone with my calm right now.” With that thought in mind, he broke out into a slow run, weapon, protective mask, and canteen bouncing and banging against his body as he trotted through the trees to the PC.

As he neared the PC, Bannon could see the platoon leaders, Uleski, and the first sergeant watching the colonel’s jeep go tearing down the logging trail, throwing up stones and disappearing in a cloud of dust. They too had heard the jets and the artillery and understood what they meant. Upon seeing them, Bannon slowed down to a walk, caught his breath, and moved up to them before they had a chance to shift their attention away from the cloud of duct kicked up by the colonel’s jeep and over to him.

“All right, this is it,” he snapped crisply in a tone of voice he hoped came across as being calm and confident. “The Russians are laying into the cavalry. When Ivan finishes with them, we’re next. I want everyone in MOPP level II. Leave the nets over your tracks but clear them away from the front so that they can quickly move forward into their fighting positions. First Sergeant, take the PC and fire team from the Mech Platoon that are designated to man the passage point and get down there. Lieutenant U, you’ll stay up here with the ITVs and fight them with 2nd Platoon if necessary. I’m going to move my tank down to the right of 3rd Platoon and fight from there. Other than that, we do it the way we’ve trained and planned. Stay off the air unless you have something really critical to report. Anyone have any questions?”

He looked into each man’s eyes, just as the colonel had done to him. He saw the same dark thoughts he had reflected in their expressions. Only the first sergeant, also a Vietnam vet, wore the stern, no-nonsense look he always did. For a few moments there was silence, broken only by the continuous crash and rumble of the artillery in the distance. “All right, let’s move out and make it happen.” Without waiting for a response, Bannon turned and began to head slowly towards his tank. As the colonel had done for him, he was setting the example for his people. He suspected that they would do the same with their tank commanders, and their TCs would, in turn, get their people moving. At least, that’s what he hoped would be happening.

The drumbeat of Soviet artillery continued unabated in the distance, growing louder but less intense. The Russian gun crews had to have been getting tired of humping rounds by now, Bannon thought, for the rate of fire was slowing down. The distant rumble was joined by the noise of Team Yankee coming to life. The PC’s driver cranked up its engine, revved it, and began raising the rear ramp. The crews of the ITVs and Alpha 66 were also cranking up their engines.

As he neared 66, Bannon could see Sgt. Robert Folk, his gunner, in the cupola. Folk had his combat vehicle crewman’s helmet, or CVC, on and was manning the M2 machinegun, ready for action. Bannon tried to yell to him to dismount with the rest of the crew so they could tear down the net. The noise of the engine, the muffling of outside noise through his CVC, and Folk’s preoccupation with trying to see what was going on to his front frustrated Bannon’s efforts. It wasn’t until he started climbing up onto the front right fender that Folk noticed his commander was calling out to him. Cocking his CVC off to one side in order to hear, Folk leaned forward.

“We need to get this net off!” Bannon called out over the whine of the tank’s turbine engine. “You and Kelp get out here and help me with it. We’re moving.” Without waiting for a response, Bannon dropped back down to the ground again and began to pull down the support poles and spreaders that held the net up as Folk took off his CVC, leaned over toward the loader’s hatch, and, with his left hand, slapped Kelp, the loader, on top of his CVC.

Popping his head up through the open hatch, Kelp looked over at Folk. Folk, in turn, pointed to Bannon who had already begun tearing down the net. Getting the message, Kelp also removed his CVC and climbed out to help.

“Let’s get this net down and stowed, just like we do during training,” Bannon called out as the two crewmen joined him. “Only let’s do it a little faster this time, OK?” Neither man answered him as he saw the expression on their faces was little different than the stunned disbelief he’d seen on his platoon leaders’ faces.

Folk dropped to the ground and circled the tank, pulling up the net’s stakes as he went. Kelp started to pull down the supports and spreaders that were resting on the tank, taking care to keep the collapsing net from draping over the tank’s nine hundred plus degree exhaust and melting it. With the stakes out and the poles down, the hard part began. The net caught on everything, including the crewmen taking it down. Tugging seldom did any good. One had to find what the net was caught on, pull it free, and roll it up until it caught again. Trying to hurry only seemed to make it worse. Despite the delays, the crew finally gathered the net up into a pile on the bustle rack and secured it. They hadn’t done the neatest job of stowing it, but it was probably one of the fastest.

Before they climbed in, Bannon told his crew to pull their chemical protective suits on. This was MOPP level II. As Folk and Kelp dug their suits out of their duffle bags, Bannon walked forward to the driver’s compartment and told Pfc. Joseph Ortelli, the driver, to climb out and get his suit on. As Ortelli reached over to kill the engine, Bannon stopped him, not wanting to run the risk of screwing something up. The last thing he needed was a tank that wouldn’t restart. It was running, and at the moment he didn’t want to mess with anything that was working properly.

As Bannon pulling his own chemical suit on, he noticed his crew was watching him. This caused him to slow down some. In part he didn’t want to fumble and fall. That would have been more than embarrassing, for like the platoon leaders, they were taking their cue off of him. He had always been told that calm, like panic, was contagious. Now was a good time to find out. Besides, it had been a long time since they had trained in their chemical protective clothing and he had to figure out where all the snaps and ties went. The heavy protective clothing was a necessary evil of modern war.

When Bannon was finished, he turned to Folk. “We ready to roll, Sergeant Folk?”

Folk looked at him for a moment and blink as his expression softened a tad. “Yes, sir. We’re ready.”

“Are all weapons loaded and on safe?” Bannon’s second question caused the relaxed look to be replaced by one of embarrassment as both Folk and Kelp stopped pulling at their suits and looked at each other. “I take it that that’s a big negative on my last question.”

Sheepishly, Folk replied that it hadn’t occurred to him to do so because they were in an assembly area with cavalry still out in front. All the range safety briefings and all the times the men had been harangued about keeping weapons clear and elevated except when on a live fire range were coming home to haunt them. Bannon couldn’t blame his crew. It was their first battle. He could only expect them to do what they were taught in training, no better, no worse, for soldiers rarely rise to the occasion. Rather, they default to their training. In the case of Alpha 66’s crew, and the rest of Team Yankee for that matter, while the training had been good, it had been conducted under peacetime conditions, conditions that were now a thing of the past.

Stopping for a moment, Bannon leaned back on the side of the turret and looked at his crew. “Alright, guys, here it is. We really are at war. I don’t know what’s happening yet, but from the sound of that artillery, you can bet the Russians are letting the cavalry have it. The cavalry is out there to buy us some time and let us get our shit together. That’s what they get paid for. When the Russians finish with the cavalry, we’re next. What I want you to do is to calm down and start thinking. Remember what we did in training and do it now. Only think! There are a couple of habits we picked up in training that you’re going to have to forget about. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

With a nod and a glance sideways at each other, they gave their tank and team commander a subdued but nervous, “Yes, sir.”

“Alright, finish getting your suits on. We’re going to move over to the right of 3rd Platoon and take up a position there. If nobody has any questions, let’s get moving.”

By the time the crew of 66 was finished and mounted, the rest of the crews and tracks in the headquarters position were ready. The first sergeant, having taken over the headquarters PC, had already pulled out of position and was moving down the logging trail with his jeep following. Bannon also noticed all the tracks around him, and more than likely elsewhere, were running. As the cavalry’s covering force battle would last for hours, possibly even as long as a day, there was no sense in leaving the tanks running. All that would do was burn diesel, something the M-l Abrams was very good at, and create a tremendous thermal signature, another unhealthy trait the M-l was guilty of. The savings in diesel would be worth a small violation of radio listening silence. Besides, it might be good for the leadership of the Team to hear their commander’s voice as well as give him a quick shot of confidence by seeing if they were on the ball and listening. Unless the Soviet radio direction-finding detachments were fast, Bannon figured it would do little, if any harm.

Checking first the remote box to ensure that the radio was set on the Team net, Bannon keyed the radio and paused for a moment to let the radio’s small cooling fan come up to speed. “ALL BRAVO 3 ROMEO ELEMENTS, THIS IS ROMEO 25. IT’S GOING TO BE AWHILE BEFORE THOSE OTHER PEOPLE GET HERE. SHUT DOWN AND SETTLE DOWN. CHECK YOUR SYSTEMS AND LOCK AND LOAD. ACKNOWLEDGE, OVER.”

One by one, the platoons checked in and acknowledged. Uleski, in Alpha 55, simply stood up in its cupola, turned toward 66, and waved, indicating that he understood. The ITVs did not respond but shut down. With nothing more to do there, Bannon turned around in the cupola and faced to the rear. Locking the push-to-talk switch on his CVC back so he could talk to the driver on the intercom while hanging on with both hands, Bannon began to back the tank onto the logging trail. As he leaned over to the right side of the cupola, watching the right rear fender as 66 moved back, Kelp popped out of the loader’s hatch and leaned over to the left, watching the left rear fender. Once on the trail, the tank made a pivot turn to the right and started forward and toward 3rd Platoon.

The drive down to 3rd Platoon was a short one, only about 700 meters. But it felt good to be in the tank and moving. Standing in the TC’s hatch of a tank, rolling down a road or cross-country was always an exhilarating experience for Bannon. He never tired of the thrill. Despite all the pain, misery, and headaches a tank could inflict upon its crew, it was fun being a tanker. It was the little joys in life that kept a soldier like Bannon going, and right now he was in desperate need of a little joy.

As they moved along the trail, he kept an eye to the left, catching an occasional glimpse of the 3rd Platoon tanks. Their nets were still up but were propped up clear of the exhaust as well as the tank’s primary sight. When 66 passed the last of 3rd Platoon’s tanks, Bannon ordered Ortelli to turn left into the forest and move down a small trail cut by a combat engineer vehicle that had dug the Team’s positions. As they had not planned to fight from here, 66 was taking one of the alternate firing positions from Alpha 33, now to their immediate left at about seventy-five meters. 33 would now have only its primary position to fire from and one alternate firing position to its left. 66 would not have an alternate. If 66 were detected and fired upon while in this position, the best Bannon could do would be to blow smoke grenades, back out of sight, and hope that whoever was shooting at them gave up before 66 crept forward and reoccupied the same firing position.

Unlike the other tanks in the team, rather than stay back and hide in the forest, Bannon decided to ease 66 into its firing position. From there he would be able to observe the village, the valley, and the hills across the valley. The walled farm was just off to the team’s extreme right was the only key piece of terrain he could not see. Satisfied with his position, he ordered Ortelli to shut the engine down and to get out with Kelp to cut some foliage and drape it across the tank as camouflage. In his place, Folk came up to the TC’s position to man the M2 and monitor the radio while the rest of the crew were on the ground.

Using an ax, Ortelli began to cut some branches as Kelp and Bannon draped the camouflage net over the rear of the turret and back deck without putting up the supports or stake it down. All Bannon wanted to do was to break up some of the tank’s outline. Finished with the net, the two of them began to place the branches dragged over by Ortelli on the side and front of the tank not covered by the net. They were careful to ensure that the gunners’ primary sight was not blocked and that the turret could be traversed some without knocking off the foliage or snagging the net.

When they’d done as much as they could, Bannon stepped back a few meters to view their handiwork. To his eye, Alpha 66 looked like a tank covered with branches. Someone looking hard would be able to see it, no doubt about that. But, with a little luck and some harassment from the air defense artillery, any Russian pilot zooming about overhead would be moving too fast to take a hard look. Satisfied that they had done the best they could, the crew remounted and waited.

With nothing else to do for the moment, Bannon took off his CVC, laid it down on top of the turret and stood upright as he took to watching to the east. With the radio turned up so he could hear any traffic being passed, he began to listen to the noise of the battle to his front.

The rumble of impacting artillery had been joined by new sounds, chief among them was the faint crack of high velocity tank cannons firing. The cavalry, no doubt, was now fully engaged, returning artillery and tank fire. That meant the enemy was out in the open and coming on. With no way of finding out what was going on out there if he kept his radio on the team net and aux receiver on the battalion command net, Bannon was half tempted to switch his auxiliary radio receiver over to the cavalry’s frequency. But doing so would have meant leaving either the battalion or the team net. Were he still up on the headquarters position, that would not have been a problem since Uleski would have been close enough to monitor the net he wasn’t. After mulling the problem over without coming up with a solution, Bannon resigned himself to the fact that until the battalion started to pass information down, if they ever got around to doing so, he would just have to be like a mushroom and stay in the dark. Besides, at the moment, he felt it was more important to be near 3rd Platoon and listening to the team’s command net just in case Garger had forgotten that morning’s lesson on radio listening silence.

Now the waiting began. It wasn’t even 0830 yet. The last hour had gone fast but had been emotionally draining. Everything had changed that morning. Wars, once started, take on a life of their own. What occurs and how they end are seldom controllable by either side. World War I, World War II, Korea, and Vietnam all took twists and turns no one foresaw. Bannon had no reason to doubt that despite all the planning and training that had gone into preparing for World War III, it wasn’t going to be any different. Those thoughts were disquieting. His mind needed to be diverted to something less ominous and more comprehensible.

After pulling on his CVC, muffling most of the noise of the unseen covering force battle, he locked the push-to-talk switch back into the intercom position. “Gunner, have you run a computer check yet this morning?”

“No, sir, we haven’t.”

“Well, let’s make sure we don’t get any surprises whenever Ivan gets it in his head to pay us a visit. I intend to go home a veteran and collect some of those benefits Congress is always boasting they provide. How about you, Kelp?”

Kelp stood on the turret floor and looked up out of the opened loader’s hatch at Bannon with a grin. “I’m with you. My uncle was in Nam. He’s always tellin’ me how rough it was. By the time we get done kickin’ Russian ass, I’ll be able to tell ’em what a real war was like.”

Bannon left the CVC keyed to the intercom position so that the rest of the crew could hear their conversation. “Well, if Ortelli can keep this beast running, and Sergeant Folk can hit the targets I find him, you and I should do pretty well, Kelp.” Both Ortelli and Folk chimed in, vowing that they were going to be the ones waiting for Bannon and Kelp. After a couple more minutes of banter, when Bannon judged that they were in a more settled state of mind, he started them on the crew checklist. With great deliberateness, he went down the checklist, item by item, watching as the crewman responsible for each item performed it. In the process, he began to feel more comfortable as he saw the initial shock slowly fade. By the time they were done, he was able to relax, both physically and mentally, for the first time that day.

Bannon took his CVC off again. To his front, off in the distance he could see pillars of black smoke rising in the sky, joining together high above the horizon before drifting away to the east. Burning tanks. There were a lot of them. No doubt about that. Hundreds of gallons of diesel, together with ammunition, rubber, oil, and the other burnable material on a tank provides plenty of fuel when a penetrating round finds its mark and turns even the most sophisticated combat vehicle into nothing more than a funeral pyre for its crew.

The noise of the battle was more varied now. The initial massive bombardment was replaced by irregular spasms of artillery fire as the artillery batteries shifted their fires to hit targets of opportunity as they presented themselves. The sharp cracks, booms, and reports of tank cannon fire were suddenly trumped by the thunderous crash of an artillery unit firing all its guns simultaneously, leaving Bannon to wonder how long the cavalry could maintain the tempo of the battle they were involved in.

Modern war consumes ammunition, material, and, worst of all, men at a frightening rate. Rapid-fire tank cannons, coupled with a sophisticated computerized fire control systems and laser range finders were capable of firing up to eight aimed rounds per minute at tank sized targets at ranges in excess of 2,000 meters. Guided munitions, fired from ground mounts, vehicle launchers, or helicopters had a better than ninety percent probability of hitting a target up to 3,000 meters. Soviet multiple rocket launchers and US MLRSs could fire numerous rockets in a single volley that were capable of destroying everything within a one-by-one kilometer grid. And then there were the chemical agents produced by the Soviets, lethal concoctions capable of penetrating exposed skin and attacking the body’s nervous system, crippling the victim within seconds and killing him in minutes. In the wake of World War II, all the implements of war had become more capable, more deadly. All were designed to rip, crush, cripple, dismember, incapacitate, and kill men faster and more efficiently. In all the armies arrayed across the continent, the only thing technology had not improved was the ability of the human body to absorb punishment.

Such thoughts were disquieting. The mind, left free, tends to wander into what might be and what could happen, as frightening to Bannon as the Ghost of Christmas to Come was to Scrooge. A diversion from these thoughts came from the east.

Two dots, growing rapidly into aircraft, came screaming toward the small valley from the east just as the others had this morning. Bannon hoped the Team would abide by the standard operating procedures, or SOP, and not engage them unless attacked. With only machineguns, they stood little chance of hitting fast-moving jets. The only thing that would be accomplished by opening up on them, if in fact they were Soviet, would be to give away the Team’s positions.

It was a Stinger team somewhere in the cavalry’s sector, however, that rose to the challenge, engaging them with two missiles. Fascinated, Bannon watched as the white smoke trail of the Stinger surface-to-air antiaircraft missiles raced up after the second jet. But it did not find its mark. The Soviet pilot popped small decoy flares and made a hard turn and dive. The missile detonated harmlessly in midair as the second jet turned to rejoin the first before both disappeared up the small valley. This reprieve was short lived as the ripping chainsaw-like report of a Vulcan 20-millimeter antiaircraft gun somewhere behind the Team’s position revealed that problems for the Russian pilots were just starting. Unlike earlier in the morning, the air defense system was now alert and in action.

As if to underscore that point, two more dots emerged from the east. Apparently the Soviet Air Force was fond of this approach and were sending their aircraft through four at a time. Their heavy use of the small valley cost them this time. Two more Stinger missiles raced up to greet the next pair of Soviet jets. The pilot of the trail jet in this pair was not as quick or as lucky as the other pilots had been, for one of the Stingers managed to find its mark. With a flash and a puff of white smoke, the missile detonated, causing the jet to tumble over as if kicked from behind before disintegrate in a rolling orange ball of fire. Alerted to the danger, the first jet kicked in his afterburners, dropped lower, and kept flying west and toward the waiting Vulcan.

Kelp, who had been watching the engagement, let out an “Ah, neat! Hey, Sarge, you missed it!” as if he were watching Fourth of July fireworks instead of the destruction of a pilot and a multimillion dollar aircraft. Kelp then described, in his own colorful way, the engagement to Folk. As Bannon reflected on Kelp’s reaction, he, too, had to admit that it had been kind of neat.

The announcement concerning the evacuation of dependents aired repeatedly on AFN TV before the network went off the air the morning 1st of the 4th Armor moved out of garrison and into its local dispersal areas. AFN radio, which stayed on the air, yielded little in the way of news or information Pat Bannon and other wives like her could use other than they were to standby to be evacuated. About the only thing it did provided concerned the closing of the commissary and the PX as well as repeated calls for all US military family members living off post to move onto US installations.

Pat was in the midst of going over her own preparations for the umpteenth time when Fran Wilson, the wife of the commander of 1st of the 4th Armor’s Charlie Company, came over later in the morning. With no children of her own to distract her, Fran explained she needed to be with someone. “Sitting alone, waiting for word to leave is driving me crazy.”

“I know what you mean,” Pat replied sympathetically. “Between the children and the lack of any news worthy of the name, I’m half way there myself.”

“If that’s the case, do you mind terribly if I join you as we go crazy together?” Fran muttered half-jokingly.

“You’re more than welcome. After all, misery enjoys company.”

It was Fran’s appearance that caused Pat to remember that Sue Garger, the wife of one of Sean’s platoon leaders, was still staying in a German gasthaus in town. The Gargers, who had been in country for less than a month, had been waiting for quarters and the arrival of their car in Bremerhaven when the crisis had erupted. With children to look after and the need to keep near the phone as things steadily went from bad to worse, she had managed but a single quick visit with Sue. Afraid that the young woman might not have heard the news or, because she was new to the unit, might have been overlooked by the battalion NEO officer, Pat decided to check up on the young woman herself by calling the number listed for Garger on Sean’s alert roster. The resulting call turned out to be a rather disjoined affair as Pat attempted to explain to the German who answered who she was and what she wanted using what little German she’d learned in high school from her Pennsylvania Dutch German teacher.

Eventually she did manage to get her message across, despite a number of mistranslations that caused Fran to laugh for the first time in days. When Sue finally did come to the phone, Pat could tell the young wife was just as lonely and nervous as the rest of them. Without the need to give the matter a moment’s thought, she informed Sue to pack a bag. “You’re staying with me until this thing blows over.” With that, Pat left Fran to watch the children and headed off post.

The first obstacle she ran into was at the entrance to the housing area where an MP roadblock had been set up. Hailed down, she was informed by a young MP who came across as being just as nervous as she was that military dependents were not allowed to leave the area. When she tried to explain to him that she had to pick up a wife who was living in town, the MP held his ground, insisting that she turn around and go back. Pat, being the kind of woman who took great pleasure in defying nonsensical bureaucratic rules overseas dependents such as she were expected to adhere whenever they got in her way, decided to escalate the confrontation by informing the private she wished to speak to his superior.

Not used to being challenged by a dependent wife, and at a loss as to how best to handle this situation, the MP decided it was best if he allowed his sergeant to deal with the obnoxious woman. The sergeant, naturally, repeated the demand that Pat turn around at once and go home. “I’m sorry, miss, you can’t go off post.”

Having learned that there were ways of dropping Sean’s rank without coming across as being a pushy bitch, Pat played her trump card. “Sergeant, like I explained to the other MP, the wife of one of my husband’s platoon leaders is at a gasthaus in town and has no way of getting in. I’m simply going to get her. Now, unless you or your commander are willing to fetch her yourself as she and other dependents living off post have been ordered to, I have no choice but to do so myself.”

The sergeant thought about this a moment before telling Pat to wait while he checked with his platoon leader. After a few minutes, he came back and informed her she was to go straight to the gasthaus, pick up the woman, and come straight back. “Don’t stop for anyone or anything, lady. And make sure you check back with me when you return.” Both the NCO’s tone of voice and the precautions he took before letting her go, which included taking her name, her husband’s name and unit, the make and model of the car, its license number, and someone the MPs could contact in case she didn’t return in a reasonable period of time worried Pat, leaving her to wonder if this was such a good idea. But she was committed, and Sue Garger was depending on her.

As it turned out, the rush to fetch Sue Garger turned out to be unnecessary, for the old Army rule of hurry up and wait was just as applicable to military families as it was for their husbands. When it became apparent to Cathy Hall, the wife of 1st of the 4th Armor’s battalion commander and Sean’s peacetime superior, that they would not be evacuated for some time, she took it upon herself to call around and check on the battalion’s wives and pass on whatever information she had. This included an admission by someone in the administration back in Washington that it felt there was a need to maintain the appearance of normalcy for as long as possible in order to give diplomacy a chance to work. So the evacuation of dependents was being delayed for as long possible, causing some of the older wives to compare that decision to the Iranian hostage crisis, where the families were pulled out of Tehran only at the last minute and in great haste. Pat, in particular, was not at all pleased that she and her children were being kept in place just for appearances, but like Cathy Hall, she kept her own council. Grousing over the stupidity of such a move at a time when everyone’s nerves were on edge, she reasoned, would do no one a bit of good.

As that first day wore on and it became apparent that the families were not going to go anytime soon, the wives began to visit each other and let the children out to play. In the midst of this forced calm, Cathy Hall put out the word that she was going to host a potluck dinner for the battalion wives. Most of them, with children in tow, showed up. And even though the conversations were guarded and there was a pall on the whole affair, anything was better than sitting alone and worrying, proving there was some comfort in collective misery.

As the days wore on Pat, like most of the other wives, began to suffer from physical and mental exhaustion as more and more dependents whose husbands were part of Sean’s company began to come to her seeking help, company, and solace. With no husband to help her along or buoy her flagging spirits, the pressure on her began to build. Pressure to be mother and father. Pressure to set the example for Sue and the other wives. Pressure to make sure all was ready to go the second word came. Pressure to keep from giving in and curling up in a corner and crying.

The most difficult demand she had to deal with was helping the children through it all. Sean had always been around whenever there had been a big crisis in the family, or a major decision needed to be made. Even when the battalion was in the field, he could always be reached by phone in an emergency. But now he was gone and unable to help with the biggest crisis Pat had ever faced. Having Sue Garger staying with her did help after she’d calmed down some. But Sue was even more lost than Pat, for she was new to the Army and its ways. So Pat found herself with no choice but to bottle up her fears and apprehensions and continued to stumble along the dark and twisting trail she now found herself on alone.

The second day dragged along like the first. AFN TV came back on but spent most of the time making public service announcements and broadcasting news that really didn’t tell anyone anything. Even when it wasn’t broadcasting public service announcements, somehow the idea of watch television shows that were months old seemed annoyingly odd. Rain in the afternoon only made the dark and apprehensive mood of the community worse.

It wasn’t until that evening that official word and instructions for the evacuation of the community finally came down. When it did, it was like a vent had been opened, relieving some of the pressure that had been building up. At least now they knew for sure they would be going and had a rough idea of when. For the sixth time in two days, Pat went over the evacuation kit that had been sitting by the door. Blankets, food, water, cups, diapers, a small first-aid kit, a change of clothes for the boys, two for Sarah, a pocket knife, coloring books for the children, and other such essential sat packed and ready to go.

All that remained now was to tell the children, a task Pat dreaded. She had put this off for as long as possible in the hope that some sanity would prevail and the whole affair would blow over. But there was no more putting it off. Before putting them to bed, she gathered them on little Sean’s bed and sat down with them. She told them that tomorrow they were going to leave Germany and visit Grandma’s. Kurt, a happy child who took life at face value, was overcome with joy. He jumped up and down and began to ask what toys he could take. Sarah simply looked at Pat and tried to say Grandma, a word she had heard but could not associate with an object since she had never seen her grandparents.

As anticipated, little Sean, a quiet child who thought things through before speaking, was proving to be the tough case. His first question was about his father, “Is Daddy coming with us?”

“No, Daddy’s not coming with us.”

“Why?”

“Daddy has to stay here and work. Remember I told you he went to the field? Well, he is still in the field with his company. He can’t come with us this time.”

“When will we see Daddy again?”

“Daddy will come and join us when he is finished in the field.”

“When will that be?”

Exasperated by this line of questioning, Pat hesitated. She felt sorry for the boy. He was old enough to understand some of what was going on, but not yet able to make any sense of it all. That, and the way his line of questions heightened her own fears and apprehensions made their pending departure all the more difficult for Pat to come to terms with. Before she lost her restraint and began to cry, she cut short the question-and-answer period and told Sean that his father would be home as soon as he could. Though she could see it didn’t satisfy him, it was the best she could do.

The morning continued with little change. The heat of the day was turning the tank into an oven. The chemical suits only made things worse. When it became clear they were in no immediate danger of attack, Bannon began to rotate his crew, letting two of them dismount at a time to stretch, smoke, cool off, and eat. During his break he walked over to check on Alpha 33, the tank nearest 66. Its TC was also rotating his crew out. Just after noon, Polgar came over to 66 from Mech Platoon’s mounted element to report.

Bannon and Polgar were still conversing when they were joined by the battalion commander and S-3 who came rolling up the logging trail in the M-113 they operated out of during operations. Apparently, they were as bored as Bannon was and were getting a little antsy with nothing to do but listen to their radios, and wait. While the colonel went to visit his Mech Platoon on foot, the S-3, Maj. Frank Jordan, brought Bannon up to speed on the status of the covering force battle.

The cavalry was taking a beating and wouldn’t last much longer. They’d managed to annihilate the Soviet recon element and had fought the first attacking echelon to a standstill, badly weakening it in the process. But they had paid for that success, as the parade of ambulances and evacuation of damaged vehicles coming down the opposite hill, through the village, and into the small valley to the rear indicated. As a result, brigade was anticipating a passage of lines sometime in the late afternoon. The cavalry wanted to hold on until night in order to withdraw under the cover of darkness, but Jordan informed Bannon he didn’t think they’d be able to. Not long after sharing this news, the colonel rejoined Jordan and Bannon, made some small talk, and then left with the S-3.

Rather than waiting out the afternoon doing nothing, Bannon decided to follow Reynolds’ example and visit the platoons to show his face, check on them to see how they were adapting to war, and to pass the word to be prepared for the passage of the cavalry. He told Folk where he was going to be and, if a call came in on the battalion net, drop to the company net and tell the XO to respond if he hadn’t already done so. With helmet, pistol, and LBE, Bannon set out on his tour on foot.

As he had that morning, Bannon went from tank to tank, working his way to those elements on the left first. When he reached Alpha 31, Bannon went over the information that had been passed to him before reviewing the status of 3rd Platoon with Garger. This was followed by a review the Team’s and the platoon’s responsibilities and actions during the passage and the conduct of the defense. To Bannon’s surprise, Garger was able to go over each phase of the pending operations as well as each and every actions his platoon was responsible for in detail and without hesitation. Either Pierson had been working overtime with the lieutenant, Bannon thought to himself, or the boy was catching on. Regardless of how this transformation had come about, Bannon was satisfied the young officer had concept of the operation straight in his mind and was as ready as any of them were to carry it out. There was still the question, however, if he would be able to when the shit actually did hit the spinning propellers.

Satisfied all was as well as it could be expected with the 3rd Platoon, Bannon continued on his rounds. Even in the shade of the forest, tromping up the hill in the chemical protective suit and the floppy, loose fitting chemical overshoes was brutal. By the time he reached the XO’s tank, he was in need a rest and a long, cool drink of water. As he settled down in the shade next to Alpha 55, Uleski reached down and handed him a can of Coke, a cold can of Coke. Not only did Bannon have no idea where it could possibly have come from, at the moment he had no wish to find out, for the answer to that question would more than likely entail something that was highly unauthorized.

After deciding it would be best if he set his curiosity over how his XO was able to chill cans of soda in the field, Bannon went over the Team’s responsibilities during the passage of lines and when the Soviets finally got around to attacking them. Uleski, as the team’s executive officer, would have to be able to fight the Team within the framework of the battalion’s battle plan effectively if Bannon became combat ineffective, a subtle way of saying wounded or killed. Neither gave that grim possibility a second’s thought, for both had been trained from Day One in the Army everyone was expendable and replaceable. While it was not a comforting thought, it was part of the job and, in theory at least, universally understood.

Finishing with Uleski, Bannon toyed with the idea of letting the XO go over to 2nd Platoon to check on them and pass on the word about the cavalry. It was tempting. But 2nd Platoon was the one platoon he had not seen that morning. It was only proper that an effort should be made to pay a quick visit to them in order to show the flag.

As with 3rd Platoon, Bannon stopped at each tank, checked on their readiness, and exchanged small talk he hoped did something to ease the nervous tension every member of Team Yankee he came across was doing his best to hide. When he reached the platoon leader’s tank, Bannon passed on word about the cavalry and reviewed the Team and platoon plan with him. No sooner had they finished then the hills across the valley erupted in a thunderclap of explosions and flames, heralding the commitment of the Soviet’s second echelon. It would not be long now, Bannon reasoned as he tromped on back to 66 as fast as his floppy chemical overshoes would let him. His first battle, a term that had become as trite and over used as his own personal motto, Steel on Target, he used to annoy Reynolds with every chance he had, was upon him.

Just as Major Jordan had predicted, the cavalry had not lasted as long as had been expected. The fresh battalions of the Soviet’s second echelon broke the worn and severely weakened cavalry like a dry twig. Thirty minutes after it had struck, it was obvious that the covering force battle was over, and the time had come for the cavalry to pass through the Team’s positions. The lazy, boring late morning and early afternoon gave way to a steady buildup of tension as the cavalry began the process of handing off the battle.

The first elements to reach the passage point were the cavalry’s support elements; medical, maintenance, and supply vehicles. These were followed by artillery units and squadron headquarters elements. The passage was not the neat parade like processions practiced during training. Vehicles would come down singly, in pairs, sometimes in groups as large as fifteen. Some were dragging damaged vehicles. Others limped along, wobbling on blown out tires like drunks. All showed some sign of damage. Trucks had their canvas tops shredded. Tracked vehicles that had had gear stowed on the outside now had it scrambled and tossed about on top, with articles of clothing and shreds of canvas and camouflage nets hanging from the sides. There were even a couple of trucks running on tire rims, unable or unwilling to stop to change tires. If there was any semblance of order to the cavalry unit passing through the Team, it was not evident from where Bannon was watching.

In the midst of the passage, a scout helicopter, followed by two attack helicopters, came weaving down through the valley from the north. The three slowed to a hover just in front of the Team’s positions, with the scout across from Alpha 66 and an AH-1 Cobra attack helicopter on either side. The OH-58 scout slowly rose until it was just barely peering over the trees on the opposite hill. Its tail-boom moved slowly left, then right, as its observer scanned the landscape on the other side of the hill. Like a bird dog alerting, the scout suddenly froze, pointing to the northeast. The Cobra on the left then rose slowly to treetop level, hovered there for a moment, orienting in the same direction as the scout. With a flash and streak of white smoke, the Cobra let fly a TOW antitank missile. Both Cobra and scout remained in place for about fifteen seconds, then dropped down and flew a few hundred meters north to another position, preparing to fire again.

The second Cobra rose into position as soon as the first had fired. It also fired, remained locked on target for about fifteen seconds before dropping down and moving to another position just as the first had done. By that time, the first Cobra was ready to pop up from his new position and fire again. After each Cobra had fired two TOWs, they flew back up the valley behind their scout to find a new firing position.

The realization that the Soviet lead elements were now close enough to be engaged by TOWs from across the valley startled Bannon. That meant that the enemy was now within five kilometers. To add weight to that point, friendly artillery from a unit behind the Team’s position came whistling overhead to the east. Once more adrenalin started to pump through Bannon’s veins as the first undamaged cavalry combat vehicles came racing down off the opposite hill. M-l tanks and M-3 Bradley cavalry vehicles, mixed together, their guns to the rear and their orange identification panels flapping as they moved, came rolling through the lanes marked in the Team’s minefields and into the village.

The ordeal for the cavalry wasn’t over yet. As the first vehicles entered the village, the streets erupted into a ball of flames and explosions. The Soviets were dumping at least a battalion’s worth of artillery against the town in an effort to extract one last modicum of vengeance on the retreating cavalry. This initial impact was followed by a steady drumbeat of artillery as a new volley slammed home every few seconds. Bannon had no idea of the caliber of rounds they were using or how many were impacting. Not that he needed to know. Without doubt, the battalion commander was able to see it from his position. Bannon’s immediate concern was his first sergeant, who was monitoring the cavalry’s passage of lines, and the Mech infantry platoon’s squad who were in the village in the middle of all that fire.

“ROMEO 25, THIS IS MIKE 77. SHELLREP, OVER.” Garger was on the ball. Reporting per the Team SOP, the lieutenant was calling to inform him of the artillery barrage to his front. Garger hadn’t considered that Bannon, from his position, would be able to see the same thing. The fact that he was at least thinking and had the presence of mind to report, however, was encouraging.

“ALL BRAVO 3 ROMEO ELEMENTS, THIS IS ROMEO 25. I CAN OBSERVE THE ACTION AT 179872. NO NEED TO REPORT THAT.” Bannon let the CVC push-to-talk switch go for a few seconds to frustrate Soviet direction-finding attempts, then started again. “OCCUPY YOUR FIRING POSITIONS NOW. I SAY AGAIN, OCCUPY YOUR FIRING POSITIONS NOW. THE RUSSIANS WILL BE RIGHT BEHIND THOSE PEOPLE COMING THROUGH. ACKNOWLEDGE, OVER.”

The platoons rapidly responded in turn. The tracks to the left and right of Alpha 66 cranked up and pulled forward. In their excitement, some of them forgot about their camouflage nets. Bannon watched Alpha 33 as its camo net supports tumbled and the net stretched forward as if it were a large spider web stuck to the tank. Once the stakes were yanked free, the net trailed the tank limply. In a belated plea, Bannon called over the company net to remind the platoons to remember the camo nets. Then he and Kelp jumped out, dragged theirs in, and jumped back into position.

The battalion net now came to life as the battalion Scout Platoon began to report sighting, then contact with the lead enemy element. As Team Yankee’s artillery fire-support team, or FIST, was detached to the Scout Platoon while they were deployed forward, Bannon listened intently, hoping he wouldn’t lose that valuable combat asset. The Scout Platoon’s mission was to cover the withdrawal of the last of the cavalry, engage the enemy’s lead elements in an effort to deceive them as to where the covering force area ended and the main battle area began, and then withdraw through Team Yankee.

Their fight was to be short but important. Once they became engaged, the battle more or less passed from the cavalry to the battalion. Though the last of the covering force still had to roll through sporadic artillery fire impacting in the village and up the little valley to the Team’s right, the cavalry’s battle was over. Team Yankee’s first battle was about to begin.

The radio on the Team net came to life as First Sergeant Harrert reported in. “ROMEO 25, THIS IS ROMEO 97, OVER.” He was still in the village and still alive.

“ROMEO 97, THIS IS ROMEO 25. WHAT KIND OF SHAPE ARE YOU IN? OVER.”

“THIS IS 97. I HAVE ONE WHISKEY INDIA APLHA. THE NOVEMBER 8 TANGO ELEMENT HAS COMPLETED PASSAGE. WAITING ON THE TANGO 9 FOXTROT ELEMENT NOW, OVER.”

“THIS IS 25. DO YOU NEED THE BANDAID FOR THE CASUALTY? OVER.”

“THIS IS 97. NEGATIVE. HE CAN WAIT, OVER.”

“THIS IS 25. THE TANGO 9 FOXTROT ELEMENT IS NOW IN CONTACT. I EXPECT THEM TO START BACK WITHIN THREE ZERO MIKES. HANG IN THERE, OVER.”

“THIS IS 97. WILCO, OUT.”

So far everything was working according to plan. The only downside Bannon could see was that in their haste to occupy firing positions, the Team had probably screwed up most of its camo nets. But right now, that was the least of his concerns as he continued to listen to the Scout Platoon’s fight, now being joined by reports from Team Bravo.

Team Bravo, occupying the hill across the small valley from Team Yankee, was under fire from several battalions’ worth of Soviet artillery. The initial and frantic report from Team Bravo’s commander over the battalion radio net was cut off in mid-sentence. Attempts by the battalion S-3 to reestablish contact with him went unanswered. That either meant the command track had had its antennas blown off or, it had been hit.

This caused Bannon to wonder if his 1st Platoon, attached to Team Bravo, was in the middle of the impact area. It had to be, he reasoned, judging from the fragmented report he’d monitored. Although he was concerned that some of his people were now under fire, there was nothing he could do for them. About the only thought that flashed through his mind “Better them than me.”

In its wake, Bannon felt himself go flush with shame at the very idea that he could harbor such a selfish thought. About the only justification he could conjure up at the moment was to remind himself that he was only human. Though it was a rather piss poor rational, it was the best he could do as he turned his attention to more immediate and pressing problems.

Reports from the scouts continued to pour in over the battalion command net. One of the scout tracks had been hit, and contact with another had been lost. From the reported locations of the enemy’s lead element, the scouts weren’t slowing it down. Finally, the scout platoon leader requested permission to displace. Realizing that leaving the scouts out there wasn’t going to do the battalion any good, Reynolds gave his permission to withdraw.

Unfortunately, this permission had come too late. The barriers and artillery that were supposed to slow the Soviet advance and allow the Scout Platoon a chance to pass through Team Yankee did little to slow the enemy, much less stop them. Ignoring losses inflicted on them by mines, artillery, and the Scout Platoon, the Soviets bulled their way forward, bloody minded and hell-bent on breaking through regardless of the price. The Scout Platoon leader informed the battalion commander that rather than try for the passage through Team Yankee, he was going to withdraw to the south and cross at an alternate passage point.

This was not a good turn of events for the Team. With the scouts went Team Yankee’s artillery FIST Team. Bannon had never been keen on the idea of letting his FIST go with the scouts, pointing out that they might not be able to rejoin the Team. But he had always been reassured that the FIST track would be back long before Team Yankee had any contact with the enemy. This was one time he was sorry he had been right, for not only would he have to fight the Team, now he also had to play forward observer for his supporting artillery.

Contacting the battalion S-3, Bannon asked him if he had any bright ideas on the subject. Major Jordan informed him that Team Yankee now had priority of artillery fire and all calls for fire would be directed to the battalion fire-support officer, or FSO. Jordan also informed him that Team Bravo had taken a lot of casualties, including its commander, who was assumed to be KIA. The battalion commander was, at present, headed over to Team Bravo to attempt to rally the survivors and direct the fight from there. In the meantime, battalion was writing off Team Bravo as combat ineffective. Without having to say so, Jordan let Bannon know Team Yankee was expected to take up the slack and carry the fight.

Two company teams fighting a motorized rifle battalion would have been no problem. But one company team, even with priority of artillery fire, would be hard pressed. In the few minutes he had before that came to pass, Bannon contacted the battalion fire-support officer and made sure he had all the Team’s preplanned artillery targets. The FSO responded he had them and was ready to comply with any and all request for fire from Team Yankee.

Bannon’s plan was simple. He intended to hold fire until the Soviet lead elements reached the valley floor. When that happened, the Team would engage them with both tank platoons and the ITVs simultaneously. The 2nd Platoon would engage the lead element, the 3rd Platoon would hit the enemy still on the opposite slope, and the ITVs would engage supporting vehicles such as BRDM-2s armed with anti-tank guided missiles on the far hill. He wanted the artillery to impact along the crest of the opposite hill at the same time the Team began to fire. First, DPICM, an artillery shell that scattered many small armor-defeating bomblets, would be fired in order to take out as many Soviet PCs and self-propelled guns as possible. Then the artillery would fire high explosives and smoke rounds, laying down a smoke screen to blind any Soviet antitank system or artillery observers that might take up position there to engage the Team. That would leave the Team free to slug it out with only a portion of their force isolated from the rest. The FSO assured Bannon the artillery could handle the mission. All he needed was the word.

A sudden detonation in the village followed by the hasty retreat of a lone PC out of the village back to the Team’s positions reminded Bannon that the first sergeant hadn’t been told to blow the bridge in the town and withdraw. In the scramble to sort out the artillery fire plan, he had forgotten him. Fortunately, either Harrert had monitored the battalion net, figured out what was going on, and taken the initiative, or Uleski had ordered him out after hearing that the scouts would not be returning on the planned route. Either way, it worked out, and the first sergeant was headed back.

“ROMEO 25, THIS IS MIKE 77. SPOT REPORT. 5 T-72 TANKS MOVING WEST. GRID 190852. CONTINUING TO OBSERVE, OVER.” Bannon snapped his head to the left. There was no need to use a map. There was only one place where the Russians would be, and that was on the hill 2,200 meters away. All the training, planning, and preparation was over. Team Yankee was about to learn if the Team’s seventy-nine men and twenty-five million dollars’ worth of equipment could do what they were supposed to do; close with and destroy the enemy by fire, maneuver, and shock effect.

The five T-72 tanks began their descent into the valley in a line with about 100 meters between tanks. One of them had a mine roller attached to the front of its hull. He would have to be taken out in the first volley. As soon as the tanks started down, a line of Soviet armored personnel carriers, BMP-2s, appeared on the crest of the hill and followed the tanks down without hesitation. There were fifteen of these personnel carriers deployed in a rough line about one hundred meters behind the tanks. All moved down the opposite slope at a steady and somewhat restrained pace, as if they really didn’t want to go into the valley or get too far ahead of follow-on elements.

A third group of follow-on vehicles appeared. These were a gaggle of dissimilar armored vehicles. As they reached the crest of the hill, they paused for a moment. Just before they started their descent, the tanks and the BMPs in front made a sharp oblique to the left and headed for the north side of the village. Consisting of one BMP, a T-72, a BTR-60, an MTU bridge tank, and a ZSU 23-4 antiaircraft gun, this detachment could only be the battalion command group.

The scene before Team Yankee was too good to be true. For some unknown reason the Team had not been hit by artillery yet. The Soviets were rolling forward as if they were on maneuvers, not attacking an enemy force hunkered down in prepared position. Even better, their change in direction offered most of the Team flank shots. And on top of that, the actions by the command group had telegraphed who they were. If luck held for another minute or two, it would be all over for this motorized rifle battalion.

“ROMEO 83, THIS IS ROMEO 25. DO YOU SEE THAT LAST GAGGLE COMING DOWN THE HILL? OVER.”

“25, THIS IS 83. ROGER, OVER.”

“83, THIS IS 25. THAT IS THE COMMAND GROUP. I WANT YOU AND THE TWO TRACKS YOU HAVE UP THERE TO TAKE THEM OUT. THE BMP AND TANK FIRST, OVER”

“THIS IS 83, WILCO.”

Uleski considered this last order before he relayed instructions to the ITVs. He paused for a moment and watched the advancing Soviets. With Alpha 55 silent except for the hum of the engine, he could feel the tension build up in himself and his crew. In the past, he had always been able to crack a joke or say something funny to lighten a tense moment. But he couldn’t, not this time. It suddenly dawned upon him that this was real. The tanks and BMPs were manned with real Soviets, men who were coming his way to kill him.

Despite the heat of the day, Uleski felt a cold shiver run down his spine. His stomach began to knot up, leaving him feel as if he were going to throw up. It was real, all real. In a minute, maybe two, all hell was going to break loose and he was right in the middle of it. Uleski’s head, flooded with disjointed thoughts, began to spin, with one thought playing back over and over, “Oh God, please make this go away.”

Satisfied Uleski understood what was expected of him, Bannon switched to the battalion command net and instructed the FSO to fire the prearranged artillery barrage. When the FSO acknowledged the request, Bannon dropped back down to the Team net. “ALL BRAVO 3 ROMEO ELEMENTS, UPON IMPACT OF FRIENDLY ARTILLERY, YOU WILL COMMENCE FIRING. MAINTAIN FIRE DISTRIBUTION AND GOOD SHOOTING. ROMEO 25 OUT”

This last message neither upset nor unnerved Garger. Without bothering to acknowledge the commander’s orders, Garger switched to the platoon net and issued his own. The clear, sunny day, with the sun to his Platoon’s back, made it all too easy. All the BMPs were exposed to the entire platoon. Garger ordered SSG Pierso, who was commander of Alpha 33 and Pierson’s wingman, to engage the right half of the BMPs. Garger instructed his own wingman, Blackfoot, to begin to engage the far left BMP and then work his way toward the center of the line. He would begin in the center and work his way to the left. In this way, the platoon would avoid killing the same BMP.

With nothing to do but wait for the artillery, Garger leaned back and considered the scene before him. This was easier than the Armor School at Fort Knox. It couldn’t be that simple. There had to be a catch. The Soviets were coming at them as if the Team wasn’t there. Garger tried hard to think if there was something he had missed, an order that needed to be given. Something. But there wasn’t. All seemed to be in order. All was ready. “What the hell,” he muttered to himself. “Might as well relax and enjoy the moment.”

In the Mech Platoon’s positions, Sergeant First Class Polgar grasped the hand grips of his M2 machinegun as he watched the Soviets. He was amazed. When he had been a young private, Polgar had been in Vietnam two months before he had seen his first VC, and they had been very, very dead. In the first day of this war, he was looking at all the Soviets he cared to see. He looked to his left, then to his right at the line of PCs he was responsible for. The four M-113s with him weren’t going to do a hell of a lot if the tanks in the Team fell flat on their ass. As the Soviets drew near, Polgar tracked the Soviets with his M2 and thought, “Those dumb-ass tankers better be as good as they think they are, or this is going to be one damned short war.”

The Team was charged and ready. Bannon could feel it. Having issued all the orders, he needed to for the moment, the time had come to fight his own tank.

Grabbing the TC’s override, he traversed the turret, bringing the main gun to bear on his intended victim while yelling out his fire command without bothering to key the intercom. “GUNNER — SABOT — TANK WITH MINE ROLLER.”

In response, Folk yelled out once he spotted the vehicle. “IDENTIFIED.”

Kelp followed this with a sharp, crisp, “UP!” letting both Bannon and Folk know the main gun was loaded, armed, and he was clear of the path of recoil.

Bannon dropped down on top of his seat. Perched above the gunner and loader, he watched through the primary sight’s extension as Folk tracked the T-72. Then they waited as the enemy continued to draw neared. And they waited. The line of tanks was now beginning to reach the valley floor. And they waited. The sweat was rolling down Bannon’s face as he edged ever closer to losing nerve. And they waited.

“SPLASH, OVER.” The FSO’s call on the battalion net heralded the impact of the artillery. Across the valley, the crest of the far hill erupted as hundreds of small bomblets scattered and went off. On target!

“FIRE!”

“ON THE WAAAAAY!”

The image of the T-72 disappeared before Bannon’s eye in a flash and cloud of smoke as Folk loosed his first round, sending the tank rocking back as the gun recoiled and spit out the spent shell casing. Without needing to be told, Kelp hit the ammo door switch with his knee, causing it to slide open with a sharp bang. He hauled out the next round, loaded the gun, and armed it even before the dust and obscuration of their first round had dissipated. When it did, the T-72 with the mine roller was stopped, broadside to Alpha 66, and was burning furiously.

“TARGET — CEASE FIRE.” They had drawn their first blood. “STAND BY GUNNER.”

Bannon popped his head up to get a quick overall picture of what was going on. Just as he did, Alpha 33 fired a HEAT-T round at a BMP. He watched the tracer streak towards the target and impact with a bright orange flash and black ball of smoke. The BMP lurched forward another few meters then stopped, quivered, and began to burn. Bannon next turned his attention to the valley floor and opposite slope, watching that scene repeated again and again. In the few instances when the first round missed a BMP, the BMP would turn away from the impact. This maneuver, however, only added a few more seconds to its life and that of its crew because the second round usually found its mark. He watched as two BMPs, madly scrambling to avoid being hit, rammed each other and stopped. This calamity only made it easier for Team Yankee’s gunners, as both BMPs died within seconds of each other, locked together in a fiery death.

By now the crest of the far hill had all but disappeared from view. The smoke and DPICM were doing their jobs. So far, nothing had followed the Soviet command group down. It had scattered in an effort to avoid being hit, but to no avail. The BMP belonging to the command group was lying on its side, a track hanging off and burning. The tank that had been with it had also been hit, but had only shed its right track. It stood, immobile but defiant, returning fire towards the headquarters position. This uneven contest, however, did not last long. In return, the T-72 received a TOW missile that detonated near the turret ring. The resulting secondary detonations caused by stored onboard munitions ripped the turret off with a thunderous explosion.

“I have a BMP in my sights, can I engage?” an impatient Folk called out over the intercom.

Bannon knelt down, glanced at Kelp to ensure he was clear, checked that the gun was armed, and gave the command to fire. Folk gave an on-the-way and fired. As before, the rock and recoil shook the tank. A quick glance in the extension told Bannon Folk had been on the mark again. Another BMP crew and infantry squad had become heroes of the Soviet Union, posthumously. With the need to keep track of what the entire Team was doing, Bannon decided to give his gunner free rein to engage any targets he could find. “Gunner, find your own targets, if there are any left, and engage at will. Just make sure you’re not killing dead tracks.”

“Yes, sir!” His reply had a glee in it that reminded Bannon of a teenager who had just been given the keys to the family car.

With that taken care of, Bannon popped up again to survey the battlefield. The devastation in the valley was awesome. Over twenty armored vehicles lay strewn there, dismembered, twisted, burning hulks. Folk had nothing to engage. The lead echelon of the motorized battalion had been annihilated. Six T-72 tanks, sixteen BMPs, a BTR-60, a ZSU 23-4, and an MTU bridge launcher, along with almost two hundred Russian soldiers, were gone. The engagement had lasted less than four minutes. Team Yankee had won its first battle.